Clipping letters out of newspapers requires patience, a steady hand and nimbleness with scissors. Brutus Dennison was now discovering that a dry touch was also a necessity.

“Stupid ‘k’s,” he spit on himself, trying to shake a crumpled ‘W’ that clung to his sweaty palm and collected dirt and small sticks from his make-shift workspace. “Why are ‘k’s so difficult to find?”

Mildred laughed to herself. Brutus wiped his brow and left smears of newspaper ink and glue across his visage, causing Mildred to laugh so hard that a coughing fit overtook her slouched body. As each appendage regained control, Mildred caught her breath and straightened herself, reaching into her pocket.

“Use a ‘c’ instead, you idiot. This isn’t a spelling bee, it’s a ransom note.” She lifted a crystal flask to her lips but found that it was dry. Before she could return it to its comfy pocket home, her lips were wet- but it wasn’t the gin that ran down her chin. Her jaw began to pound with pain. She raised her head to find Brutus standing above her, panting, beads of sweat carving out paths through his ink-covered face.

“You damn bastard,” she answered, cupping her bottom jaw. “You damn bastard, you busted my damn mouth.”

Brutus Dennison blinked hard and quick. “Mildred- so help me- if you utter another word I’ll do it again.”

Mildred pulled herself up from her seat on a stump and shuffled her feet against the powerful force of gravity. Looking at her blood-soaked hand, she noticed that the ‘W’ that had clung so desperately to Brutus was now plastered across her palm. She swayed and steadied herself using a finger that pressed into Brutus’s lapel. Her other hand slowly crumpled into a bloodied fist.

Standing face to face, the two created a silhouette against the setting sun. From my point of view, one could have easily mistaken them as taking the first steps of a waltz. But before the next step of the waltz could be made, shards of crystal fell around me.

Yes. It is hard to imagine, I’m sure. But as a Pulitzer-prize winning reporter, you learn that sometimes the imagination is nothing compared to reality. You learn to turn off the logical side of your brain and tune into the part that wants to survive the situation so that your story will be told. You learn to assess each situation with lightening-quick speed and start forming a plan.

Are the knots a familiar tie to you?
How much give does the fiber in the rope have?
Are there times when your captor will leave you alone?
What sort of jewelry do you have on that may be used as a cutting device?
Which way do you run once you’ve escaped your bonds?
How high are the heels/ tight is the skirt you are wearing and will this fashion choice cause a hindrance to your plans?

This sort of instinct cannot be taught. You either got it or you don’t.

And kiddos, I got it. I’ve had it since that first time I was ever tied to a tree in a shadowy glen in the bend of Central Park.

Hostage situations are the worst as you are completely at the mercy of your captor. The only hope to hold onto is knowing that you serve as a bartering tool. You are the one thing that a desperate soul has to negotiate with; your life is what keeps his life going. However, this does not mean you will receive any sort of care or comfort. Your comfort is not a priority- the escape, the freedom, the demands- these are all that matter. Rope may be replaced with rusty wire. Knots will be tighter than usual. Blindfolds will squeeze so snuggly around the cranium that you’ll feel your pulse in your eyelids.

I won’t even go into what rights you are denied; in a hostage situation you are reduced from being a human being to being just a tool. And tools don’t have basic needs in a desperate man’s mind- tools do not urinate, do not get dehydrated, do not have hunger.

To date, I’ve been tied to some sort of sitting apparatus a total of sixty-four times.

The particulars vary with each situation- someone wanting to use you as an informant type will likely use a nylon based rope tied to a chair with arm rests that sits directly under a dim light source with a swinging capability that can be used for dramatic effect during interrogation. If you are merely being tied for detaining purposes, you’ll usually find yourself with a hemp-based rope, tied in a hog-knot fashion to insure that the legs are as immobile as possible to prevent any fleeing attempt. If you are being transported from hideout to hideout, you’ll most likely have only your arms tied at the wrist but will deal with some sort of blindfold and muzzling technique to prevent you from being able to A) know where you are being taken or B) offer directions when the numbskulls obviously get lost.

Brutus was fired by my father for “insubordinate behavior” a year and a half previous to this unpleasant encounter. I never got the particulars of his termination, but was secretly joyous that he got the heave ho.

See, Brutus didn’t have the most sprinkles on his cup cake. Lacked a few checkers on the checkerboard. And to top it off, was duller than a spoon made for the toothless. I never understood why Daddy entrusted some of the paper’s most important tasks to him.

Daddy was never one for creating the eye-catching, he was more of a content man. “Just get them to read the story,” he’d yell from his leather chair, heels propped in their usual crossed manner on his mahogany desk. “You grab their eyes and I’ll grab their minds!”

Brutus would struggle for hours trying to come up with headlines and fail miserably. He would slap his sweaty brow, sending a halo of moisture drifting to his ink-stained desk. “Think Brutus think!” he’d spittle while gnawing on the nub of a softened pencil. Perhaps he believed that the ingestion of the lead-riddled utensil would make him a better writer.

I would take pity on him and offer my assistance.

I was a whiz with the headlines, even then. The proof is in the pudding:

Tons Terrified By Titanic’s Toll. Simple, serious, to the point without slighting the horrible loss of human life.

Underwood Act Is A Real ‘Payne’ For Republicans for the passage of Wilson’s 1913 Underwood Tariff Act.

Future of Twain Abode Bodes Well led readers to a wonderful article about the wordsmith’s childhood home being saved from certain destruction.

New Home-a For Arizona welcomed our country’s 48th state.

Trolley Folly? Commuters Say ‘Golly!’ my personal favorite, referring to the 1914 Western Penn trolley strike.

All got the big, bold honor of gracing the front page.

“Dennison, you’ve done it again,” Daddy would exclaim. “A real gem, this one.” He would pat Brutus on the back, wipe his hand on the seam of his trousers, then lead Brutus away for a celebratory Scotch.

“It just comes naturally,” Brutus would shrug, shooting a wet, squinty wink in my direction.

I hated him. I hated that Daddy liked him. I hated that I did not have the guts to demand my own pat on the back. I hated Brutus Dennison.

But I hated him more than ever when he said, “Mildred. Get the rope and meet me by the glen.”

He forced my head to meet his gaze. “Time to create headlines, little Molly Sloan. Just like old times! Now… lets see… what rhymes with ‘ransom note’? ”

Brutus Dennison!

“That’s right, little Molly Sloan,” Brutus sneered. “It’s your dear old Uncle Brute.” He chuckled slightly. His chin jiggled and dripped with sweat onto my favorite knickers. I gritted my teeth, flexing my tiny jaw.

“Aw. So glad to see you remember me. I’m touched. I truly am.” Each consonant misted my brow. Brutus Dennison had a horrible lisp. A lisp and a sweat disorder; the man was like a living, breathing sponge.

Brutus had been my father’s assistant at the paper for some time. I never liked him. When we were between nannies Daddy often left me in Brutus’ care. He would offer me lint-covered mints from his pocket as a bribe to stay out of his way. I would take them with faux politeness and discard them later in various potted plants that decorated the office lobby. Then I would slip off to some section of the paper and spend my time flipping through thesauruses, rhyming dictionaries and comic books hidden amongst the reference files and chocolate bars of some of Daddy’s interns.

“She’s a damn brat,” slurred Mildred. “You didn’t tell me what a damn brat she was. I think that you owe me more than 15 damn percent for putting up with her damn bratty antics. Damn it.”

“Shut that foul mouth of yours, Milly,” Brutus spat. “You’re lucky that you’re even getting a cut.”

The smoke from Mr. Oldfield’s cigar drifted into the back of the town car. “It’s a damn beautiful day for a stroll in the park,” he shouted from his position behind the wheel. “Children need a good airing out now and then. Good for their growth. Well being. What not, you know.” The words that escaped from his mouth mingled with the smoke leaking from his lips.

Mildred barely batted an eye. She was staring out the window at cars going by, her eyes glazed heavier than a Krispy Kreme. Mr. Oldfield did not seem to notice and continued with his conversation.

“I was telling the last girl that she needed to take the young miss out more. Not natural. Little girl being cooped up in a big old house like that. My boy, hell. He goes outside every day. Strong, sturdy boy. Fast, too. Just like his Pappa.” He whistled, a talent I always admired him for as he could produce a perfect pitch while his lips were wrapped around one of his stubby cigars.

“Yep. Beautiful day for the park. Just gorgeous.” The conversation petered out as he pulled into a small glen and placed the car in park. He twisted his head around to face us and adjusted his cigar to the opposite side of his mouth. “Well here we are.”

Mildred opened her car door and scanned the landscape. Once she seemed pleased with our location, she said, “Come, Miss Sloan. Time to play in the park.”

Mr. Oldfield smiled a kind, yellow-toothed smile at me as he exhaled. “Go on now, Miss Sloan. Go breathe in some of that wonderful, fresh air“

As I slid across the seat towards Mildred’s extended hand, an uneasiness came over me. “Thank you Mr. Oldfield. I will.” He nodded and I watched as he drove away, smoke mixed with the clouds of dirt kicked up by the town car’s tires.

Mildred looked down at me and tightened her grip. “It’s just you and I now, Miss Sloan. Let’s play a game. Oh, I know the perfect one to start with. It’s called ‘How Much Does Your Daddy Love You.’”

I swallowed. “I’m not sure I know how to play that game, Miss Mildred.”

“It’s very simple,” a voice from behind answered. Before I could turn to see the owner, a heavy hand was placed over my mouth. “Rule number one is ‘No screaming from little girls.’ Especially little girls named Molly Sloan.”

‘Beware of the young doctor and the old barber.’ I learned that one from founding father Benjamin Franklin. ‘Beware of the drunken Nanny that wants to take you to the park.’ I learned that one from Mildred the Horrible.

I was no dumb kid, see. I knew that Mildred was a bedroom sheet set to the wind and was in no state to supervise any sort of activity. But the park- Central Park! And it was the fall time, to boot. Orange and purple and auburn leaves- not a primary color would be in sight!

I was a sucker for the autumnal equinox, even then.

If only I had known that Mildred had other plans in store. It seems Mildred was less interested in the orange and purple and auburn colors of the foliage. She had another color in mind- green. A kind of green that you don’t find growing on trees.

When I was about 8 years old, I had a nanny named Mildred. Mildred was the fourteenth nanny I had in my young life, replacing a young Irish woman named Eileen who lasted a mere two weeks. It seems that the classic Sloan stubbornness raised its bullish head early in my childhood years. Apparently I was quite a handful, but who could blame me? I was a young motherless child, hungry to know more about the world, to know what boundaries there were to cross.

Mildred, however, seemed more interested in how I would get grass stains on my romper. She poorly masked her delight as she’d pull my French braids so tight that my eyebrows practically reached my hairline. Secretly, I hated her, but I had promised Daddy that I would try to keep this nanny until Christmas (with a pair of Mother’s pearl earrings thrown in as an extra bartering chip.)

One particular afternoon Mildred seemed to have more of a sensitive streak. Perhaps it was the smell of schnapps on her breath that attributed to this unfamiliar tenderness. She let me wear my favorite pair of paisley knickers. My hair was released from its abominable knots. “We’re going to the park!” Mildred exclaimed, albeit a little slurred.

There are times in a reporter’s life when they just happen upon an answer that has perplexed humanity (and then some) for ages. Well kittens, Mamma Cat’s whiskers have dipped into more than one bowl in her time and she can tell you that sometimes there’s more than just cream below that gentle froth. A beautiful brie can show up in the most unlikely of places. Meow.

Case in point: returning from the Ephdilinplitzenpire through the Galactascope gives a gal gallons of time to get the ol’ brain gaskets going. I had a bunch of entrees on my plate. So I did what any good pencil pusher does- make a list.

1) Find Ben a place to live/a place to work/a back-story.
2) Clear ex-fiancé’s name in Falkirk mass murder mystery.
3) Get original Henri Bendel silk suit cleaned.

I can tell you that the first two would be a no-brainer for me. I’ve had harder challenges in my time on the beat- all it would take was a little Sloan sleuthing along with a couple of carefully chosen creative phrasings to get those two stories on Gutenberg’s Great Gadget. But the third…. How does one get hive juice out of a Bendel silk suit?

This is the question that was bouncing in the noggin as I was pouring myself a little nightcap after arriving home. (Yes- I realize that I’ve skipped some incredibly important details like What did I tell Daddy about my whereabouts and sudden unexplained disappearance? How do I explain Ben’s sudden appearance and his obsession with the smell of leather? (Apparently in his time leather has the smell of hot tar… when he smelled Daddy’s favorite chair he mistook it for an oddly shaped apricot. (Again, apricots have changed so much that in Ben’s time… oh, you get the idea.))

A lady never depends on a drink to drown out the buzzing of one’s brain. Then again, when a lady has ruined an original silk Bendel the one thing that will console her is a nice, stiff Gibson. Not only am I a prize-winning reporter, I also make one of the damn best Gibsons this side of the galaxy. I call it the Molly Sloan Special.

Well, the first one went straight to my head. I realized that I hadn’t eaten anything since leaving Tunisia and boy, was I hungry. So in the next Gibson I went a little heavy on the cocktail onions to put something in the stomach besides gin and butterflies. Well, those seemed to help so much that I decided that I should have just one more, this time putting eight cocktail onions in it.

Now I’m not what one would call ‘clumsy,’ but after two Molly Sloan Specials, the crystal cocktail glass was having a bit of a tiff with gravity and slipped right out of my hand onto the lapel of my hive juice-drenched Bendel suit. Let me tell you sister, I thought that was the final chapter for my Bendel and almost gave the go ahead to let the waterworks fly.

But when I went to wipe the drink from my lapel I saw that the Gibson had completely removed the hive juice stain. And not only that, it left behind the sweet smell of lavender. Hive juice and silk may not be a good mix, but hive juice and a Molly Sloan Special is pretty darn close to a miracle.

I quickly went to the third floor of our mansion and filled up the guest tub with gin, vermouth and four jars of cocktail onions. I knew the help would probably whisper tomorrow, but a gal will gladly let her reputation slip a bit if it means that a Bendel will be saved.

Let me tell you sister, there were tears shed, but they were tears of joy (and a bit from the over exposure to cocktail onions) because I can now mark item number three off my list. Not only is my silk Bendel saved, but that tub has never sparkled brighter.