20. Worries

Lana was expecting Scott back at any moment. She had her computer beside her on the couch, and the cats were nowhere to be seen. They knew something she didn’t. She was testy and furtive about the computer. She yielded to temptation, and opened it. She rubbed its belly and brought it to life. Facebook was quiet, but there was a link from Lisa to a “Fans of Amy Tells All” page. Holy batshit! That seemed crazy to her. Her eyes were wide with a mixture of pride and alarm. She clicked open a new tab, and checked her email. There was a smattering of them, but the one that mattered was from Julian Gray. One of the others also made her heart leap. It was from “Harper’s Magazine.” She looked at that one first.

“Dear Lana,
We’re emailing to ask if you are the author of a blog called “Amy Tells All.” If so, we’d like to run your piece “The M Word,” edited of course, in the upcoming (March) issue of the magazine in the “Readings” section.

We require email confirmation giving us permission to edit and publish. We will of course share our final copy with you prior, and you have the right of refusal.

Let us know your thoughts as soon as possible,
Best regards,
Ralph Gleason,
Harper’s Magazine
666 Broadway, 11th Floor
New York, NY 10012”

Her eyes scanned this bit of unexpected and she felt the first of many qualms regarding that blog. She was cut in half by the desire to accept, and the terror of accepting. At a certain point, she could now see, Scott was going to find out about the blog. Did she think it wouldn’t matter to him? She also understood that Amy had now set foot into the wider world. Her character had taken on a life of her own. How could she not be a good mother to that which she had brought forth? Had Amy been her flesh and blood, and had she excelled at something, ballet perhaps, would she not take her to the best studio? Would she deny her the right to shine? Would she herself forgo the performances? Would she deny herself all of this because her mean-spirited, stupid husband refused?

So when she opened the email from Julian, she was already upset. Her eyes read his words. She had been close to tears, but now, reading Julian and of his thinking her a man, and his reference to Granny getting run over by a reindeer, his joke about the ‘mouse,’ and his pot belly, she smiled. She followed the link to “Like It Is.” She read of his students’ attempts to suss her out, to discover the truth of her, and to actually visit Parkersburg. She knew the Bald Eagle men. She and Scott knew every small strip. The Stephens City posse was alarmingly close. She understood, all of a sudden, how publishing in the “Marietta Connection” had blown her cover totally. She understood that her character Amy was stirring up a lot of dust. She understood that an actual professor of literature was over a few mountains to the east, offering a dialogue. She was confused about how to respond. It really would depend on Scott’s reaction. Perhaps he could be made to permit her light to shine a little. She was uncertain about how to tackle that. If she brought it up, she ran the risk that he’d shut her down. If she let him discover it, she risked… She was not sure what the risk there was, but her gut feeling was that it would not be good. She heard his car pull up. She heard him slam the trunk and the driver’s side door. She was confused all over again, because she also heard the passenger side door slam. She shut the laptop and shelved it. She arranged herself on the couch and waited for him to enter, as she had been taught to do. The turmoil in her mind would have to wait.

When the front door opened, Lana heard the sound of a conversation between two men. One was her husband, and the other she recognized as the voice of her husband’s business partner, Bruce Sibley.
“…so the whole thing was useful.”
“Oh yeah, totally. He seemed more than interested in doing the deal…”
“Hey, Lana! I’m home! We’ve got company!”
The men were in the hallway, taking off their snowy boots. They continued the indecipherable conversation about the business.
“Good. Very good, then. If we can get these people on board, we can almost double our volume. Can that twin be far behind, buddy-boo?”

Scott popped into the living room, with Bruce in tow. He gestured for Bruce to proceed on in, and for Lana to take Bruce’s coat. She got up and complied.
“OK, I’m just going to pop upstairs and do the luggage. You two make yourselves comfortable. Lana, perhaps Bruce would like a beverage.”
“Bruce, what’s your poison?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ll have what you’re having.”
“I’m having a martini, dry,” she said, with a giggle. She was really glad that Scott had brought Bruce around. She liked Bruce. She liked Scott better when he was with Bruce. The three of them had had great times aloft over the past few years. They’d had some fun on the ground, too. It meant that she wouldn’t have to put out for Scott right off the bat. Bruce followed her into the kitchen and watched as she mixed the drinks.
“So. What have you been up to, Lana?”
“Shopping ‘till I’m dropping, mostly.”
“Yeah. I saw your piece in the ‘Connection.’ Great piece on the bars. ‘Denizens of the dip,’ indeed. Very funny writing.”
He saw her eyes darting this way and that in terror.
“Thanks,” she said quietly, lowering her eyes and handing him his drink. In the silence they could hear Scott upstairs working his post flight checklist. In a near whisper she said,
“Does he know about that?”
He suddenly understood that she lived in terror of her husband. This had changed from before. In the past, she’d been more carefree. Scott had been, as he had with Bruce, his usual overbearing self. He could see that she’d been caged. He wondered if that was all.
“No, I don’t think so,” he replied, also very quietly.
“I don’t mean to pry, but are you OK, Lana?”
“Yeah, I’m OK. But I don’t think he needs to know about that.”
“I won’t tell. But he’s gonna find out.”
He saw her helpless look, and felt a pang of fear for her. He knew that she could take the blog down, and withdraw the posts, but he also knew that once a thing was out there on the web, it couldn’t be completely erased. People make copies of things they like and can repost them endlessly. He also understood that living under that burden, having to discontinue doing something that was a joy for her, was a galling limitation being arbitrarily imposed by a bully. If it didn’t kill her spirit, it would surely kill the marriage. Any attempt to talk to Scott about anything having to do with his marriage or Lana had now been completely ruled out. He couldn’t mention things he knew about Lana, or things he’d heard, because he’d just get “the look.”

They retreated to the living room, drinks in hand. She’d gotten Scott’s beer from the fridge and poured it in his frosted glass. She’d grabbed a coaster and put all of that on the table next to his side of the couch. She sat at the other end, and Bruce took a seat in the chair. In the next few moments, while they sat alone together, not daring to speak, wanting to say much more, unable to change the dreadful topic on both their minds, Bruce tried to gain entry to Lana’s soul by eye contact. He tried to convey, silently, that if there were anything he could do, he was willing to do it. He tried to let her know that he understood. Her eyes stared at him. She would have now begged for help. She was now quite desperate. Her heart rate was up, and she felt light-headed. She reached for her drink. Bruce saw the tremor in her hand. She put the liquid to her lips and sipped. She artificially smiled at him, and he knew she was prepping for social mode.
“Scott works hard…”
“Yes, Mr. Sibley, he does,” said Scott, entering the room. He took his seat and grabbed his glass.
“Thanks, Bay-buh! You da greatest!” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
“I heard you talking. I guess business is good?” She said, brightly.
“Oh yes,” said Scott. “Couldn’t be better.”
“What have you been up to, Lil’ Chickadee?”
“I’ve been hither and yon. I went down to Mahers’ and looked at a butler’s chest.”
“What in hell is a butler’s chest?”
“It’s a big piece of furniture, usually antique, with lots of cubby holes and such.”
“My, Bruce, the things you know that I don’t!”
“I was thinking it’d make a great desk,” said Lana.
“Why do we need a desk?”
“So that I can work on my writing projects.”
The moment was fraught. Lana’s voice trembled.
“What writing projects?”
“I was thinking about contributing to a local blog.”
“A blog?”
“You know, a weblog,” volunteered Bruce. He was shocked at the clear possibility that Scott didn’t know what a blog was.
“Oh. You mean one of those websites where people foam at the mouth about politics.”
“Or anything. There’s a famous blog called the ‘Pioneer Woman.’ She shares recipes and makes a fortune,” offered Bruce.
Scott stroked his chin as he considered this.
“Lana,” he said at length, “You think you can make us a fortune sharing recipes?”
“I might.”
Scott laughed. It broke up the tension. Lana relaxed.
“So how much is this furniture?”
“About 3.7 thou.”
Scott laughed again, this time even harder.
“Babe, you’re gonna need to share a helluva lot of recipes!”
After a brief spell of aviation gossip, Scott sighed.
“Bruce, I gotta take you home. It’s getting late, and I need to hit the hay.”
“OK, I’m ready when you are.”
“You wanna come with me, Lana?”
“No, Scott. I’d rather stay here and clean up.”
“OK, then. Let’s hit it.”
The moment they were out the door, Lana fished her laptop down and got to work on a reply to Julian:
“I read with amusement your speculation on my location and situation. I’m assuming the bulk of your blogging is no longer visible. From what I can tell all you’ve been doing is talking about Amy. I am very flattered by all of that attention. I urge you to remember, however, that she’s a character. I’m me and she’s she. It’s not that we don’t intersect, but we don’t line up perfectly.
As far as aviation and being tomboy, I might be guilty as charged. I’ll tell you right up front that I’m married to a flyboy. Now that you know my name, you can read all about it. I can feel you looking down at my roof, you voyeur!
Your assessment of the risk your students take by trying to locate my husband’s business is correct. The woman who thinks I am in danger is incorrect.
The truth is, I don’t mind your voyeurism. I like older men. Can’t help it.
The truth is, I like the way you write.
We do not write alike, but we like alike.
Write me more, dear sir!
Write to me here, or write to me in that blog, in public.
I adore the words, I await them.”
She sent this, closed the computer, shelved it, and grabbed for her phone.
“Hello, Jill?
“Yes?”
“It’s Lana. Sorry to call so late, but I need you to do something for me.”
“Sure, dear. What?”
“I need you to disassociate Amy from Lana on the ‘Connections’ site. Get rid of the link to ‘Amy Tells All.’ Shorten my name to just Lana Marietta. No one calls me that.”
“Consider it done. Are you OK? Is there some kind of trouble?”
“Yes and no. I want Amy to be her own character, disassociated with me. I need to be less visible Google wise.”
“Sure. I totally understand. I’ll take care of it right away.”
“You can also take the latest piece in Amy and post it on ‘Connections.’ If you like it, that is.”
“Gotcha. I’ll have a look at it.”

She’d take twenty-four hours to think things over re: “Harper’s Magazine.” She now hoped like hell she’d bought herself some time without giving away all of her chips. It would not do to have a famous Amy intersecting with an imperiled Lana. She knew that if she were smart, she’d ditch Julian. She just couldn’t. Her professor crave was too strong. He sounded too good.

Then came Christmas Eve.