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’? ”