“I’m fine,” she assured him. “A little tired, but it’s nothing important. I’ll try to get some rest.”
“Promise?” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Promise?”
“I promise.” She smiled but pulled her shoulder away. That squeeze hurt.
He went back to his chair and, as she stood up, he asked, “Debbie, have you talked to a doctor about it, this being tired?”
“No, no,” she answered quickly.
“No?” he asked, his eyes surprised. “Well, maybe you should. Don’t forget,” he said, his voice firm, “we all love you.”
36
Jean Ann Maypin had three standard speeches for the many groups that requested her appearance. She had one on how to dress and act for success, one on how to organize time and one, she loved this one, about being a feminine woman in a man’s world.
“I call this speech ‘Grin and Bear It,’” she would start. “It’s about being a woman in a man’s world.”
There would be giggling and clapping almost before the first sentence came out of her coral-glossed lips.
“She reminds me of my granddaughter Heather,” one would whisper.
“Reminds me of that sweet Jane Pauley on the Today Show,” another would chime.
“No, no, she’s much better than that Jane Pauley,” would come from the row behind.
They all knew the truth about Jean Ann Maypin. They knew she became a star without being coarse and rude and mannish. She did her best in a man’s world and one day, they all knew this, she would meet Mr. Right and spend more time at home. She wouldn’t have to give up television completely, but she would definitely be happier spending more time at home and raising a family. They all knew she wanted that. All real women did.
Jean Ann was dating a psychologist. She called him “my analyst” and giggled with the hint that perhaps she did see him, or had, on a professional basis. Then, she would roll her eyes to show how absurd it would be to think that she, Jean Ann Maypin, would ever need an analyst.
She loved his name.
“Gregory,” she said and rolled her eyes at Paige Allen. “Isn’t that cute? My analyst. We date, you know.”
She liked Paige Allen knowing how desirable she was. Paige might be sexy and blond but she was no Jean Ann Maypin.
She met him at the station when he came in to talk with Jim Brown about doing mental health tips to fight holiday season depression. That idea didn’t appeal to Brown but he was glad to add a presentable psychologist to his list of people they could use for a sound bite or two in future stories.
Gregory took her to dinner before the ten o’clock newscasts. He chose places with candlelight where Jean Ann could allow herself a single sip of wine from his glass. He would hold her hand and listen to her talk about her day and about television news. They were, he found, one and the same.
He smiled patiently when people stopped by the table.
“We watch you every night,” they would tell her.
“Well, how sweet of you to say so,” she’d say, and sign the scraps of paper they pressed on her.
Sometimes, after giving him a long look, her admirers would say, “and you too.” He would smile and give a short bow of his head.
“I’ve told everyone I have an analyst,” Jean Ann told him one night.
He shook his head.
“Oh, pooh. That’s what I tell them. Everybody’s got one, don’t they? I could need one, couldn’t I? It could be exciting. I have so many stories to tell. I wouldn’t be boring.”
He smiled.
“And, you know, I do need someone to talk to. Television is such a hard business. Oh, I have the most wonderful job in the world. I wouldn’t change it for anything, but it can be difficult for a woman.”
He nodded and smiled, watching her mouth as she chewed her veal. Her knife scraped the plate as she cut another bite. He could sense the others in the restaurant staring and smiling and nodding in their direction. Jean Ann Maypin, gosh.
*
At the end of every speech, they asked the same question. It usually came at that too quiet moment with no hands waving with questions to be asked. Finally, one of the bravest, the most determined of them, would giggle and raise her hand and stand.
“Jean Ann, what’s Tom Carter really like?”
“Yes, yes,” would come the excited chorus.
She gave that question her warmest smile and she always said the same thing.
“Ah, Tom, he’s quite a guy. I don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s helped me a lot and working with him has been a wonderful opportunity for me.”
A sigh of contentment would fill the room. Was there ever any doubt?
SEGMENT THREE
“And finally tonight …” Carter allowed for his thin smile. This was the light story, the kicker. Made them feel good, that’s what those pricks Back East said anyway.
“We have a report about some very, very,” he moved into a smirk, “special dancers.” He had no idea what kind of dancers they were. Could be belly dancers, for all he knew. He didn’t know. He read.
“Our arts and entertainment reporter,” God, he hated that, “Harold Lewis, brings us the story.”
He held the prim mouth smirk without moving, staring into the camera, waiting for the tape to take over.
That son of a bitch director wasn’t fast enough. Too many times he left him hanging out here with a stupid fucking look on his face. He’d see about that.
He held the pose a second longer, the eyes narrowed. Next to him, Jean Ann turned to watch her desk monitor. She liked Lewis’ little stories. She could smile after them.
37
Jim Brown decided to throw the problem to Tom Carter at the Wednesday management meeting. He had learned that every so often Carter needed something to stew over, something to get him into the newsroom. Once there he caused trouble, true, but the more the newsroom
