The Front Page: Prologue
The Tattler does serialized fiction
by Diane Newberry
The city is shaped like a cross. Its #1 thoroughfare, Main Street, runs north-south and intersects Highway 6, which runs east-west, at Hjellman’s Ice Cream. The portion east of Hjellman’s is the short end of the crucifix, populated by respectable, utilitarian businesses. The sign for Jon’s Car Lot looms above the other buildings, an aging cherry red. Next to Jon’s is the ag supply store, and then the ag supply store’s bins, and then nothing.
A few yards down the street from nothing is a whitewashed sign, “Beauford’s 13 Churches Welcome You.” With a population of 1,434, Beauford has roughly 107 residents per church, and of those, about 95 of them can be found in their pews each Sunday. The remaining few recognize no religion. Despite its population, Beauford is still designated on paper as a city, per North Dakota law. All incorporated communities in North Dakota are cities. No towns, villages or hamlets can exist. There are 357 urban centers dotted amongst the plains.
Across the street from the car lot is Helen’s Diner, the shabbier option of the city’s two restaurants. Due to its proximity to the ag store, Helen’s is the main card game venue for farmers who have reason to come into town. It is also directly next door to Bullseye’s, one of the city’s four bars. This makes it a prominent spot for men working at the coal plant east of town to stop and sober up before going home.
Nifty’s Cafe is Helen’s shinier counterpart, closer to the center of town and preferred by the business class. Nifty’s is where Sharon Nylund would rather be having her breakfast on this hazy August morning, but Helen’s two small, dimly lit rooms are preferable for her meeting with the superintendent of Beauford Schools. She flicks the top of her Tiffany’s lighter, remembering bitterly that this booth was once in Helen’s smoking section. The empty diner smells like Helen’s strawberry rhubarb pie, and Sharon distracts herself from her cravings by swigging the last of her coffee. She is aggravated at Josh for being late. She glances at her nails; she hadn’t made it into Bismarck any time during the last two months to have her acrylics touched up.
A tinny bell on the front door announces the arrival of Superintendent Josh Fineman. He ducks his head down, walking straight to Sharon. If she were at Nifty’s she would be holding court at her usual booth in the front window, but this morning she sits low in her seat in Helen’s back corner. She’s made an attempt to disguise herself with a fussy white sunhat and large pair of sunglasses.
Josh eases into the booth, his battered knees straining slightly from the effort. Sharon looks like a Barbie doll left in the backyard overnight. Her hair is dislodged from its usual coiff and her red lipstick is smeared and faded. She takes off her sunglasses, revealing gritty circles of eye makeup. Josh settles into his seat.
“Shar, what’s the deal? Why did you call me so early?”
“Look, Josh. I think we could get in a lot of trouble.”
“Sharon, I swear to God, you said this was an … an easy thing, that no one would find out, or even care about finding out.”
Helen’s bell suddenly rings out wildly, the diner’s door whipping on its hinges until it crashes against the wall. A young woman is breathing heavily in the entryway. She’s disheveled, her pencil skirt askew and a sweatshirt flung over her untucked blouse. Her feet are bare except for nylons.
“You bitch!” the woman calls through the restaurant. Her eyes instantly fix on the back corner.
Sharon does not move. A moment ago, Josh had thought Sharon was the most shaken he had ever seen her, but now, a foreboding sense of calm has descended over her side of the booth. Her gaze is steady and cool.
The woman begins to shout. Her words tumble out clumsily, half-practiced. “I fuck–ing quit, if that wasn’t clear. I don’t even think this goddamn town deserves to know the truth, and I don’t even think it’s worth my time to try to tell them. So fuck — fuck you and your little power trips and your fucking SUV. I hope you and this whole goddamn county sink into the fucking Earth.”
Josh notices the woman has a golf club in her hand just as she finishes her speech. Her exit is even more sudden than her entrance, and then, Josh finds himself watching a scene entirely foreign to him. It’s violent and primal. He’s seen something like it in a handful of movies. Through Helen’s wide front windows, he watches the woman take the club to Sharon’s Mercedes. The vehicle is a monstrosity, the biggest SUV in town and a meticulously-kept white. It is, admittedly, satisfying to see its shiny visage dented by this mess of a girl.
The woman hits, again and again and again. The windshield, the mirrors, the taillights. With a silent shudder, she makes her last mark and drops the club. She walks toward an old Civic across the lot, and within two minutes, she’s left the scene. Sharon looks down again at her nails, then to Josh, but doesn’t say anything. The SUV had been a gift from her husband three years ago, after their business’s expansion had started to turn a profit. No one else in the state was starting new newspapers, but Sharon had known the Beauford Bugle’s steady revenue streams could help prop up a spin-off publication in nearby Laketon. It was a slim little thing, a newsletter full of gossip and lucrative ads. The Mercedes was her trophy.
The incident’s third witness, Helen, comes from behind the bar, carrying a coffee carafe. Her pace is steady, but she throws another glance toward the wrecked SUV. Grabbing Sharon’s empty mug, she asks, “Hey Shar, wasn’t that your new editor-in-chief?”
“Not anymore,” Sharon says lightly.
Barnard Street Tattler 