The Jersey on the Desk

She kept fooling herself until late April, when—with the absolute confirmation of medical science (by way of a pastel-colored box that blared fecundity)—she finally realized that this was happening.

There was no question she would carry and keep the child. Although she could morally excuse the desperate women who made other choices, she knew her responsibility, quite apart from her seldom-practiced faith.

MacKenzie was all about responsibility. Recognizing it, assuming it, lugging it around as the cross of her choosing, even trying to impart it to others who might look to her as a role model.

So, despite feeling, for only the second time in her life, as though she might prove unworthy in this endeavor, she determined to meet motherhood head-on. Come what may.

By May, Mac had to notify Charlie, if for no reason other than the fact that he (not being a stupid man) was going to figure it out anyway. He took the revelation with gravity.

"Is this something you wanted?"

"I don't know." She tried to laugh. "It wasn't planned, if that's what you mean." Then, her resoluteness clamped down. "But—yes. I know what I have to do."

Understanding that by not directly answering his question she had in fact answered it, Charlie steepled his fingers and thought for a moment. "And the father, does he—"

"He won't be a part of this."

"Does he know?"

For the first time in this conversation, she hesitated. "Not yet. I've been putting it off. But I know I have to tell him."

Charlie leaned forward on his desk. "Do I know the father?"

There it was, virtually point blank. Was it Will McAvoy?

MacKenzie rose. "I wanted you to know, Charlie, because I'll probably need some consideration in the future. Time off, that kind of thing."

"Sure, kid. Whatever you need, whenever you need it." He noticed the non-answer but decided not to pursue it further. "The Atlantis HR people can give you the specifics on maternity leaves and all that, but apart from that, whatever you want, ACN will accommodate. You aren't by yourself. And personally— if you need anything, anything at all, Nancy and I—"

She forced a tremulous smile, suddenly afraid she might burst into tears at the generosity of her employer and friend.

"Thanks, Charlie. I ought to get back now, there's still the final run-down."

"Sure. And Mac, don't hesitate to let Harper and Keefer carry more of the load down there. They're extremely capable and you might need the help."

She made a tight nod as she eased from the office.

oooo

Telling Will should have been MacKenzie's next step, but she was unable to bring herself to do it. She didn't want to make herself vulnerable to his superior smirk and inevitable judgment. Another bad decision. Another set of consequences.

You know this won't change anything between us.

She preferred to handle things on her own, so she held her peace for another month, until the middle of June, when circumstances, in the form of an eavesdropped conversation, intervened.

During the commercial break between B and C blocks, Will dislodged his IFB and pushed back in his chair for a brief respite from disembodied commands from Control.

Around him in the dark, the floor director yelled instructions to the grips, who positioned their ladder and began to make adjustments to the set.

"It's the key light—VTC says it's throwing off the picture bias."

The bushy-haired young man on the ladder reached for a light.

"Not that one," the floor director corrected. "The one next to it. EP says it's strobing."

"EP says it's strobing," the grip on the ladder repeated sarcastically to his co-worker on the floor. "Light looks fine to me. She's probably seeing things because of her delicate condition. I heard she got herself knocked up."

Will blinked.

The second grip nodded agreement. "I heard that, too. Yesterday, they were asking me to find a swivel shop stool for her to use in Control. Not something we get much call for around here, you know?"

"Will." The floor director turned his attention to the anchor. "Herb says to tell you we're thirty seconds back. Will? You hear me? Thirty back."

Will made as if to say something but held it and, instead, re-fitted the interruptible feedback unit into his ear. The commercial break audio bedlam of Control came through instantly, voices in low but urgent tones, a phone throbbing insistently in the background, Herb's own basso profundo relentlessly ticking off the count back to live air.

There was the familiar click-click of Mac toggling her mic. "Will, when we come back, we're going to open with the seizure of Anthony Weiner's laptop instead of Secretary Clinton's visit to Paris—there have been some developments."

Yeah. Developments, was what Will thought in response.

oooo

By late June, Mac was beginning to show and she had to abandon her pencil skirts for slacks with elastic panels and blouses worn outside them. She still procrastinated about updating Will on her status, but she had gradually revealed it to most of her other co-workers, who gratified her by celebrating the news without asking privacy-penetrating questions.

Kendra and Sloan even planned a baby shower on her behalf, although Sloan's contribution seemed to be relegated mainly to enthusiasm and stock picks for the eventual 529. Martin's evident dismay at not being initially included on the shower's invite-list resulted in the eventual inclusion of all Y-chromosomers who wished to participation.

So, it pretty much became a free-for-all.

Except for Will, who still hadn't been officially told anything and who was regarded by most of the folks in the newsroom as too exalted to invite to a casual office shower.

Regarded as too exalted, that is, by everyone but Sloan, who, having exhausted her usefulness as a shower planner, resorted to rounding up the strays who hadn't committed cash or gifts yet.

When she walked into Will's office, unannounced (as usual) by any knock, she found an attractive bearded stranger sitting opposite the anchor.

"I know maybe a dozen reporters, guys you know, too, who tell me they've been pitching you this story for almost a year with no luck."

"Yeah, I'm not crazy about being interviewed in print. Print journalists play it fast and loose with exclamation points. I love the news becomes I LOVE THE NEWS, in boldface italics. Suddenly, I'm deranged." Will waved Sloan in. "This is Sloan Sabbith—"

"I know who she is," the stranger sniffed.

"—She's our dangerously over-credentialed economics personality."

Sloan frowned at the last word of his characterization.

"Sloan, this is Brian Brenner. He's here to do a piece about News Night, so you'll see him around the newsroom."

"Glad to meet you," Sloan said, returning Brenner's limp hand squeeze. "I've been reading you for years and didn't know what you looked like. Nice to finally put a face with the name." Then, the break for courteous introductions over, she turned her attention back to Will. "The office is doing a little thing for Mac next week and I didn't know if you had planned on—"

"We'll talk about it later, Sloan. Right now, I'm committed to Brian here."

"Oh. Well, I'll get with you later. Don't forget."

"I won't."

oooo

At first, MacKenzie seemed to take the news stoically.

"What about our history?" was her only question when Will informed her that Brenner would be hanging around the newsroom for the next week.

Will shrugged and lit a cigarette. "I told him he could make one parenthetical explanation in the second graph. Something along the lines of, he's been a friend of yours since, uh, the late '90s, wasn't it? Anyway, that's it." He crossed his ankles over the edge of his desk. "You're fine."

"I'm fine," she repeated, dully, dropping into a chair opposite Will's desk.

Before she could catch herself, her eyes began to film over with emotion and she struggled to swallow her feelings. The professional frustration of being forced to cover a possibly-murderous cocktail waitress. The very real physical frustration of being sick most mornings and exhausted the rest of the time. And, now, learning that Will, in some unspeakable burst of passive-aggressiveness, had brought Brian Brenner into their place of work.

There were thousands of print journalists in the big city and he had hired Brenner. It was calculated, it was deliberate, it was hurtful in the exquisite way that only old lovers knew to inflict. She just couldn't figure out what she had done to provoke Will's ire so that he would torment her in this way.

Watching her reaction, Will realized how he'd screwed this up. He'd thought of it as a little taunt, barbed but without permanent harm. Just a small jab at Mac for failing to—failing to—

"Brian needs to be seen as a heavyweight again, Mac. He's not gonna write a tell-all." He stubbed out the smoke, suddenly needing to devote his full attention to mitigating the damage of his little riposte. "It will only be a few days, I swear. You don't even have to participate if you don't want to."

"Well, after all, I can't think of anything I'd rather do than be interviewed by my ex-boyfriend. Except maybe eat my desk," she added, with more sadness than irony.

Willing herself back to some semblance of normalcy, she exhaled and looked up to meet Will's concerned and somewhat guilty eyes. "Well. I'm sure there's a genuine crisis somewhere on this floor right now that I'm needed to resolve. I think I'll go find it."

"Mac." His tone was plaintive but he just couldn't find the words. "I wish—"

"That's all right, Will. Nothing's changed between us, remember?"

oooo

In preparation for her segment, Sloan Sabbith joined Will at the News Night desk during commercial break.

"Hey, bro," her customary greeting as she tried to find the console port for her microphone jack.

Will checked the clock, then deftly leaned over and unplugged her mic-pac.

"Hey! I just put that—"

"Whatever little party you're throwing around here, keep me out of it. I don't want to be invited, I don't want to see crepe paper or balloons or plush animals, and I don't want any leftover sheet cake in my conference room. Is that clear?"

Taken aback by his vehemence, she gulped and nodded.

Will slid a slip of paper across the desk. "Call Luis at this number. He'll fix you up with everything you—"

"Luis—as in, the Executive Dining Room's Luis?"

"Like I say, I want nothing to do with this. But make sure you give a courtesy ask to Leona—she probably won't attend, but you should always render unto Caesar and all that sort of thing—"

"Is Mrs. Lansing paying for this?"

"It's being taken care of. And one more thing. Talk to whoever orders stuff around here—"

"Stuff?"

"Office supplies—office furniture. Stuff. Have 'em get a chair for Mac in Control."

"A chair?"

"Is there a fucking echo here, Sloan? Yeah, a chair. Something high so she can see the monitors. Maybe on wheels. I don't know—ask her what kind would suit her." His eyes flicked to the clock behind Camera 3, then back. "Get your earpiece in, Sloan. Five seconds back."

oooo

Mac was diligent in avoiding Brenner for the next two days, but he finally stalked her into Control and waited until Kendra and Jake left them alone together.

"You've finally burned all your bridges now, huh?"

"I don't know what you mean, Brian." Impatiently. "And, do we have to do this now? I've got things to do."

He grabbed the secretarial chair a few stations over and dragged it nearer.

"C'mon, Mac." He grinned and nodded at her midsection. "Looks as though you're carrying more than just News Night. How did this happen?"

"The usual way," she returned, coolly.

"Who's Papa Bear?" He leaned forward with a leer. "Don't tell me you and McAvoy are playing house? He certainly never gave me a clue when I talked with him earlier. Or is there someone new in your life—perhaps some studly young feller in your newsroom? Or are you going it alone, like some feminist throw-back?"

"Stop it, Brian. I don't owe you any excuses or information about my private life."

"No? Well, I guess the actual facts would make my speculation less—shall we say—entertaining." He shrugged theatrically. "It seems like a bad week to be here."

"You think?"

"I came here to write a story about how Will and News Night changed overnight. Except maybe he hasn't changed at all." He glanced at the clipboard she had in her lap. "Balancing your show between the Casey Anthony circus and Anthony Weiner sexting, I see. Looks like the old Will McAvoy to me."

"We're having to make a few small compromises, but they're just temporary. We need to woo the viewers back to land the debates."

"And your concern is that if your ratings are low, you'll lose leverage?"

She nodded.

"You know, another way of looking at it is that he's using getting the debates as an excuse to dumb the show down. Once again."

"If you think that, you'd be wrong."

"Really? Well, for three years, McAvoy's show went out of the way to avoid reporting actual news. Then, you came back and turned him into some kind of crusading politico."

"Don't say that," she returned, hotly. "You don't know what you're talking about. Will has always been a crusader. He feels things."

"Will has always been Will. Stodgy, unimaginative, and ungrateful for the talent of his staff." Brian crossed his arms across his chest. "He was never worthy of you, Mac. Professionally or otherwise."

"I just want to remind you that you are here to write a story about him. If you're harboring this sort of prejudice—"

"Perhaps I should decline the gig? Is that what you mean?"

"Exactly."

"Well, I'm afraid I don't normally work in the rarified atmosphere of Atlantis Cable News, so I can't always afford to turn down paying work. But—" he paused dramatically, "I'm on expenses for this job, so how 'bout I buy you lunch somewhere? We'll call it an interview and you can give me all the deep background on the show. As well as any other background that comes up." He made an expression that plainly conveyed his intent to return to his earlier guesswork about her condition and its source. "You look as though you could use a break, Mac. Also, it might do you good to talk to a friend."

She thought for a moment before reaching for the phone. "A break is probably a good idea, so yes to lunch. But as far as talking to a friend—I'd have to bring one with in order to do that." She smiled with blatantly phony sincerity, then spoke into the phone. "You free? Fifteen minutes, in the lobby."

She turned her attention back to Brenner. "You don't object to my bringing a chaperone, do you? Sloan Sabbith is our—"

He waved a hand in submission. "Met her earlier. What the hell."

oooo

Across the bullpen, Will noticed MacKenzie exit Control, closely followed by Brenner.

Will had anticipated, of course, that there would be some meeting between the two, ostensibly the inevitable interview process. What he hadn't counted on, however, was that the two would walk together to the elevator landing and enter the lift.

Obviously, nothing had changed between them, either.