Page 11 of Good Days Bad Days

“Well, here’s what I think,” Don says, and both Martha and I tense up, bracing ourselves to discover our fate.

“This idea is great. Very timely, popular, very palatable to our viewership. Plus, Larry Torrence is already well liked in the community. I’ll give you the Monday nine o’clock slot for a month and see what you make of it.

But . . .” he says, sucking the excitement out of his offer.

Whatever is on the other side of that “but” is not more good news.

Martha must sense it, too, because she stiffens.

“I want you to produce a daytime segment for me as well. Something I’ve been trying to make happen, think it’ll be popular with the housewives who want something other than soap operas and news programs, you know?

And I think you’d be perfect for it, Miss Smith. ”

He looks only at Martha after mentioning housewives, and I can sense her irritation as he continues his pitch.

“It’s a ‘happy housekeeping’ kind of a show with tips on how to make your bread rise or polishing the floors and such. It is a popular topic for a daytime slot and will give us plenty of ad revenue since we could use sponsored products on air. What do ya think? Two shows for the price of one?”

“I . . . I have no background in that sort of programming,” she replies politely, pushing a few unruly strands of hair away from her flushed face. “I fear it would spread us too thin.”

“Oh, no. No. Not at all. This is a little thing but great for advertising dollars. How much time could a few soapsuds and sparkling windows take?”

“Well, it’s a whole other show, sir. So . . . as much as any other—”

He cuts her off and pushes a folder across his desk.

“It’s all laid out here. The set would be in Studio C and have a working kitchen, tile floor, et cetera. Set up like a good ole American home. I think it’s what we need right now. A return to the values that made this country great.”

Martha looks like she wants to speak but the words are stuck inside her mouth.

The battle that must be going on internally I can only guess at.

Say no to the midday fluff show and lose the Janesville Presents .

. . opportunity and potentially our jobs altogether.

Say yes and we have double the work and very little reward, at least when it comes to the housekeeping show.

As the assistant producer and Martha’s tagalong, I don’t think I’m even invited to the conversation.

I take the offered folder, and Hollinger continues.

Inside I find a sketch of a cozy modern kitchen with curtains, a round table large enough for a family of six, a counter with a four-burner range built in, a fancy modern refrigerator, and cabinets lining the walls.

“You’d have a six-person team. Laramie,” he says, “would be with you, but you can hand pick the rest of the crew. And of course you’ll both be compensated for your additional time.”

A promotion. Well, a double promotion. Two assistant producer credits for me.

A bigger paycheck. More possibilities for the future.

Less time at home, alone in my little one-bedroom apartment playing the piano to numb myself.

Nothing about this show appeals to me—it’s old-fashioned and sounds like something my mom would’ve kept on when she did her Tuesday afternoon ironing, but we’d still get Janesville Presents . . . and we’d get to keep our jobs.

I pass Martha the proposal. She scans through the plans, flipping the stiff manila folder closed.

“I’d like some time to talk this through with Greg.”

Betty is watching me again. Hollinger stares at both of us one at a time, his nicotine-stained fingers templed.

“That’s fine. Take a day. I’ll have legal draw up the paperwork for both shows and we can move forward next week.”

“And we’ll brainstorm our crew and get a short list of some names for potential hosts for the daytime show,” Martha adds.

She’s so self-assured, so professional. I know a lot of the men find her outspoken personality annoying and unattractive, but I find myself learning from her and studying her boldness, hoping some rubs off on me.

We’re immediately on our feet. Hollinger rises slowly from his squeaky desk chair, offering a hand across the tidy workspace.

“There’s a list of potential hosts in the packet. If you want to add a few more, go ahead, but I think I have some good ideas there. We’ll hold auditions as soon as the ink is dry.”

We both agree and shake a farewell. Betty, who’s been silent the whole time other than the scratching of her pencil, follows us out of the office.

“Congrats,” Betty says in her bright, friendly way. I say goodbye but don’t use her name in front of Martha, afraid the familiarity would spark too many questions.

We are only two steps away from the frosted glass of Hollinger’s office when Martha grabs my attention.

“What was that?” Her heels clatter against the waxed tile floor, the proposal clutched in her hand like she wants to crumple it. “He can’t be serious.”

“I know it’s a lot, but at least—” I begin to console her, but she keeps talking.

“It’s too much! It’s easy because it’s a woman’s show, that’s what I heard.”

I shrug. She’s not wrong. I lengthen my strides to keep up with her frenzied walk.

“Yeah, he . . . he did say that.”

“Ugh.” She shoves open the door to the stairwell and then flops down on the cement stairs, forehead pressed against the metal railing. “This is so unfair. You know he’s doing this ’cause I’m the only woman on the production team.”

She drops the papers on the ground, sending them everywhere. She’s right. It is unfair. And it is definitely because of her gender. I don’t know what to say, so I collect the scattered pages and take a seat next to Martha, taming them into a straightened pile.

“I know. It’s backward.”

“And now we’re neck deep in this mess, and if we don’t say yes, then . . .”

“We’re finished,” I complete her sentence, and she nods.

“Getting fired wouldn’t be terrible. I have that offer at KSTP still out there.

I could try to get them to sign you on, too.

Ever consider moving to Minneapolis?” She laughs a little but doesn’t wait for a reply.

“Then again, he basically greenlit the Janesville show. And he’s so invested in this antifeminist piece of garbage that we’d have more freedom.

Ugh. It’s such a catch-22. What do you think? ”

“Hmmm,” I say, pondering the situation. Catch-22, an eye-opening satirical novel I read in Comparative Literature at Beloit College, was one of the first cracks in my thoughts about the war.

The concept fit too well in this modern world.

The government says that to have peace, there must be war, but with war, there is no peace.

In this situation, supporting the only woman on the production team to help her keep her job and retain hopes of upward mobility means also supporting backward “keep women in the kitchen” programming.

And if I truly back Martha’s decisions that also means I have to be okay with losing my job if she rejects this offer. She’s right—it’s a catch-22.

Martha peeks at me through the crook of her arm, watching me nervously fuss with the papers, stacking and restacking them to give me a few more seconds to think.

People usually get used to my silence, even take advantage of it.

I find Martha’s interest in my internal thoughts exciting but also nerve racking.

I like to think before I speak, think a lot, which can make it seem like I have nothing to say, but it’s often the opposite.

When I do speak, it’s because I’m sure of what I’m saying.

“I trust you either way,” I say, handing over the file, our fingers brushing. She takes the stuffed manila folder with the handwritten “Happy Homemaker” label on the tab and lays it in her lap like a sleeping baby. We both stare at it.

“What the hell,” she nearly shouts, raising the file to her chest and holding it tightly. “Let’s give it a shot. I mean, how bad can it be?”

The phrase echoes ominously down the stairwell as she opens the proposal to the first page.

“Yeah,” I lean in to read over her shoulder, swallowing down an unexpected wave of unease. “How bad can it be?”