The Junebug and Her Mistress

Chapter 2

         The Herald-West started out life as two newspapers, some 60 years ago during the heyday of the oilfield boom. West Hillsbrand at the time was a bustling town with department stores, high-dollar clothing stores, movie theaters and a hopping music scene. Wes Chalmers, a guitar player and singer who went on to a modicum of fame, performed live on Saturday nights in the courthouse square, where people would dance, picnic, or just gossip. West Hillsbrand was the poster child for “the Golden Years.”


         Gerald Grey started the Hillsbrand Herald in 1949 with a shoestring budget, no news know-how and a staff of two. His goal was to report on the social happenings of the town and encourage good, christian morals while doing so. His weekly column, “From the Desk of Grey”, often condemned the youth of the community for their bold flirting, loud music and sloppy manners. He started with a circulation of 500 weekly, but by 1952 he had cornered the fundamentalist reader market. Over 5,000 readers hung on his every word, writing in and praising him for the good job he was doing in his war against indecency. It was not unusual for Mr. Grey to be stopped by a family and asked to pray with them. He was asked to preach many sermons at the Baptist church he attended, and always did so in the most self-effacing way possible. His voice was quiet, but it captivated the congregation and always ended with a message of hope for tomorrow, God willing and his followers able enough to be a testament to his light.


         About that time a young man named Charles Sutherland moved to West Hillsbrand from California, and it was rumored he was a beatnik who had run into trouble with the law. Sutherland was an outspoken man, with a well-rounded education and a degree in journalism. When he first moved to the town, he tried to get in with the Hillsbrand Herald, but Grey was not pleased with Sutherland's looks or his writing. It was said, by those who saw the conversation between the young hipster and the old conformist that Grey read over the sample articles Sutherland had submitted, threw them back across the desk at him and said “Free speech? Artistic expression? That kind of malarkey may fly in California, but here we have morals.”


         Sutherland never darkened the door to the Herald again, but in 1955, an up-and-coming West Hillsbrand News opened its doors and made its first publication. Where Grey's paper focused on the fundamental values of christian faith, Sutherland's focused on a changing generation, the politics of which most citizens were before ignorant, and the belief that a newspaper should report the facts, not serve as a soapbox for one man to ramble. Every week, his column “Theater of Ideas” focused on some artist, musician, volunteer, anyone who was making a difference in the community. He promoted free thought and was often seen at the local coffee shop talking with college students.


         The News soon sat head-to-head with the Herald in circulation and advertising dollars. As the years rolled on, world changes rocked the homefront and the newspapers rushed to keep up with the times. Sutherland and Grey both saw the importance of the Vietnam war, the former covering conflicts, deaths and student movements, the latter covering prayer vigils for soldiers, homecomings and press conferences. When the News ran a story on the local anti-war protesters in 1965, the Herald answered with an editorial denouncing anyone who went against the will of the people as a communist, a militant and generally unfit for citizenship. Such literary skirmishes continued for years and would have kept the papers going indefinitely.


         But then the oil dried up.


         It started in 1970, in one field where drillers couldn't find anywhere to drill. Then two, then five, then after a year of trying, all but a few of the companies pulled up stakes and moved on to new land. When the oil money and workers left, so did many companies and therefore many advertisers. Both Sutherland and Grey knew two newspapers could not survive in such a financial drought. Morally, they were at loggerheads, but they were united in their wish to see news continue to flow into the town.


         The negotiations for a merger lasted over a year. Grey wanted to absorb the News, but was financially unable to do so. Sutherland had the money, but needed Grey's portion of the readership to stay loyal through the merger to make a the business financially solvent. Finally, in 1972, they reached an agreement. Grey, who had no children, would pass the business on to Sutherland, who would keep the old man on as editor emeritus and agree to run a weekly column from him, no edits. Thus the Herald-West was born.


         Sutherland and Grey worked together until Grey's death in early 1977. The town continued to dwindle, but Sutherland hung on. In January 1978, after the third straight quarter of financial loss, he decided it was time to move on and cut his losses while he could. It was at that time that a young Jim Lattimore, a copy editor at the nearby Whitehall Star-Tribune, decided to give newspaper ownership a try. Sutherland sold it to him for a song, warning him against it the whole time. Jim, with his usual calm and kindness, thanked the man for the advice, paid the money anyway and began planning for the paper's future.


         Dorotha Claude, a co-worker of Jim's in the Star-Tribune ad department, was one of the first people he hired. Dorotha and Jim had worked together for years. She was senior to him in experience, and acted as his mentor when he first started reporting. The two worked long and hard reformatting the outdated page templates, calculating budgets and finding staff that would work for a pittance. On Christmas Day 1978, Jim re-opened the doors of the Herald-West and greeted his readers in his first-ever column.


         Dorotha shared the responsibility of editor during that first year. Jim admired Dorotha for her editing skills and experience, as well as her ability to make him madder than anyone else on the planet. They didn't butt heads too often on newspaper matters, but when they did the small staff could hear them cussing and shouting at each other through the closed door of his office. Eventually, Dorotha would storm out and go outside, cooling off with a cigarette. Jim huffed and puffed around the back, going through the morgue or looking over copy. But the storm always passed and the two would pick right up where they left off, neither one apologizing, but both understanding the matter was settled.


         Under Jim's guidance, the Herald-News eked out a marginal but manageable profit which stayed steady and was able to support a small staff of five.


         Each week, press day would last well into the night as Dorotha and Jim checked copy and made the dummy pages ready for the press. One exception to this rule was on August 15, 1979 when her granddaughter, Jill Stewart, was born. Dorotha arrived at the hospital with a red, ruffled newborn's dress, a bouquet of flowers and the excitement of a new grandmother.


         Had she arrived 10 minutes earlier, she would have been able to say goodbye to her daughter.


         The birth was a hard one, and during labor the mother's heart had stopped. Jill was the final product of her parents. Her father had died five months prior in a car accident. Jill's mom was glad for the little bun in her oven as a last remembrance. Now, that 6-pound, 11-ounce squirming bundle of new life was an orphan. Dorotha took custody of her granddaughter, not even considering how she would juggle a full-time job and a baby, and got busy making preparations. She went into work the next day, explained the situation to Jim, and delivered her ultimatum – make her situation workable or find another employee. Jim responded with two weeks off with pay, which he couldn't afford but did so anyway, to plan the funeral and get things together for Jill. He also created a new ad design position for Dorotha with flexible hours and the option to do some work from home.


         Jill's first memories were with the newspaper. Dorotha's office was set up with crib, playpen, changing table and toys to entertain the infant, who stayed with her from the first of her shift to the very end. There was no money for babysitting, nor anyone who could take on the task that was Jill. She was willful as a baby, crying to get what she wanted and figuring out how to climb out of the crib way too soon. When she grew into a young child, she seemed to delight in coming up with new ways to anger her grandmother and the rest of the office. Jim's daughters, three toeheaded waifs, seemed discernible only by height and soon became Jill's playmateson the occassions they came up to the office. Candice was the middle child and was the more serious of the three. Maybelle, the youngest, and Crystal, the oldest, found ways to get into trouble when Jill couldn't, and one or the other was perpetually being scolded.


         Jill's early memories also included the legendary arguments between Jim and Dorotha. Even after a year at the Herald-West, she was still hearing new stories about them. Until Jill was old enough to be left unsupervised in the office, she was forced to be toted into Jim's office for the confrontations. She listened to the yelling at first, upset that two adults were going at each other in such a way. But in time she figured out what everyone else did, that if they fought it out, they'd be fine later on. She learned to tune it out and instead played with rasterizer, magnifying glass or whatever else Jim would hand her.


         As Jill grew older, she attended West Hillsbrand Elementary and went to the Herald-West office after school. She became more and more fascinated by the workings of the newspaper and, in particular, her grandmother's job. When Dorotha worked at home, her steady hand worked up the artwork for ads in pen, ink, paints, whatever was needed to get the effect she needed. Often times, Jill would doze off watching her work, then wake up in her own room, snug and sound.


         In the office, Dorotha worked the magical machine that was the computer. A large, gray, boxy thing, the screen was about the size of a portable T.V., but with fewer color variations. The keyboard made a hollow chooka sound with each keystroke. At her command, the screen produced words, arranged them, formatted them and printed them out. Jill was expressly forbidden from touching the expensive piece of equipment.


         It didn't seem like there was much Jill was allowed to touch in the office. The books of copyright-free graphics were to only be opened by an adult, even though the pictures were intriguing and could have consumed hours of Jill's time. The small, red pocket-reference dictionary was okay as long as she didn't take it anywhere. She perused the dictionary like some kids perused toy catalogs, making note of the words she didn't know and making a point of using them in future conversations.


         The border tape was a constant point of contention. Hung on a peg board above her grandmother's drafting table were dozens of spools of the stuff, all sizes, shapes and thicknesses. Dorotha used them for ad borders, laying them in practiced, straight lines around the ads and cutting them with an exacto knife. Jill, however, took delight in racing them down the slant of the drafting table and unrolling them to see what they looked like. She could get away with it for a few minutes if her grandmother was busy, but eventually the fun would be ended by Dorotha snatching the spools away. “That stuff's expensive,” she would say and send Jill out of the office.


         It was during one such expulsion that Jill discovered the darkroom. She had seen Harry disappear into the strange revolving door on several occassions, but never knew where it went. Having just tried the patience of Jim and the rest of the staff already with her questions and antics, she decided to take a peek.


         It was like a portal into another world. On one side, daylight and the bustling pace of a newspaper in action. On the other, a red claustrophobic world that comprised some trays of strange-smelling chemicals, strips of film hanging from a clothesline, expensive-looking machines...


         And Harry. Jill jumped, not expecting to see anyone else. Harry smiled, holding up a wet photo with a pair of tongs.


         “Hey kid, come to see what this is all about? Well, let me show you.”


         Thus began Jill's long love affair with photography. The magic of her grandmother's computer was nothing compared to the raw miracles performed in the darkroom. Harry was the god of this microcosm, flashing light on the photo paper, commanding it to retain the images he showed it. Under his command, photos were overexposed, underexposed, burned, dodged or pushed, awaiting their fate in the murky pools of liquid used for developing, fixing and rinsing.


         Harry explained the process to Jill. For weeks, she met him for communion in the room, silent at times, at others asking a million questions about the film, the cameras and the chemicals. Each question was answered, although some of the answers were “I don't know” or “I'll have to look that up.” Harry seemed pleased at the prospect of a new disciple, and it was her love of photography that brought her to Jim's office door one sunny summer day.


         Jim's office was the ultimate sacred ground. The kids were allowed to pretty much go where they wanted in the office, but always had to ask before sitting at someone's desk or using someone's pen and papers. The exception to this was Jim's office. Only staff was allowed in, since so much of his filing system consisted of piles of papers and folders. One mislaid step by a small, clumsy foot could be disastrous. On the day she broke the barrier, Harry stood beside her, smiling and explaining how she had become his shadow.


         “I think I've taught her a lot, but I was wondering if you might take her out shooting. They are your cameras, after all, and you're the one who taught me, so I figured you'd be the best person to go to.”


         Jill fidgeted in the padded chair, feet dangling off the floor. She couldn't make herself look at Jim and contented herself instead by looking out the window and watching the dummy pages being laid out. It was made clear to Jill at the outset that the editor of the paper was a kind man who loved children, but hated interruptions. She didn't see how this wasn't an interruption to his busy life, but Harry assured her he would be fine with it. She just hoped her newfound deity was right.


         The room was silent. Jill turned to see Jim and Harry staring at her.


         “So,” said Jim. “Do you want to learn how to shoot?”


         “Yes sir,” said Jill, embarrassed at her lack of attentiveness.


         “Those cameras are expensive. Can you be careful with them?”


         “Yes, sir.”


         “Alright then,” he said, returning to work as he spoke. “We'll go tomorrow and see how it goes. I gotta get a paper out tonight.”


         Dorotha was pleased to hear her granddaughter may have found something to keep her out from underfoot. Jill was too excited to sleep much and went through the motions of getting ready the next morning in a daze.


         She waited patiently in her grandmother's office the first 30 minutes, expecting Jim to come out of his office at any moment and whisk her away. After an hour, her fidgeting grew so great Dorotha proclaimed she could not think straight with her in there and told Jill to find something to do. The girl tried to act nonchalant as she walked by Jim's office, but evidently failed. The editor saw her hanging around and stuck his head out.


         “I just gotta finish up this story, then we'll go. Okay, kiddo?” Jill nodded and went to the back to watch some T.V.


         The first day, Jill didn't get much shooting done, but learned everything she could about the 35 millimeter SLR Jim showed her. It had an auto-exposure and focus setting, but Jim forbid her to use it, saying she should learn to meter her shots first, then she could have the luxury of automatic.


         She spent the remaining month and a half the summer of her fifth-grade year with a camera permanently attached to her face. Jim let her use the SLR “on loan,” and even let her take it home, under the condition that she was very careful. He supplied her a roll of film a week, telling her that he expected her to fill it every week. On the one occasion she didn't, the look of disappointment on his face alone brought tears to her eyes. She never failed him again. He was the closest thing she had to a father, her grandfather Allen having lost his battle to brain cancer some 3 years before Jill was born.


         After exposing her film, she would take it to the darkroom, where Harry taught her how to develop. She found loading the film onto the spool the most challenging, since it had to be done in complete darkness. But in time it became second  nature to her, and every contact sheet from every roll of film was proudly presented to Jim, who would go over each print in turn. He focused in on them with the magnifying glass, all silent except his breathing, which came in ragged draws due to a life with asthma. Jill sat patiently, trying not to give away the fact that butterflies were running obstacle courses in her stomach.


         He gave praise sparingly, but when he did, Jill knew she had done a good job. His criticism was short, to the point, but fair. Jill credited him with her cabinet of ribbons from local photography contests.


         As with most fast friendships, there was one defining moment where Jill became more to Jim than some snot-nosed brat with a camera. It was a sweltering day in late July and she and Jim were spending it in the city park. He was teaching her about depth of field in photos on a small scale, such as flowers and insects. The subject Jim chose for her was a bee gathering pollen from a lilac bush. The thought of being that close to the thing terrified her, but she didn't want to disappoint her mentor. Her heart pounding, she crept up until she was about a foot away from the thing. Just as she was focusing in on it, she heard a buzzing next to her ear and felt something land on the back of her t-shirt.


         Reflex took over and she ran away, swatting at her back and screaming. Jim chased after her.


         “Hold on, I'll get it,” he said, irritated at the interruption.


         He took one of her flailing arms and turned her. “Ah,” he said, plucking it off of her. “Here's the culprit.”


         She turned to face him and in his hand was a junebug, unharmed by her frenzy.


         “Frightening, huh?” said Jim, smiling. Jill felt the adrenaline drain from her body to be replaced by shame. Her eyes welled with tears. “I'm sorry...”


         “Hey,” said Jim, patting her on the back. “It's ok. You were scared.”


          She began to cry, from guilt, from shame, but mostly because his pity made her uncomfortable. He looked befuddled for a moment, then the father-of-three-girls mentality kicked in and he put his arms around her in a big bear hug.


         “Hush now, no need to cry about it,” he said, his voice more tender than she had ever heard. “I think we've shot enough for today. What say we go get some ice cream?”


         They went to the Dairy Mart and Jim paid for a hot fudge sundae. As she ate, he regaled her with stories from his own childhood and his early days in newspapers. They got back to the office just as Dorotha was finishing up her work for the day.


         “Ya'll were sure gone a long time,” she said. “Get some good pictures?”


         “Yeah, she did good,” said Jim, stepping in. “Me and Junebug here decided to go have some ice cream afterwards.” Jill looked up and saw the twinkle in his eyes. The nickname made her heart swell with pride. She and he were friends.


         “Junebug?” said her grandmother, puzzled.


         “It's a long story,” said Jim, winking at Jill. “Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime...if Jill says its ok.”


         When Jill got into high school, she stayed home most days to do homework or visit with friends. When she went away to college some two states over, Jim replaced the old 35 millimeter with a brand-new automatic style.


         “A graduation present. Knock 'em dead kiddo.”


         “Thanks Jim,” said Jill, tearing up with sentiment. She hugged him, gave him a light kiss on the cheek, then left to pack her things.


         Her grandmother gave her what money she had been able to save over the years and gave advice and love before Jill loaded up onto the bus. She considered turning around a dozen times and going to the community college just 30 minutes away from her hometown. But she couldn't turn down the full scholarship she had received. Besides, her grandma didn't raise a coward.


         The homesickness lasted the better part of a month, but by the end of the semester, college life for Jill was old hat. She excelled in her photojournalism classes and amused the professors with her stories about the Herald-West. She also discovered an affinity for writing she never thought she had. Her junior year, she added print journalism to her degree plan for a dual major.


         The first semester of her senior year, her world got turned upside down.


         She was studying for midterms in her dorm room when one of the girls down the hall came running up.


         “Hey Jill, it's some guy named Jim. Says it's an emergency.”


         Jill's legs were liquid as she went to the phone. She picked up the receiver, afraid to speak.


         “Jill? You There?” Jim's voice was harried, like he'd just had a workout.


         “Yeah Jim.”


         “I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, Junebug, but your grandmother had a stroke this evening. She's in the hospital. You should probably get home as soon as you can. Just let me know where to send it, and I'll wire you some money for a plane ticket.”


         Jill sent some quick e-mails to her professors explaining the situation, got the money for the plane ticket at a nearby Western Union, and rushed to the airport. She got into the Whitehall Municipal Airport a little after 3 in the morning. Jim was there to pick her up. He took her up to his house. His wife grabbed her the minute she got in and held her tight. Jill had been trying to keep it together, knowing she couldn't do anything if she fell apart. But Alice's concern sent her over the edge. She sobbed into the perfumed fabric of her shirt, unable to control the tears.


         “Visiting hours aren't until 8 a.m., kiddo,” said Jim, patting her on the back. “See if you can get some rest. I'll take you up there in the morning.”


         Jill cried herself out, mumbled some apologies to Alice and went in to eat some stew they had waiting for her. Her eyes burned when she got into the guest bedroom and she figured it wouldn't be long until she fell asleep, but worry and sadness kept the dreams at bay the rest of the night.


         Dorotha was taken to West Hillsbrand Medical Center at first, but was quickly transferred to Whitehall Municipal Hospital when she was stabilized. Jill didn't talk during the 27-mile drive to the town, and Jim didn't push it. He had lived long enough to know that sometimes silence is its own therapy.


         Jill walked through the front doors of the hospital and the antiseptic smell made her gag. A nurse, sterile in her white uniform, showed her where to sit and wait for visitors to be admitted. She and Jim took a seat, stared blankly at the gameshow on T.V. and, after about 30 minutes, a young nurses aide came in and escorted them back. The beds were set in little niches off a long hallway. Jill averted her eyes as she passed by the patients, but she could hear the moaning of the patients and sounds of the staff as they fought their losing battles with death.


         Dorotha's bed was one of the last ones in the hallway, flanked by vacant rooms on either side. She had never been a large woman, but her small frame looked all bones and stretched skin as she lay in the bed, mouth hanging open. Jill didn't want to wake her and contented herself instead with watching the deep rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She was still alive, she would be alright.


         The doctor came in a few minutes later and dashed Jill's fleeting hopes.


         “I'm sorry, Ms. Stewart,” he said, leaning against the wall as they talked in the hallway. “We think she will regain consciousness, but there was some extensive brain damage. It's not likely she'll be the same person you knew before.”


         Like many doctors the young woman had seen, he was making an effort to seem sympathetic, but his gray eyes stared at her unblinkingly as he delivered the news. Doctors had to stay disconnected or go crazy, she knew, but it always offended her, the way they could bring someone's world crashing down around them and maintain such a professional attitude.


         Jim, who had stood a respectful distance away during the conversation, walked up and put an arm around Jill's shoulder when the doctor walked away. Jill slumped against him, taking comfort in his strength.


         “What's going on?” he asked, knowing the news couldn't be good.


         “She's got brain damage,” she said, voice choking through tears. “I think we've lost her, Jim.”


         “It'll be alright, Junebug,” he said, hugging her. “We'll get through this together.”


         Jim stayed with Jill for a couple more hours, taking her down to the cafeteria at lunch and making sure she had something to do while she sat with her grandmother. He left for the afternoon to go do what had to be done at the newspaper, telling her to call him if she needed him or if anything changed. He returned at 6 p.m. and they stayed at the hospital until 9 p.m., when a perky blonde nurse informed them visiting hours were over. Her grandmother hadn't moved, showed no sign of life other than the breathing.


         Jill's vigil lasted five days, and Jim spent every spare moment he could with her and his long-time friend. On the sixth day, when they  got to the hospital, the morning nurse hurried her back.


         “She woke up sometime last night and was asking about you,” she said. Jill's heart jumped.


         “Oh, thank God.”


         “Now don't expect too much,” said the nurse. “She's still pretty confused.”


         Jim waited outside as Jill went in. Dorotha was sitting up in the bed, watching the nurse strap on a blood pressure cuff.


         “Grandma?”


         Dorotha looked toward the door with her hazel eyes, but didn't focus in on anything. Her face lit up at the word and a big smile played across her face. Jill's hopes soared, but were soon dashed by the realization that her grandmother's mind was elsewhere.


         “Grandma! Grandma!” she said, repeating the word like a parrot. “What's that border tape doing over there? Put it back Jill, it's expensive. Go play with Maybelle while I finish up here.”


         “Grandma, you had a stroke, you're in the hospital.”


         Dorotha looked over at the walls, almost seemed to see the machinery, then reached out and grabbed the stethoscope from the nurse.


         “I need this for the garden. Allen! Go take this back to the shed.”


         “Allen died a long time ago, Grandma,” said Jill, trying to talk sense into the crazy woman who used to be her grandmother.


         “Come on, Jill. Let's let the nurses finish up and we'll go get some coffee.” Jim had materialized beside him and she didn't know how much he had heard.


         “But she's...”


         “I know,” he said, giving her a penetrating look. “We can't do much about it. Let's get some coffee and figure out what to do.”


         He had to half-drag her out of the room and took hold of her in the ICU hallway. “Listen, kiddo, I know you're upset, but you're not doing any good in there right now.”


         “But why'd this have to happen? I don't want to see her like this,” Jill collapsed against Jim's shoulder, sobbing. Her breaths came in gasps and for a minute she was afraid she would lose consciousness.


         “You don't have a choice,” said Jim, his voice stern and cutting off all argument. “That woman in there needs you, and you have to come to grips with the fact that she's not who she used to be.” He grabbed her shoulders, looked at her long and hard. “I'm sorry Junebug, but you're all she's got. I'll help you through this, and so will everybody else at the paper. But you've got to be strong. I'm sorry as hell this had to happen, but it is what it is.”


         Jim pulled her in close for a hug and held her there for a long time. When she pulled away, her eyes were dry and a wan smile crept across her face.


         “Thanks, Jim. I'll do my best.”


         “You don't know how to do anything but, kiddo. Now, let's go get some coffee and calm down, ok?”


         They didn't talk much while they drank the sour-tasting vending machine crap they sold at the cafeteria. When they got back up to the room, the doctor was waiting for them.


         “Have you seen her today?”


         “Yes,” said Jill.


         “Well, the good news is she's conscious,” said the doctor, offering Jill a smile. “We'll move her to a regular room in a couple of hours and hold her for observation a few more days.”


         “And what if she doesn't get any better?” asked Jill.


         “Then she'll definitely need care,” said the doctor. “But if there's nothing more we can do for her medically, then her only options are home care or assisted living.”


         “So there's nothing you can do? What the hell good is that for me?” She shook with anger, which had found a target in the man standing before her.


         “She's alive, Ms. Stewart. At least she's alive.”


         Dorotha stayed in the hospital for another week, but didn't show any improvement. Jill continued visiting during the daytime for the first few days but, when she found her granmother tangled in her catheter and trying to get out of the bed, she decided it was best to stay. The days and nights ran together as doctors and nurses came and went, taking vitals and seeing no more cognizance than the first day she woke. If anything, she got worse. When she slept, she cried out to people long since dead and when she woke, her words were a garble that rarely made sense.


         On the day before she was scheduled to be released, she went to lunch with Jim to talk about what to do.


         “The way I see it, you got three options,” said Jim, cutting a greasy salisbury steak. “You can get her a live-in nurse, you can put her in a home or you can stay with her yourself.”


         “What do you think I should do?”


         Jim took a long drink of his diet Coke. “Well, I think she'd be better off at home, but since her Medicare probably won't cover a live-in nurse, it would mean you'd have to stay with her.”


         Jill didn't say anything, ashamed of the first thought that came to her – but I can't do that! I've got school and a life! Jim answered what she didn't vocalize.


         “I don't blame you for not wanting to stay with her. It would be a hell of a way to remember your grandmother's last days here on Earth, plus the fact, I don't know if you could handle her if she got out of control,” he sighed. “I think the only thing there is to do is to put her into a home. I know a good place next to the college I think you'll like.”


         They went to the nursing home, where a smartly-dressed woman ushered them into her office. The name placard proclaimed her as the 'intake specialist', and she looked for all the world like a department store salesman. Jill shuddered to think the same sales tactics used there were probably enacted here as well.


         They discussed finances, and Jill was relieved to find out that Medicare would cover all the expenses. She took them around for a tour of the place. Jill's heart nearly broke at the sight of residents idly shuffling in the halls. One resident, a woman who must have been at least 80, sat in on activities, her wheelchair set in front of the table. The activites director was explaining the project to the group, but the woman was far beyond any ability to hear her. As she passed out the watercolor paper, a long line of drool fell from the resident's mouth and puddled on it. The woman never missed a beat, talked to the old woman as if she were listening and put a paint brush in her hand.


         “So what do you think?” asked her tour guide, all smiles and friendliness.


         “I guess so...”


         “It's about the best place in the area,” whispered Jim. “At least of the ones you can afford.”


         “Alright then,” said the intake specialist. “We'll go back to my office and get the paperwork signed.”


         They moved Dorotha in the next day and Jill brought over some of her belongings to make her room seem less sterile. She sat with her for a couple of hours, watching T.V. while her grandmother stayed trapped in her imaginings.


         “I'll come visit you, grandma,” she said, hugging her. “I gotta go get some things in order at the house.”


         “Well why do you have to leave so soon?” said Dorotha, eyes welling up with tears. “You just got here. I'll have dinner ready in a little bit.”


         “I know,” said Jill, starting to cry herself. She could no more comfort her grandmother than she could herself. “But I'll be back soon.”


         Jill was good to her word. She visited every other day, as long as she could spare the time. Jim hired her on as a freelance photographer, paying more than she suspected he would pay anyone else. He went up to the home with her sometimes, but most days it was just her. Some days were good, some were bad, but she never got to have a real conversation with her grandmother again.


         In the Spring of 2005, Jill was awakened in the middle of the night by a nurse at the home. Her grandmother had suffered another stroke. She rushed to the hospital, where her grandmother lay in bed, struggling for every breath.


         “How bad is it?” she asked the doctor.


         “Well, we've made her comfortable, but there's not much else we can do. I don't think she's going to make it through the night.”


         It amazed Jill at how little sadness she felt at the statement, then realized she had said goodbye a long time ago. She called Jim and let him know the situation, and within 30 minutes he and his family and Harry were at her bedside saying their goodbyes.


         The funeral was small, but the expenses forced Jill to sell her grandmother's house in order to pay for the costs. Jim, Harry, and some of the men who had worked with Allen in the oil field acted as pallbearers and Jill sat up in the front of the church, flanked by Alice and Candice. When it came time to leave the church, Jill's legs gave way and they almost had to carry her out.


         Jill continued on as a freelance photographer another six months, and Jim and Alice let her stay at their house. One fall morning, the couple woke to find a note stuck to their bedroom door:


         Jim and Alice,


         I am eternally indebted to you for your kindness and consideration during my time back in West Hillsbrand. I am going away for a while, and I don't know when I'll be back. I've got some thinking to do and I need to get my life back together. Know that I love you both like my own family and I will talk to you again, when my head's on a little straighter.


                                                 --Jill


         The Herald-News staff did not hear from Jill for two years. Then, one day in late summer 2007, she entered their lives once again. She answered an ad for a sports writer and was hired within a week.


         Of course, Jim didn't just give her the job. On the one hand, he knew what she was capable of. But her disappearance left a bitter taste in his mouth and it was only after a very long conversation about her plans that he decided to hire her.


         She did not fail to disappoint. The young reporter had started attending classes at the West Hillsbrand junior college and was only a semester away from her Associate of Arts degree in print and photojournalism. She was living in Whitehall with her boyfriend, who she met at school. To the casual observer, she seemed to be back to her old self, smiling and joking with co-workers and working beyond what seemed to be humanly possible for someone of her experience.


         Jim was no casual observer. He could see the tell-tale signs that gave her act away. She played the part well, but when she thought no one was watching, he could see the sadness return to her eyes and her lips press into a thin line. There was no doubt about it. Jill was still broken, but the mending process had begun.