Providence (19 page)

I picked up the remote that was sitting next to a candy dish filled with red and green M&M’s and clicked the TV back to life. The same incomplete story cycled at the bottom of the screen. “I’ll pass.”

“So what is this other idea of yours?”

“I’ll tell you soon enough, but no TV appearances, okay?” I said.

“What we’re doing here requires a team effort. We need to all be on the same page. If you have a plan that’s—”

“Don’t push me, Art.” The abrupt interruption shut Arthur off like a spigot. “You and Susan have your work to do, and when it comes time to tell you what I’m working on, I will. That should happen soon enough.”

“How are you coming with the book?” Arthur shifted into his other topic of personal interest.

“Don’t ask me about the book again either. You’ll have it on time,” I said.

There was silence on Arthur’s end of the line. For three years he’d gotten everything he wanted, but an arrow shot into the sky climbs only for a while before returning to earth. Arthur’s arrow had peaked. I owed him a book, not my life. In spite of the day’s deafening chaos, there would come a day when all the frenzy and fireworks would be over. For now, our friendship would continue walking on broken glass.

“Whatever you say, Jack.”

An hour later I drove north up I-65 toward Chicago on my first manhunt. I planned to ferret out an ace journalist who fit the description of a coward and a liar. I was working from a loosely fitted plan, one having to do with an up-close-and-personal confrontation. It was something I doubted Bud Abbott had ever seen as a reporter inside the walled city of the
Chicago Tribune
.

I’d lived in the windy city for a short while, so I knew to exit at Lake Shore Drive and work my way over to the Tribune building on Michigan Avenue. Even with the fresh lakefront snowfall, I was downtown by midday and parked in a structure adjacent to the building. I crossed Michigan and entered the revolving doors.

My honest and famous face worked like a charm, a dual set of keys opening the gates from the ground floor up to the receptionist on the Tribune floor. I wound my way through an enormous room filled with small brown cubicles and found Bud Abbott eating lunch in his. I stood in his doorway, immediately grabbing his attention.

“Clayton?” A nervous thirtyish boy of a reporter looked up at me. His expression froze. He was probably wondering if I’d managed to sneak an Uzi into the building.

“It’s me, Bud,” I said, sounding more like Dirty Harry than Jack Clayton, benevolent, best-selling author.

He reached for the phone but stopped short, his hand suspended in midair at the end of a long, thin arm, a slight tremor visible at his narrow wrist. I’m not a big guy, but the surprise of showing up, an arm’s length away, inside a claustrophobic cubicle stopped Bud Abbott dead in his tracks. Raw emotions read like newsprint on his face.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“That’s right, Bud. I want something. You’re going to give me exactly what I came in here for.”

I could see dozens of story lines playing out in his eyes. Could a reclusive writer snap under the pressure of a newspaper story? Could bad press make a narcissistic hermit leave his shanty for the big city with vengeance on his mind? Would tomorrow’s headline read:
TRIB WRITER SLAIN AFTER CRITICAL STORY?

“What do you want?” he asked again, the words coming out so dry, they almost snapped off in his mouth.

“I want you, Bud. I want the next month of your life. I’m going to come live in your house, eat in your kitchen, and watch your TV. And you’re going to let me do that, because the story you wrote was a lie. You don’t know me, Bud, but you’re going to get to know me, and after you do, you’re going to set the record straight.”

Jesus commands us to love our enemies. When someone strikes your cheek, turn and give the other. If they demand you carry their pack for a mile, carry it two. I had caught Bud’s flaming arrow and was now returning it to his door in singed fingers.

Bud Abbott didn’t know whom he was dealing with. No one knew the real Jack Clayton or why he avoided the public. Perhaps Bud wondered if there really were dark and sinister reasons. Dumbfounded, he sat in silence, open-mouthed and squinty-eyed behind wire-framed glasses.

“What do you
really
want, Clayton? If you’ve come here to play mind games, forget it; I don’t play. If you’re mad about the story, write a letter to the editor. Other than that, get out of my office, or I’ll call security,” he said and stood to the fullness of his six-foot-two frame.

Now I wondered if I’d be the one taking it on the chops.

“You called me for an interview, Bud. You’re not going to throw me out for coming all the way to Chicago for it, are you?”

His eyes rolled upward. We both knew he hadn’t expected an interview that day. He’d just wanted to shake me up, to cause me to say something foolish in anger. For all the highbrow acceptance-speech pronouncements journalists make about the power and salience of the press, to some it was merely a game.

Abbott’s weekend piece had run all across the nation, flying off newspaper stands and onto cable TV. Even his editor had called him at home. It was more sensational than Bud had dreamed.

“Let me get this straight. You’re agreeing to an interview with me?” he asked, a prosecuting attorney questioning a witness on the verge of self-incrimination.

“Under certain circumstances, yes.”

“What circumstances?” He sat back in his chair.

“It’s not a traditional interview, Bud,” I said, making sure he was locking in on my words. “I’m giving you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to ask me any questions you want through a
series
of interviews—exclusive interviews. And then you’ll finish writing my last book.”

Blitzed, Bud shook his head in disbelief.

“Fame, fortune, and unprecedented access to the country’s most notoriously sought-after interview. Only a fool would say no, Bud. What say you?”

“You’re not serious.”

“I
am
serious. I need a finished draft in eight weeks. Are you going to turn down my offer for an interview?”

This wasn’t a ruse. I was making a real offer, and a doggone good one. When Bud’s head cleared, he’d soon see the sales possibilities, the boost to his career, the cable-news interviews, even if I did turn out to be a total loon.

He bit on the end of a yellow pencil, then clicked it across his teeth.

“You think it’s a trick,” I said, “but it’s not. You’ll get what you want, and I’ll get what I want.”

“And what is it you want, Clayton?”

“I think I already expressed that,” I said.

“Suppose I said yes, Clayton. What are you proposing? Some kind of an interview for your book?”

“It wouldn’t be an interview, Bud. You would write the book
with
me. It’s my life story, Bud. You can ask any questions you want. And your name will appear on the cover with mine.”

“What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t a catch, Bud,” I lied, because there was one. The biggest catch of all.

“Right,” he said, not believing any of it.

“I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime, to write the follow-up to a best-selling book. But, of course, it’s up to you, Bud. You can always say no. Do you think there’s even
one
reporter in this building who wouldn’t quit his job to start this afternoon?”

The game I was playing wasn’t only out of Bud Abbott’s league; it was out of his universe. His eyes darted around the cluttered room, searching for something to bring the situation back to his understanding of normalcy.

“Where would these interviews take place? How many?”

“It’ll require your complete attention for the next eight weeks.”

“You want me to quit my job?” he roared, shaking his head.

“Or take a leave of absence.”

“I can’t get two months off. Are you trying to get me fired? Is that your game?”

“If you can’t do it, I understand. Of course, my publisher would pay you an advance for your half of the work.”

This got his attention. “How much?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

That put a hook in him. He hated the idea, and every time his face blinked serious consideration, it was tinted with sourness. I imagined him wrestling with my offer, wondering if, like Fortunato in “The Cask of Amontillado,” he was being lured into the cellar for a taste of the amontillado, only to be sealed up in there forever.

“Sorry, Clayton, I don’t see myself driving to Providence, Indiana, anytime soon. That’s going to be a kil—”

“Actually, Bud, I’m staying in Chicago for a while,” I said. “I think I’d like to move into your place.”

The blood drained from his face, followed by violent shaking of his head. “No way! There is
no way
you’re going to come live in my house!” He spat out my suggestion like spoiled milk. “Do you honestly think you can come in here to my office, entice me with your twisted game, and then ask to live in my house? You’re out of your mind. Do you know that? There’s no way I would work with you.”

I stepped out of his small cubicle and noticed we were no longer alone. Half a dozen journalists and staffers poked their heads above cubicle walls, eavesdropping.

“This is a serious offer, Bud. I need your full-time involvement. I can’t write the book in the evenings and on weekends. But if you can’t muster writing something more challenging than the potshots you took in your sophomoric piece, then I understand.”

I buttoned the front of my coat. “I’m staying at the Westin here in town. You can reach me there if you’re interested.”

I turned to leave, not meaning for my exit to be so dramatic, but how could it not be? Pockets of
Tribune
employees ducked back behind their cubicles as the “reclusive author” walked past them to the elevators. Perhaps they were disappointed by the lack of violence. Maybe their journalist souls secretly wished I had punched one of their own, only to be tackled in dramatic fashion by security guards. That would have made front-page news for sure.

I exited the building and walked up Michigan Avenue. The windy city lived up to its nickname; Chicago’s unforgiving cold whipped at my uncovered face. I didn’t mind. I had just experienced red-zone chutzpah. It felt fantastic.

A few blocks down Michigan, I stepped into a restaurant called Melvin’s Underground and ordered a hamburger. It came to the table still steaming hot, and I ate it in minutes.

I was doing what I needed to do, but doing it blindly. I know I’d confused Bud Abbott, and I wasn’t sure about it all either. I only knew this is what God
wanted
me to do. Maybe He would have wanted me to be a little less brash, but still, I’d been obedient, the only thing that’s ever really asked of us.

A classic neon jukebox spun records at the back of the room. “Almost Paradise” was playing. One of Erin’s favorites, a song from the
Footloose
movie. Jenny liked it too. I saw myself on Frank Willis’s tractor the summer before I left Overton, mirroring the farm scenes from the movie. Was life simpler then? I hadn’t known then what life would be like when Mitch and I moved to Providence. But I was certain it would be good.

Sitting in a small booth in the back room of Melvin’s Underground, I felt anything but certain. The uneasiness was as thick as the smell of burger grease and stale beer. I reached for the only thing sharp enough to cut through it all: hope that things would work out for good.

~
T
WENTY
~

I swear that I can see forever in your eyes.

—Mike Reno and Ann Wilson

“Almost Paradise”

During the six days with the Camerons, we played eight games of chess, five rounds of cribbage, and one marathon night of high-dollar Monopoly. We talked nonstop, got to know one another well. There were last-minute shopping trips to Fairfield Mall, long, spontaneous afternoon naps, and two occasions when Jenny and I spent time with Mitch and Erin in Indy.

On December 27, we said our good-byes to Howard, Angela, Tessa, and Mike. Jenny and I hugged everyone, and I thanked the Camerons for giving me the warmest Christmas in memory. We must have looked like the steady couple, staying together a week at Mike and Tessa’s, then leaving for our next stop on our holiday tour of parents’ homes.

Jenny was excited about meeting Marianne. I wondered what kind of greeting we’d receive, considering the scene when I’d left, but Marianne was hospitable and warm.

“Welcome home.” Marianne gave me the first hug, the second to Jenny. “You must be Jenny,” she said, squeezing her as if something was owed, a debt of gratitude perhaps. The third embrace went to Erin, who’d come inside to check out my home before abandoning her best friend.

“Mitchell’s in the car,” said Erin, “and we still have one more stop to make. Jenny, call us tomorrow. Maybe we can all get together.”

Erin left. We heard the heavy door of the Cutlass open and slam, then the same chugging muffler I’d waited to hear the day of my exodus, sounding louder in the frost of winter.