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     Teri O'Leary, an only child was orphaned at the age of nineteen. A TV reporter, she and her cameraman seek advancement to network status by accepting an assignment that leads to their covering the Nicaraguan War.

     The small sports car, still attached to the hook on the end of the wrecker's cable, came to rest on the shoulder of the road above the ravine. The ripped and torn grass was like a naked wound, attesting to the spot where the vehicle's tires had lost their purchase and allowed the vehicle to drop into the void.

     Smashed almost beyond recognition, the car itself spoke to the condition of its passengers. The top, jammed down against the seats, the jagged pieces of the windshield now rusty red with dried blood, acknowledged there had been no survivors.

     Turning so she was looking directly into the camera, she spoke the words of the closing ritual. "At the scene of the crash, Toireasa O'Leary for Channel 4 Instant News."

     Lowering the camera, Tommy grinned when she pronounced her name. The way she pronounced Theresa belied it its spelling and it's Irish ancestry. To his English, Scandinavian practical mind, it should be "Tore-ease-ah. When he was angry with her, it was. Most often it was a simple Teri.

     Tommy spoke to her twice while they were getting into the station's hatchback. Neither time did she answer him or, even acknowledge his presence. Then, he remembered her parents had died in an accident very similar to this one.

     As they sat watching the wrecker and the mangled sports car depart, Teri's mind was elsewhere. Since her parent's accident, her life had advanced in a seeming series of lurches. Any form of natural progression was something she could only dream about. In her present position, and with her proclaimed intentions for the future, it was doubtful that she would ever know much consistency.

     The accident brought to the surface thoughts that had lain in the recesses of Teri's mind. Unhappy and painful thoughts she wished had remained unrevived.

     Her parent's accident had occurred during the summer between her first and second years of college. Like both of her parents, Toireasa was an only child. Her grandparents had died before she was even old enough to remember them. With her parents being killed two days before her nineteenth birthday, decisions affecting her life were thrust upon her at an early age. The decisions she was forced to make were not always right or easy.

     The level of these decisions was suddenly elevated from whether to wear a skirt and blouse or jeans, to what to do with a house she now owned and contents that were the pathways to her earliest memories. Legally, they belonged to her, mentally they did not. Disposing of them was something she was not ready to face.

     The night before the accident was the last time she had slept in the house she considered home. The balance of that summer and any other time she returned, her days were spent with Hilda Graff. This world-wise, kindly old German widow had been their next door neighbor. To Teri, she was more than that. Hilda was the confidant to whom a naive young girl discussed those things she was not comfortable discussing with her mother. Having lost her family during the bombings of World War II, at even a younger age than Teri was at the time of her parent's accident, Hilda's counsel was realistic and earthy. She rapidly brought the young girl's "earth shaking disasters" into proper perspective. She was bulwark behind which Teri sequestered herself that fateful summer. It was under Hilda's guidance that the house and its contents were sold and the proceeds banked. It would furnish the money to complete Teri's college education. Those belongings Teri could not bear to part with were "safe in Hilda's house." During the next three years, each holiday or whenever Teri felt the need of reassurance, Hilda's house was the sanctuary she sought.

     Teri maintained her residence in one of the college dorms until her senior year. Then, college policy required dorm rooms be yielded to younger students. She moved, with three other senior girls, into an apartment.

     Somehow, although she was the youngest of the four, she always felt older and a little out of place among them. It took a minor skirmish or two before she learned to withhold her well intentioned advice until asked for it. Her roommates, Teri decided, were typical frivolous, unthinking girls whose parents were footing the bills. Unlike herself, they had no need to make a decision between need and impulse. Their encouragement toward unrestrained spending made many of her decisions difficult.

     As graduation approached, and with no one to "put in the word" for her, Teri knew her best chance for employment would be in a middle sized city. From there, and she set her goal toward this objective, she could work her way up to network status. Knowing the industry leaned toward female reporters with better than average looks, she spent extra money for a professional photographer to picture her at her best. These photographs she attached to her resume. From her interviews, she received three offers of employment. She selected the station with the second largest viewing audience. In reflecting on her selection, she believed it was based on the caring attitude the management that station seemed to have for their employees. She wasn't, or so she believed, ready for the cut-throat, or as Hilda Graff would have termed it, "dog eat dog" competition that seemed prevalent among the employees of the largest station.

     Her first month at Channel 4 was spent weeding out real tips from the self-promoting calls on the news department's hotline. Playing researcher or gofer for anchors and department heads, or riding and watching news teams in action occupied the majority of her working hours. During the balance of the work week, she was expected to learn from those editing the day's news, just what would be cut. This, management hoped, would teach her what not to include in her interviews. Part of that process included sitting on a stool in the editing department listening to editors explain their reasoning for cutting out parts of stories. One day, she was being lectured to by the most egotistical of the editing crew justifying the infallibility of his judgement. "To make it fit in the allowable time, I had to cut 45 seconds from this piece. What the mayor sees about the future of this town is the least important part of this story, so in the trash can it goes."

     To Teri, the part he cut was the most pertinent part of the interview. If I ever get assigned to a news team and he does that to one of mine, Teri thought, I'll brain him.

     "Hell," said this voice behind and above her, "If we left it to these guys, they'd take a tape of the Miss America Contest and edit out the swimsuit part. Their one mission in life is to eliminate the good stuff."

     "Yeah," the editor snorted, not used to having his judgement questioned, "and you cameramen would have the screen full of nothing but naked babes and cops blowing away the bad guys." Having said that, he took the previewed reel and himself off to the other side of the room.

     Swiveling around on her stool, Teri looked up into the face of a tall, blue eyed, blond haired man who seemed to be totally enjoying himself. He resembled an older version of a little boy who was immensely pleased with a prank he had just pulled. The mischievous smile and the gleam in his eyes said her judgement of him was accurate. What it did not tell her was his professional ability and his dedication toward it.

     "I'm Tommy Ericson," he told her, the smile changing from mischievous to friendly, the eyes seeking an appraisal of both her facial features and her assessment of the previous conversation. "The boss said for me to find you and tell you I'm to be your shadow and follow you everywhere." Able to tell from the look on her face, she didn't understand, he added, "I'm the other half of your team. I'm your cameraman."

     Unsure of what was expected of her by this large sized punster, Teri slid off of her stool and extended her hand. "I'm Teri O'Leary, newest of the new and undoubtedly dumbest of the dumb," she said, looking up into eyes that were at least four inches above hers. "It sounds like you're stuck with leading me by the hand. At least, until the powers that be feel I've learned enough to be able to cross the street by myself."

     "Huh," came the snort from across the room, "he's been here since the cat drug him in six years ago and still can't cross the street by himself."

     "Picky, picky, picky," Tommy countered, at the same time placing his hand in the small of Teri's back and steering her toward the door. "Some of these so called editors," he told her while leading her toward the station's lounge and a cup of coffee, "have super sensitive egos."

     Placing a cup of coffee on the table in front of both her and himself, he took a chair across from her. "The first wisdom that I'll impart to you," the smile was not in evidence, but the humor was back in his eyes, "is that we never undertake a new assignment without a cup of coffee under our belts. As I said previously, I'm Tommy Ericson your assigned cameraman. Mac," mentioning the nickname of their boss, News Director McPherson, "borrowed a page from the biblical Ruth when he instructed me in my new assignment. The long and short of it is, whither thou goest, I go also."

     That was two years ago. Since that time, he had become her mentor and her defender. The defense, however, soon became a two way street. The unwary found that the easiest way to incur their wrath was, in the presence of either, to make a snide remark about the other.

     Tommy, she would learn, was considered to be the best cameraman of the station. She would also learn that in his dedication, giving your best was all that he would tolerate. Patient and supportive as he was, any less than her best met with his instant disapproval. Because of her natural inquisitiveness and his pushing her to be more hard nosed in her search for truth, Teri became known for her thrusting style interviews that quickly got to the heart of the matter. Her relentless probing for facts kept those she interviewed on their toes. By the end of their second year together, they had become known as the team to send if a tough interview was expected.

     Except for their vacations, they spent the majority of each day's hours together. Even some of their non-working hours they shared, enjoying things of mutual interest. Tommy, five years her senior, was the big brother Teri never had. She cared about him deeply. Sometimes the depth of the feeling she had for him surprised her. While she did not take the time to analyze those feelings, some of them seemed to be stronger than she believed one would feel even toward a brother.

     "Check and see if there have been any changes in our schedule," he told her when they got out of the small company station wagon. "I'll dump the tape off in editing and meet you in the lounge."

     She had a table and coffee waiting for him. Except for the two of them, the lounge was deserted. When he reached the table, she stepped in front of him. Putting her arms around his waist and laying her head on his chest she said, "I'm sorry about out there. That car and the blood were too real. Too close."

     With his arms around her shoulders, he pulled her closer. "I thought that was it. It's okay. Everyone's entitled to one goof. If it happens again, I'll turn you across my knee." As he said it, he tightened the tension on his encircling arms. It was his way of conveying that the threatened punishment was in jest.

     "Fat chance," she said, but made no attempt to move away from his closeness. Hearing voices in the hall, they moved to the table and their coffee. "We've been replaced at the supermarket opening," she told him. "We're to interview Senator Mann at the hotel following that fund raiser where he's speaking. Mac said he'd leave a list of the questions he wants asked in my mail box this afternoon."

     Tommy nodded. "Great, that should give me time to get a haircut and do some laundry. See you at seven?" Teri nodded.

     When she walked into the parking lot, Tommy's car was already gone. She sat for a moment in her convertible, planning her stops on the way home. Stops at the dry cleaners and the grocery store were the only necessary ones today. The others could wait until tomorrow. A couple of steaks, the makings for a salad, french bread and some potatoes should take care of the dinner she owed Johnny, her apartment complex's maintenance man. The beer she'd get tomorrow.

     To her, Johnny was somewhat of an enigma. A student at the local university, she'd seen him with the monied, social crowd, the varsity athletic crowd, but more often alone. With his phone number being only one digit different from her own, continuing wrong numbers made her aware that he was also popular with the university's female population. When she'd ask him about university's clubs and fraternities, he said he just wasn't a joiner. In reference to the phone calls, he'd just shrugged his shoulders. Her maintenance problems received his immediate attention. Helping her paint her kitchen earned him the dinner.

     When she pulled into her assigned parking spot, Johnny was mowing the yard in front of her complex. He was clad in his usual yard mowing uniform, barefoot and wearing a pair of cut off blue jeans. It was no wonder he could display the complex's best tan. Seeing her arms were full of dry cleaning and groceries, Johnny abandoned his riding mower and with a sweeping bow held the door open for her.

     "Welcome to your castle milady," he intoned. "May I be of further service?"

     "Not at this time," she chuckled, "But don't forget dinner tomorrow night."

     "Could any knight of the realm forget such a request from his queen? Now, if you have no further need of my services, I shall return to my trusty steed and slay more dragons of the legumes." Laughing at his antics and shaking her head at his boyish behavior, Teri proceeded to the door of her apartment. I wonder, if he'll ever grow up and be serious.

     She tried opening her apartment door by juggling the packages in her arms while inserting the key. After several attempts, she gave up and set the groceries on the corridor floor. Door open, packages once again in her arms, she proceeded down the short hall into the living room, kicking the door closed behind her.

     It was billed as a two person accommodation, but in reality there was just enough closet space for one. One major closet was just off the small hall/foyer, another in the apartment's bedroom. The balance of the second floor apartment contained a living room and a combination kitchen dining area. There were two lanais. One large enough for a folding recliner and a charcoal grill, the other a small ledge just outside the French doors of the bedroom. Both were enclosed by wrought iron grillwork.

     Her entry into the apartment, at least during the warm months, was almost always the same. Set the mail and/or groceries on the table, hang the dry cleaning in the appropriate closet, insert a tape in the stereo, and open the sliding door between the small dining area and the lanai. Then, she would change into shorts and a blouse before opening the French Doors in the bedroom. Even though the large patio and French doors faced the east, the afternoon temperature in the apartment was warmer than she enjoyed. Opening the doors soon cooled it down and removed the stagnant odor that is prevalent in unventilated rooms. Often, in the late afternoon and evening, she would sit on the lanai watching the activity in the city park across the street.

     On one or two of these occasions, she felt envious of the girl who was being enfolded in the arms of her sweetheart, while reclining in the grass under one of the park's trees. Although her normal career activities kept her too occupied to have time to ponder these feelings, occasionally they made her aware that she faced the world alone.

     Today, her thoughts were centered on that night's interview. Occasions, when a news director wanted specific questions asked weren't all that rare, but there was something in the way Mac said it that made her believe this time was special. It could be interesting, she thought. Senators were adept at evading an issue. Their numerous interviews by the press seemed to instill in politicians who were not already versed in it, the ability to reply to questions with long, complex statements that said nothing.

     Teri's style of getting to the bottom of an issue, gave license for her counterparts around the station to call her, "Ol' go for the juggler O'Leary." This backhanded compliment was due, or at least so she thought, to her inquisitive nature and Tommy's two years of prodding. He did not refrain from criticizing her when she failed to make the viewers aware of the real facts and the point of the interview. At first his criticism was gentle. She hadn't paid a great deal of attention to it. Later, following what should have been a stormy interview with the incumbent mayor, but had turned into what Tommy inferred had been "a mutual admiration society," he really bit her.

     Not being one to correct or criticize someone in the presence of their peers, Tommy had waited until the others left the station's coffee room. "You really fluffed over the meat in that one," he told her, referring to the mayoral interview. He had sounded, she thought, like a father lecturing an errant child.

     "Just stick to your camera, Mr. Ericson." The icy stare and the stern set of her facial features left no doubt that his thrust had reached a sensitive area.

     Rising, and unthinkably leaving an untouched cup of coffee on the table, he walked to the doorway. Looking back to where she still sat at the table he said, "If you're not going to give your viewers a look at the truth, Tore-ease-ah," he drug out the mispronunciation of her name like he always did when he was angry with her, "toss in a few bumps and grinds and start peeling off your clothes. At least then, the viewers will be getting something for their money." Before she could reply, he walked out.

     Later that afternoon she had met Mac, the news director, in the hall. Without making an issue of it he asked her, "You and Tommy having a problem? He seems to be mad at the world today."

     "He wasn't happy with the way I handled that interview with the mayor this noon. I told him he should stick to operating his camera."

     Mac contemplated that for a moment before he walked on. From several feet down the hall, his voice floated back to her. "Maybe you should listen closer to what he says." The comment shattered her complacent attitude. She had intended to spend that afternoon in her office, throwing out notes and other long since outdated papers. Still smarting from both Mac and Tommy's comments on her performance that noon, she checked out early.

     It took a warning ticket from a traffic cop for speeding, to bring her to realize that maybe she was acting a bit childish over their criticism. Maybe, just maybe, there could be some truth in what they said. It took a long evening of self-justification and finally self-criticism before she agreed with their assessments. Even then, she was not sure how she would handle facing Tommy the next morning.

     It proved not to be as difficult as she had imagined. Her simple, "I'm sorry about yesterday," brought a relieved smile to his face. "That's what friends are for." His attitude of acting as if it never happened made the resuming of their normal relationship much easier. From that incident on, she now acknowledged, her own personal style had matured.

     Tommy's, "Great" and, "Your looking good makes me look good," comments were part of the motivation that helped her determination to improve. Her new, "to the point" approaches moved them to increasingly more difficult assignments. T&T, as they were known to their colleges, seemed to thrive on the tough ones.

     Bong! Bong!

     The chiming of the grandfather clock in her living room was her first indication that she had dropped off to sleep. She tried to recount the number of times it had chimed. Because she couldn't be sure, she rose from the recliner and entered the apartment. Gazing fondly at the grandfather clock in her living room, she noted the hands were straight up and down. The clock, which had stood in her parents house as long as she could remember, was one of the few things she had refused to give up. Remembering she had promised to meet Tommy at the station at 7:00, she headed for the shower.

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