The Reason

She needed him to love her. That was the only way this was going to work. He had to love her. Grace chewed nervously on the nails she’d painted just for this occasion. When she realized what she was doing, she stopped herself and forced her eyes to travel the room she’d already committed to memory in the forty minutes she’d been waiting to be called back. She glanced over the generic pictures on the walls of watercolor-esque flowers and beaches and abstract color splatters that, to her, looked like nothing at all. She noticed the stack of magazines beside the couch across from her and debated for maybe the fourth time this afternoon whether or not she was going to finally get up, grab one, and take it back to her seat with her. She really wished that her phone hadn’t died. At least she could be distracting herself with it like all the other people waiting in this room. Grace decided to observe her waiting room cellmates seeing as how they were so engrossed in their technology that they wouldn’t know it anyway. The woman sitting beside the magazines looked to be in her mid-thirties. She had beautiful auburn hair and a mole right above her lip. Grace wondered if it were an actual mole or if it were drawn on. It was too perfect. But who would actually draw on moles in this day and age? Grace squinted her eyes to try and aid in her investigation of the perfect mole, and the stranger looked up and caught her staring. Feeling a flush of embarrassment run over her, Grace jumped up and started over to the magazine table in an attempt to create a reason for looking in that direction.

“Just needed one of these,” she said to Miss Mole as she grabbed the magazine sitting on top of the pile. Upon closer examination, the mole was definitely drawn on. Who does that? Grace thought to herself as she made her way back to her seat and plopped down. She smiled at Miss Mole who was still looking quizzically at her, and opened the magazine in front of her face in an effort to hide. When she began to actually pay attention to what she was reading, she whipped the publication around to view the cover. It was a niche magazine called “Girls and Corpses.” Perfect. Now, not only did Miss Mole think she was weird for staring, she now believed that Grace wanted to murder her and cuddle her dead body. WHY was this magazine even here?

“Dorothy Bernard?”

“Thank God,” Grace said under her breath as she rid herself of the magazine and the judgmental eyes of Miss Mole.

“Ms. Bernard, he’ll see you now,” the leggy receptionist said as she ushered Grace through the glass double doors separating the waiting room from the sanctuary.

“Last door on your left, Ms. Bernard,” the receptionist directed.

“Thank you,” was Grace’s response. As the receptionist returned to her post, Grace saw her stilettos were red bottomed. If a receptionist can afford Christian Louboutin’s, I chose the wrong profession. Grace made her way down the hall, taking deep breaths and trying to steady her nerves. He has to love me. He’s going to love me. She repeated her mantra over and over as she looked at all the plaques and accolades lining the walls. She nodded and smiled at a gentleman bustling past her with his cell phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder, one hand carrying a Starbucks cup, and one hand toting a briefcase.

“I don’t care what you have to do in order to ensure that she’s there,” he was barking at the person on the other end of the phone conversation. “Get it done.”

Grace was nearing the end of the hall. She smoothed her slacks and pulled her compact out of her purse. She tucked a curly stray hair that had escaped her high bun behind her ear and wiped the eyeliner that had begun to smear from under her eyes. As she was fixing her raccoon eyes, the last door on the left swung open and out sauntered Neil Monroe. Shit. He cocked an eyebrow and observed Grace’s last minute makeover.

“Mr. Monroe,” Grace stammered as she hurried to put her compact back in its place and attempted to pull an air of professionalism about herself. She extended a hand to the man who could possibly change her life forever. He’s not going to love me. He laughed. He actually laughed at her. A big, boisterous, completely uninhibited laugh. Grace glanced around hoping that no one was around witnessing this humiliating display. He then took her hand and shook it, roughly, in the way that a large man shakes hands with a woman -- not knowing how rough he was being because no one had ever been brave enough to tell him so.

“Ms. Bernard, I presume?” Grace was able to manage a nod until she realized they were still shaking hands. She pulled back and pulled herself together.

“Yes, sir. I really appreciate your taking the time to meet with me this afternoon.”

“Nonsense,” Neil said with a wave of his hand, dismissing the notion as he turned back towards his office. “Come on in and have a sit down.”

As Grace entered the office, she had to quell her initial desire to show how overwhelmingly beautiful his office was. As soon as you walked in, you were greeted with a breathtaking view of the city through two adjacent glass windows that almost completely replaced the walls. To her left, there was a giant 103” plasma tv mounted on the wall across from an all white leather sectional and a white rug lining the hardwood floors. Neil Monroe had a reputation for being flashy, and she could now see where he got it from.

“So let’s get right down to it, Ms. Bernard,” Neil barked as he sank into his cushy leather chair. “I’ve heard great things about you. Wonderful things. Spectacular things. Things about your courage, your grit, your determination, your writing, of course, but I haven’t heard a cotton pickin’ thing about your sports background.” Neil leaned forward and removed the clear Saran Wrap from the chunk of chocolate cake on his cherry oak desk.

“Why do you want to be a sports’ journalist? And better yet, why should I hire you to be with no experience in the field?” Grace stopped herself from the knee-jerk reaction to chew her bottom lip before she answered. She was prepared for this question; she knew it was coming.

“Have you ever heard of McGehee, AR, Mr. Monroe?” He was obviously taken aback by this response. Grace was secretly thrilled as she sat and watched the confusion swirl around his face. He used a black plastic spork to dig into the rich dessert.

“No, ma’am, Ms. Bernard. I can’t say that I have.”

“Most people haven’t, but it’s where I grew up. It’s a one stoplight town in southeast Arkansas. We didn’t have much, but we had sports.” Neil leaned back into his chair as he started to see where this was going.

“Every year, for as long as I can remember, from August to October, my friends, family, and everybody else in the state was obsessed with football. From November to February, we were dedicated to basketball, and from March to July, we traveled for baseball and softball. I’ve been to more Arkansas Travelers’ games than I can count, and those games were some of the best memories I have with my granddad. I know that I don’t have much experience writing sports pieces, but I played sports from Pee Wee leagues all through high school and through my sophomore year of college. I have a Bachelor’s from ASU and a Master’s from Columbia. I have multiple published articles as well as offers from Times and Cosmo.” She took a deep breath and a second to try and read her interviewer. Since she had begun her spiel, he had leaned forward and rested his elbows on his massive desk and interlaced his equally massive fingers. His thumbs reached out and ran back and forth across his bottom lip as he quite clearly played with the idea of hiring her.

“Look,” she resumed. “I’m not saying I would be the absolute best candidate for this job. I know you probably have people beating down the doors trying to get in here and show you their portfolios filled with pages of celebrity interviews and tournament nail-biters. I might not have those advantages,” she reached into her purse and withdrew a small photo. “But I have a reason.” She placed the photo on the desk and slid it across to Mr. Monroe. He picked it up as gingerly as he could, being sure to steer clear of the corners that were beginning to fray.

“That’s a picture of my granddad and my little girl, Ava.” Mr. Monroe looked up from the photo and back at Grace whose eyes had gone to her hands in her lap. “He died from Alzheimer’s last year, and he was completely removed from reality by that point, ya know? He didn’t recognize anybody. He would sit in his chair and look out of his window -- watching the world spin on without him.” Grace cleared her throat and finally looked up from her lap where she had started chipping away at her nail polish and now had tiny red flecks checkering her black pants. She began to toy with the golden locket he gave her when Ava was born, pulling it right and left along the thin chain.

“The last time I saw him -- alive -- I was talking to him about me and Ava and work, and he was staring out the window. Suddenly, he turned from the window and looked at me. And I could tell that when he looked at me, he saw me. For the first time in a long time. He said, ‘Dot, what happened to our dream? What happened to The Globe?’ Then the light went out of his eyes, he shook his head like he was trying to remember something, and then he returned to the window.” The room got quiet. Too quiet. The type of quiet you don’t want to hear during an interview. Neil slowly slid the photo back to Grace as a fly buzzed around them and landed on the all-but-forgotten slice of cake.

“What was the dream, Ms. Bernard?”

“When I was little, I was always writing. I’d have loose leaf paper all over the house, in the car, in my backpack. For my twelfth birthday my granddad bought me a notebook ‘to keep all my treasures together’ he said. All I wanted was to grow up and write for The Globe, the first publication I learned to read sitting in my granddad’s lap on Sunday mornings. That was my -- our -- dream.” Grace smoothed out her blouse and sat up straight, daring to look Neil Monroe in the eye. “And that’s my reason.”

His eyes squinted slightly as he cocked his head to the left and nodded slowly.

“That was quite a touching tale you told there, Miss Lady,” Neil said as he stood and extended his hand. Grace followed suit. “I can appreciate everything you’ve said today, and I know like hell if you can spin a yarn that intriguing on the spot out loud that you can grab the attention of many a reader on paper.” They shook hands, and he smiled warmly. “It’s been a real pleasure. Good news or bad, we’ll be in touch.”

As Grace walked out of the building and toward her car, she heard a soft whisper in the spring breeze: "Proud of you, Dot." She swung around, but nobody was there. She touched her locket. "Thanks, Granddad."