Chapter 4

Priorities I

“Here’s the article about the Benson’s trial in Carson and here’s the A.P. wire report about the Union’s blockade of the Southern ports; I added a couple of facts the reporter didn’t know. I hate sloppy reporting.” Juliet Heatherstone handed Joe Goodman a few pages narrowly lettered in her elaborated script. “I’m going out for lunch now.”

She was already close to getting late, so she quickly turned and headed for the door when Goodman stopped her in midstride. “Wait!”

She looked over her shoulder, one irritated eyebrow raised. “Pardon?”

Goodman sighed. Of course she wouldn’t just wait and obediently ask for further directives. All right, better go on with it. “You can’t go to lunch now.”

“Mr. Goodman, I have an appointment. I’m sorry, but I can’t stay.”

“Well, you now have an appointment here. I need the articles about the bank robbery in Salt Flats and the last speech of—”

“I know. I’m going to write them when I come back.”

“But that’s too late. We have to deliver this issue earlier, don’t you remember? Mr. Wilcort expressively asked for that; it was part of the deal with his latest advertisements.”

“I will have everything ready in time,” Miss Heatherstone said in forced patience. Her eyebrow, though, rose an inch, and she emphasized, “As usual.”

“No, I won’t chance it. You stay here.” The moment his words had left his mouth he knew he had made a mistake. Thou shalt not try and order Miss Heatherstone.

“No, I won’t.” Her eyebrows reached their ultimate altitude in a split second. “I will provide you with the required articles in due time. But I will decide how I accomplish this task. And now, if you excuse me, I’ll go and keep my appointment.”

“Am I right in assuming your precious appointment is one with Adam Cartwright?”

“This is none of your concern, Mr. Goodman.”

“Well, I think it is very much my concern, as it affects the issues of this newspaper. Your little lunch breaks with Mr. Cartwright usually result in rather harsh articles.” He looked at her challengingly. But braveness seemed to have lost him when he added a rather subdued, “Or in very sentimental ones.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t get that last one. What was that?” Miss Heatherstone’s tone indicated that by all means she heard him right, and that she didn’t esteem his valuation of Adam Cartwright’s influence on her writing in the slightest, or much less sympathize with his views.

“You heard me. Cartwright makes you sappy.” He was quite daring today, Goodman thought, pleased with himself. But he also recollected the proverb about fire and burned fingers, and so he added, “At times.”

It wasn’t enough to prevent the storm from breaking, and he knew it. Her tone was icy. “I do not write sappy.” She raised her chin, straightened her back and squared her shoulders in what was known all over Virginia City as The Queen’s Battle Stance. “And I strongly advice you, Sir, to stay out of my personal matters. You will not harass me with misplaced comments concerning my affairs privé.”

She glared at him, her eyes shooting daggers, her nostrils flaring and her breath puffing in short, audible gasps, until she eventually let the air out in long trailing breath. She seemed almost relaxed when she raised her right eyebrow, tilted her head and told Goodman, “And now, like it or not Goodman, I’ll go and have my lunch break.”

Goodman didn’t know what triggered his next sentence. Maybe it was the sight of her arrogantly arched eyebrow, maybe it was that insufferable clipped accent, that seemed to get stronger whenever Miss Heatherstone went into Queen-mode, maybe it was just this one disobedience to many, or maybe it was the feeling of being scolded like a little child and not being able to do anything against it—well, he didn’t really care. He just needed relief, and so he blurted out, “You’re fired!” God, that felt good!

The Queen didn’t even seem surprised. She merely considered him for a moment, and then she smiled her lopsided smile and rejoined completely unperturbed, “Oh, really? I feel honoured, Mr. Goodman. This is the second time this month, and I strongly feel that by next year I’ll have reached the same level as Sam Clemens. You made him redundant twice a week, if I understood him right.” She gave him a graceful and dismissive nod, and turned to go. “I’ll see you later then. Tell Wilbur I will dictate him into the lithograph.” And with that and a jaunty swish of her skirt she was out of the bureau of the Territorial Enterprise and gone.

Goodman stared after her, unmoving. It was always the same. He fired her, she laughed about it, end of story. He couldn’t get ahead of her. He buried his head in his hands and shook it, inwardly cursing himself for his weakness, but all the same glad that she, again, hadn’t accepted her sacking.

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Speak when you are angry and you will make
the best speech you will ever regret. ~Ambrose Bierce