It was strange returning to the office.
Nothing about it had changed; her desk was still covered in classifieds and obituaries, the five teapots were brewing, the smoke still danced from editors’ fingertips, the typebars ticked like heartbeats. It was almost surreal to Iris, to return to something that felt outwardly so familiar when she felt inwardly so different.
Her life had been irrevocably altered, and she was still trying to adjust to what it would mean for her in the days to come. Living in that flat alone. Living without her mother. Living this new, unbalanced cycle, day in and day out.
Grief is a long, difficult process, especially when it is so racked by guilt.
She sat at her desk and prepared her typewriter, craving a distraction.
Anything to keep her mind off of—
“You feeling better today, Winnow?” Sarah asked, stopping by on her way to Zeb’s office.
Iris nodded but kept her eyes on her paper. “Much. Thanks for asking, Prindle.”
She was relieved when Sarah moved on. Iris didn’t think she could withstand speaking about her mother just yet, so she set her focus like iron and worked. But she knew the moment Roman walked into the office. She knew it like a cord was bound between the two of them, even though she refused to look at him.
He must have sensed she was ignoring him. He eventually walked to her cubicle and leaned on the wood, watching her type.
“You look well today, Winnow.”
“Are you implying I looked ill before, Kitt?”
In the past, he would have returned her snark and left. But he continued to silently stand in her space, his eyes all but burning through her, and she knew he wanted her to look at him.
She cleared her throat, her attention riveted to her work. “You know, if you wanted to type up the classifieds so badly, you could just say so. You don’t have to hover over me.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, and she was surprised he sounded irritated, or angry, or perhaps a mix of both.
“What do you mean?”
“Why didn’t you tell someone you were feeling ill the other day? You just … left, and none of us knew where you went or what had happened.”
“It’s really none of your business, Kitt.”
“It is, because people here were worried about you, Winnow.”
“Yes, they’re quite worried about the classifieds not getting done on time.”
“Now that isn’t a fair statement, and you know it,” he said, his voice dropping low.
Iris shut her eyes. Her composure was about to crack, and it had taken all of her will to even get up and dress herself that morning, to brush her hair and force some lipstick on, all so that she gave the appearance that she was fine, that she was not coming apart at the seams. She didn’t want anyone to know what she was going through, because gods forbid they pity her—he pities you!—and she drew in a breath through her teeth.
“I don’t see why you care, Kitt!” she whispered sharply, opening her eyes to meet his steady gaze. “If I’m not here, you finally get what you want.”
He didn’t answer, but his gaze held hers, and she thought she saw something flicker through him, like a star falling from the cosmos, or a coin underwater, reflecting the sun. Something fierce and vulnerable and very unexpected.
As soon as it came, it was gone, and he scowled at her. She must have imagined it.
For once, Zeb had good timing.
“Winnow? In my office. Now,” he called.
She stood from her desk and Roman had no choice but to ease away. She left him in the aisle, closing the door behind her as she stepped into Zeb’s office.
He was pouring himself a drink. It crackled over ice cubes as she sat in the chair across from him, his desk a chaotic sprawl of paper and books and folders. She waited for him to speak first.
“I take it you have your essay ready for me?” he asked after taking a sip. Her essay. Her essay.
Iris had forgotten about it. She laced her fingers together, hands shaking.
Her knuckles drained white.
“No, sir,” she said. “I’m sorry, but it’s not ready.”
Zeb only stared at her. “I’m disappointed in you, Winnow.”
She wanted to weep. She swallowed the tears until they flooded her chest. She should tell him why the essay was late. She should tell him she had lost her mother, and her world had upended, and the last thing she was thinking about was becoming a columnist.
“Sir, my—”
“If you’re going to lay out of work, you need to call it in, so your tasks for the day can be shifted to someone else,” he said curtly. “Now, don’t let it happen again.”
Iris rose and left. She went directly to her desk and sat, pressing her cold fingers to her flaming face. She felt like a doormat. She had just let him walk all over her, because she was too afraid of crying in front of him.
Who was she becoming?
“Here are the obituaries for tomorrow’s paper,” Sarah said, seeming to appear out of thin air. She dropped a stack of notes on Iris’s desk. “Are you all right, Winnow?”
“I’m fine,” Iris said with a strained smile and a sniff. “I’ll get these done.”
“I can give them to Kitt.”
“No. I have them. Thanks.”
After that, everyone left her alone. Even Roman didn’t glance her way again, and Iris was relieved.
She typed up the obituaries and then stared at her blank paper, wrestling with her feelings. She should type one for her mother. But it felt vastly different now. Being someone touched by the anguish of an obituary. Someone who felt the root of the words.
Iris began to write the first thing that came to mind, her fingers striking the keys with vehemence:
I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have
She stopped herself, jaw clenched, even as the wound in her ached. If Zeb caught her wasting paper and ink ribbons, he would fire her. And so she ripped the paper from her typewriter, crumpled it, tossed it in her dustbin, and tried again.
Aster Winifred Winnow, age forty-two, passed away on Alva’s Day, the fifth day of Norrow. She is survived by her son, Forest Winnow, and her daughter, Iris Winnow. She was born in Oath and loved the city best during autumn, when she felt as if magic could be tasted in the air. She attended school at Windy Grove, and later worked as a waitress at the Revel Diner. She was fond of poetry, classical music, and the color purple, although she would only ever call it “violet,” and she loved to dance.
The words were blurring. Iris stopped typing and set her mother’s obituary in the stack with all the others, to be delivered to Zeb’s desk for tomorrow’s paper.
 |
She walked home after work. She removed her mother’s too-small boots and Forest’s trench coat and lay down in bed. She fell asleep to the rain.
|
She was an hour late to work.
She had overslept again, the grief pulling her into deep, dark slumber, and now she was full of frantic butterflies as she darted up the stairs to the
fifth floor, drenched from the rain. Hopefully no one but Sarah would notice her walking in late. Sarah and Roman, most likely, since he obviously liked to keep tabs on her.
Iris stepped into the Oath Gazette only to discover Zeb was waiting beside her desk. His expression was stormy; she braced herself as she walked the aisle, her boots squishing.
He said nothing but inclined his head, turning to stride into his office. Iris followed tentatively.
She was shocked to see Roman was present. There was an empty chair beside him, and Iris surrendered to it. She glanced sidelong at him, but Roman’s eyes were dead set on something before them. His hands were on his thighs, his posture rigid.
For once, she wished he would look at her, because the longer she sat beside him, the more his tension coaxed her own, until she was cracking her knuckles and bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“All right,” Zeb said, easing into his chair with a slight groan. “I’m sure you’re aware why I’ve called the two of you in today. You’re both bright, talented writers. And I’ve given you each an equal opportunity to prove yourselves worthy of columnist. I’m pleased to say I’ve made my decision.” He paused, and Iris tore her eyes from Roman to look at Zeb. He set down the morning’s newspaper at the edge of his desk. It was folded in such a way to reveal the column. Roman’s article. The one she had helped him write about missing soldiers. So Iris wasn’t surprised by the words that came next. In fact, she felt nothing as Zeb announced, “Kitt, this is the best article you’ve ever written. The position is yours. You’re reliable, industrious, and turn good pieces in on time. You’ll officially start first
thing tomorrow.”
Roman didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to be breathing, and Iris’s gaze flickered back to him as she wondered what thoughts were haunting his mind to make him so unresponsive. Wasn’t this what he wanted?
Now Zeb was frowning, annoyed by Roman’s lack of enthusiasm. “Did you hear me, Kitt?”
“Sir, would you consider giving us both more time before you made the decision?” Roman asked. “Give us each another chance to write an essay.”
Zeb gaped at him. “More time? In what world would I do that?”
Iris’s heart beat swift and hard within her chest. When Roman finally looked at her, time seemed to stall. His eyes were keen, as if he could see everything that dwelled in her—the light and the shadows. Her threads of ambition and desire and joy and grief. Never had a man looked at her in that way.
A shiver traced her bones.
“I’ve had an unfair advantage, sir,” Roman said, directing his attention back to Zeb. “Winnow’s mother passed away a few days ago. She’s grieving, and she needs more time.”
The room fell painfully silent.
Iris drew a tremulous breath. Her pulse was in her ears. And Zeb was saying something, but his voice was nothing more than a pesky drone as Iris met Roman’s stare.
“How do you know that?” she whispered. “I read your mother’s obituary,” he replied. “But no one reads obituaries.”
Roman was quiet but his face flushed, and she had the frightening inkling that while she made it a point to never read anything of his, he might be reading everything she touched. Including the dry classifieds and tragic obituaries. Perhaps he did it to see if she’d left a typo behind, to taunt her with after it went to print. Perhaps he did it because she was his competition and he wanted to know who, exactly, he was up against. She honestly couldn’t think of a good enough reason, and she looked away from him.
“Winnow?” Zeb was barking. “Winnow, is this true?” “Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you say something yesterday?”
Because I didn’t want to cry in front of you. Because I don’t want your pity. Because I’m holding myself together by a thread.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Well,” Zeb said curtly. “I can’t help you if I don’t know, can I?” He heaved a sigh and rubbed his brow. His voice softened, as if he realized how callous he was sounding. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Winnow. It’s
unfortunate. But I’m afraid my mind is made up. Kitt won the column, but if you need to take a few days off for bereavement … that would be fine.”
Iris thought about taking time off. Which would mean she would be home, alone in that sad flat with the wine bottles and the melted candles and the torn wallpaper. She would be waiting for her mother to return, and she never would. And that was when it struck her. Iris didn’t want time off, but neither did she want to be at the Gazette. The career she had dreamt of suddenly paled in comparison to other things in her life.
Her only family was in the west now, where the war raged. She wanted to find her brother.
“No, sir. I’m turning in my resignation,” she said, rising. Roman shifted beside her. “What? No, Mr. Autry, I—”
Zeb ignored his newly appointed columnist, and sputtered, “Your
resignation? You want to quit on me, Winnow? Just like that?”
She hated the way he made it sound. Like she was giving up. But now that she had voiced the words, a weight slipped off her shoulders.
She was going to find Forest.
“Yes, sir. It’s time for me to move on,” she said and pivoted to Roman, extending her hand to him. “Congratulations, Kitt.”
He merely stared up at her, his blue eyes smoldering like flames.
She was awkwardly retracting her hand when his finally rose to meet it, and his grip was firm and warm. It sent a shock up her forearm, as if the two of them had created static, and she was relieved when he finally let her go.
“If you’re quitting, then go ahead and leave, Winnow,” Zeb said with a flick of his stubby fingers. “I don’t need you anymore. But if you walk out that door, don’t expect to ever be hired again.”
“Listen, Mr. Autry.” Roman’s voice was brisk. “I don’t think—”
Iris didn’t hear the rest of what he said. She quit the office, found a wooden crate in the kitchen, and went to her desk to pack up her things.
She didn’t have much. A small potted plant, a few of her favorite pencils and pens, a small figurine of a running horse, some grammar books, a tattered dictionary.
“Winnow.” Sarah approached her with a worried expression. “You’re not…”
“I’m resigning, Prindle.”
“But why? Where will you go?”
“I’m not sure yet. But it’s time for me to leave.”
Sarah sagged, glasses flashing on her nose. “I’ll miss you.”
Iris found one last smile to give her. “I’ll miss you too. Perhaps one day I’ll find you at a museum?”
Sarah blushed but glanced down at her feet, as if that dream of hers was still too distant to grasp.
One by one, the desks around Iris fell quiet and still. One by one, she drew every eye in the room, until the Oath Gazette came to a halt.
Zeb was the one to break the silence. He walked to her with a cigarette clamped in his yellow teeth, a frown on his face, and a wad of bills in his hand.
“Your last paycheck,” he said.
“Thank you.” She accepted the money and tucked it into her inner coat pocket. She gathered up her crate, turned off her lamp, gently touched the keys of her typewriter one last time, and began to walk down the aisle.
Roman wasn’t at his desk. Iris didn’t know where he was until she glanced up at the glass doors and saw him standing before them like a barricade, his arms crossed over his chest.
“How kind of you to get the door for me on my way out,” she said when she reached him. She was striving for a teasing tone, but her voice betrayed her and came out as a warble.
“I don’t think you should go like this, Winnow,” he whispered. “No, Kitt? How, then, should I go?”
“You should stay.”
“Stay and write obituaries?” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have published it.” “The one for your mother? And then none of us would know you were
hurting,” he replied. “What would you do if you could take back the words you gave her? Continue to pretend that your life was fine while you were with us by day, even as you grieved by night? Would you even know yourself after a week had passed, a month, a year?”
“You know nothing about me,” she hissed, and she hated how much she felt his words, as if she had breathed them in. How her eyes threatened tears again, if she dared to blink. “Now, please move, Kitt.”
“Don’t go, Iris,” he said.
She had never heard him say her given name. It seeped through her like sunlight, warming her skin and her blood, and she had to glance away from him before he saw how much it affected her.
“Best of luck to you, Kitt,” she said in a voice that was far colder and smoother than she felt.
He stepped aside.
She wondered if he would grow soft now, without her here to sharpen him. She wondered if he knew it too, and that was why he was so insistent she stay.
Iris opened the door and crossed the threshold.
She left the Oath Gazette and never looked back.
