Caught In The Act. Gayle Roper

      “Merry, come here!” My editor, Mac Carnuccio, cocked a hand at me as soon as I came in from lunch.

      Mac was king of our little world. His style was exactly the opposite of our previous editor, the erratic stacks of paper littering his desk being but one instance. Still, in the short two weeks that he’d held the job, he’d put out a paper as good as or better than our former editor.

      And he clearly loved being in charge, taking a kid’s pleasure in the subtle perks of power, especially the enormous desk by the enormous window.

      “I love sitting here,” he’d told me last week as he leaned back in his new ergonomically correct executive chair. “I feel like I own all of Amhearst.”

      I’d looked out on Main Street and agreed it was an impressive sight. “Monarch of all you survey, eh?”

      Mac smiled broadly at an iridescent gray pigeon taking its afternoon constitutional on the other side of his window. Then his face sobered.

      “I’m not really editor, you know.” He glanced at me. “I’m only acting editor. The rag’s for sale, and who knows who will buy it and what will happen then. Ever since I saw Cary Grant in His Girl Friday, I wanted to be a suave, fast-talking editor. And—” his grin returned “—for now I am.”

      Now this suave, fast-talking editor was waving to me, his Rosalind Russell.

      As I hurried through the newsroom, I zigged and zagged as necessary to avoid being eaten by the spectacularly healthy plants that Jolene insisted on growing here. The huge grape ivy that sat on the soda machine had been joined by a gigantic red poinsettia, one of several that sat about in case we forgot that Christmas was a mere week away. On the great windowsill of the picture window African violets bloomed pink and purple and variegated in spite of the time of year, and Jolene’s Christmas cactus in a teeth-jarring shade of fuchsia hung nearly to the floor.

      Mac’s policy was the same as our former editor’s: ignore the greenery and maybe it would die.

      “Have I got an assignment for you, Beautiful,” Mac said when I stood before his cluttered desk. “You’ll love it!”

      “Yeah?” Whenever Mac told me I’d love something, I got nervous. We were so different that most things he thought were great, I thought were vulgar, profane, and/or without redeeming social value.

      “And if you don’t love it,” he said, “the penalty is dinner with me. Alone. At my place.”

      “I can tell already that I’m going to like this assignment a lot.” I smiled to let him know I knew he was joking about the dinner, though I wasn’t certain he was. He asked me out with great regularity, and I refused with equal regularity. The last thing I wanted or needed was an office romance with a guy like Mac. Besides, a third guy would definitely be more than I could handle.

      “I already assigned you Longwood Gardens at Christmas, right?”

      I nodded. Longwood Gardens was a local wonder that I was to do a piece on for the December 26 issue, something I could write ahead, an informative filler that wouldn’t change, unless, of course, the conservatory decided to burn down or something.

      “Good.” He nodded. “Don’t forget.”

      I scowled at him. Like I’d forget an assignment.

      He fumbled through one of his multiple stacks of papers. He grunted with satisfaction as he pulled a sheet free. “You know about His House?”

      “Whose house?”

      “His House.”

      I looked at him blankly.

      “You know. Like in God.”

      “God’s house? Like church?”

      “What’s church got to do with anything?” Mac looked as confused as I felt.

      “Church is God’s house.”

      “Oh, yeah. I guess it is. But I’m not talking about church. I’m talking about His House.”

      We were back where we started.

      “His House is a place for girls in trouble.”

      “Ah,” I said. “In trouble with the law? With pregnancies? With their parents?”

      “Probably all the above, but mostly with pregnancies. I want a tearjerker story on some of those girls. I want to wring the readers’ hearts.”

      I nodded. I could do that.

      “I want your story to be so compelling that our readers will admire these girls, no, will love these girls for their courage to carry their babies instead of terminating their pregnancies. I want heartbreaking stories of desperation and blossoming maternal love, of perseverance in the face of abandonment by families and, most terribly, by the babies’ fathers.” He rose from his seat, carried away by his own rhetoric. “I want the readers to cry!”

      I stared at him in astonishment. Where had all this emotion come from?

      He grinned sheepishly as he noticed not only me but Edie Whatley, the family page editor, staring at him.

      “Lapsed Italian-Catholic guilt,” he explained as he sank into his new chair. “I’m conflicted over abortion. I’m conflicted over the Church. And Christmas always makes it all worse. I mean, what if Mary had aborted Jesus? Did you ever think of that?”

      “Mac!”

      “And then there’s all the other seasonal questions. Should I go to midnight Mass on Christmas Eve? It sort of makes me feel good to go, you know? But isn’t that hypocritical if I never go any other time? And shouldn’t you go to church to talk to God, not to get a warm seasonal buzz? But it’d make my mother happy. The question is: would it make God happy? And why would he want to see me after the way I’ve acted the rest of the year? If there is a God.”

      I couldn’t help laughing at his expression, but I realized he was asking some very serious questions.

      “Come to church with me on Christmas Eve,” I said.

      “Are you asking me for a date?” He looked much too eager.

      “Absolutely not, but you could sit with me.”

      His eyes lit up.

      “I wouldn’t want you to feel awkward in strange surroundings,” I said primly.

      “Too kind, kid. Here.” He handed me the sheet of paper.

      I read Dawn Trauber, Director, His House, followed by a phone number.

      “Call her,” he instructed. “Set up an interview.”

      I nodded. “Thanks. I agree with you. This will be a great story.”

      “It better be, Schweetheart,” he said in his best Humphrey Bogart. “I may not go to Mass, but consider me the Little Drummer Boy bringing my gift of the story to the manger. You’re the drum I’m beating on, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.”

      I went to the file cabinet along the wall, slid the gigantic jade plant—now festooned with an equally gigantic red bow and white fairy lights—to the rear of the cabinet, and dived into the H drawer. Certainly the clipping service had something for me on His House. I pulled the information out.

      I carried the file back to my desk by way of the soda machine. As I walked past, I tossed my head. Just that quickly I was attacked by the great grape ivy. Its tentacles reached out and wrapped themselves about my spiky hair, twisting and twining themselves until I was imprisoned against the dollar slot.

      My file fluttered to the floor. I gurgled in outrage and began struggling, though I didn’t want to be too rough because I was more afraid of Jolene, the mad gardener, than I was of the plant. But I didn’t want to be dinner for a carnivorous organism, either. So I pulled and twisted, and no sooner did I get one spike free than another fell prey to the shoots.

      I