“Well, actually, we’ve sold out of the Sunday paper the last two weeks, a rarity in my world. Belichek might let us stay in print, after all.”
Talk about a small world. Shortly after Andy had moved here, I’d learned that he and Belichek were old friends. Old acquaintances, anyway. Andy made it sound like he’d never had a real friend in his life before he moved out here. I think even his late wife was more of a business partner.
“Fear-mongering is always profitable.”
I grinned humorlessly. “That sounds disapproving, Andy.”
“Just an observation. How’s your little project coming?” He waved to my wall.
After taping up my last headline, I slumped in my chair.
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Andy’s faded blue eyes held my own. I thought of Ada’s blue eyes, so incongruous against her creamy brown skin. I realized that I didn’t know how well Andy knew Ada. They’d crossed paths, of course. Shared lunch here in my office, waved to each other from the sidewalks. Had they talked together on a bench somewhere? Did Andy have a text from Ada on his phone?
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I was looking for connections. Now I’m not sure if everything is connected, or if nothing is. I see the lines drawn everywhere, but they’re just crayoned in after the fact. We can’t be making it all up. But how do we find the demarcation between fact and fiction?”
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“You’re in a bad place, son, if you can’t figure that out. Isn’t a journalist’s whole job to tell the truth?”
“Yes, but you were right. The other day. It’s not just the lining up of facts in order. It’s what order they are in. What other facts are placed parallel to them. What facts are left out. That might be the biggest question of all. What facts are left out?”
Andy shook his head. “You do realize that it’s impossible to answer those questions, don’t you? Your job is to report the news here. Fairly. Truthfully. That’s it. If you’re not willing to do that, why even attempt to decipher what’s happening out there?”
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“What makes you think I’m not?”
Andy waved his hand at me disgustedly. “Are you trying to find out if truth exists anywhere? Or just justifying eschewing it yourself?”
I’d had more patience for Andy than I had for anybody else, but I was fast losing it.
“Just say what you mean, Andy.”
“All right.” He set his tumbler down on my desk and leaned forward, hands on his knees. “You don’t have any doubt about the truth. You accommodate it, no problem, when paying bills, ordering off a menu, following directions to a trailhead, finding a book at the library. You don’t accept The Bell Jar as if it were the same as For Whom The Bell Tolls. The only time people question the existence of truth is when it butts up against something personal they are reluctant to relinquish.”
I didn’t think I wanted to hear what came next. But I don’t like to leave words out there in the ether, floating around, undefined. I like to pin them down and dissect them.
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“What is it you think I’m so reluctant to relinquish?”
“Ada isn’t coming back, is she, Jeff?”
“I hardly think that is ground-breaking news, Andy.” I bit off the words as sarcastically as I could. “There’s nothing uncommon or surprising when a younger woman leaves a washed-up non-writer in a small town for a chance at a real life. It’s one of the most pathetic and typical stories there is.”
“There’s nothing common about watching hope walk away.”
“Isn’t there? I’d say there’s something fundamentally first-world about the idea that hope exists at all.”
“Even in the darkest of circumstances, no matter how anyone else has classified the world you live in, it’s almost impossible for human beings to relinquish hope without a fight. It’s what keeps us breathing and walking even when, logically, we think we have no reason left to do so.”
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Pressing my thumb and forefingers against my eyelids, I drew a deep breath. There were no colors there.
“What is your point, Andy? That I shouldn’t give up hope Ada is coming back? Or that I have to accept the truth that she never will? You can’t have it both ways.”
“I’m saying you’ve already accepted the truth, without even a cursory yell after hope’s retreating back. At the same time that you pretend to have some sort of philosophical wrangle with the notion that truth exists at all.”
“Fine. So I didn’t fight hard enough. I don’t know what else I could have possibly done, or what super-special knowledge you think you have, unless you’ve been talking to Ada behind my back. But it doesn’t matter now. It’s done. She’s gone. And what I need to do now is keep this paper afloat at least until I get my mortgage paid off.”
Andy didn’t bother to respond to my suggestion that he and Ada were talking.
“You know, the only story in the paper worth reading this week was the one about hiking trails in the area.”
I snorted. “Seriously? You think that was more relevant than how many sex offenders live in the county?”
Andy shrugged. “I’m probably not going to do anything about the sex offenders, especially since you were so cautious to urge people against vigilante justice. But I might try out some of the trails you suggested.”
“Trails Delores suggested,” I corrected. That was her story.
Now it Andy’s turn to snort. “Right. I can just see her teetering along in those heels of hers.”
“We’re not all Louis L’Amour, you know. We can write about things we haven’t done ourselves.”
“Sure, sure.” Andy rose to his feet, refilled his tumbler with the fresh coffee that had finished perking. “Think about what I said, Jeff.”
I sighed, rubbing at my face. “Honestly, Andy, I have no idea what you’ve said.”
“I’m saying that you don’t have any doubts about what the truth is. You’re just tied up in knots about what to do with it.”
The door chimed as he left.
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it. – Oscar Wilde
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Andy’s visit left me feeling antsy and uneasy. The idea of sitting at my desk and scanning through news sites or working on my Sunday story was impossible now. I wondered why I’d ever thought I missed having him around.
I locked the office door behind me and hit the sidewalks.
Unfortunately, Brisby only fed my restlessness this morning. Usually when I stepped out, my brain automatically settled into people-watching mode. There’s something weirdly satisfying about sorting people like blocks, feeling them drop into the places with a familiar plunk.
You know what I’m talking about, right? That little wooden or plastic table we all had as kids, with the square, triangle, and circle blocks we had to fit into the right places. It’s funny to think that was an actual skill we had to learn, not something intuitively obvious as it seems now. People-sorting is just as simple, once you learn the tricks to it.
Everyone likes to think they are so complicated. Deep waters, and all that. But that’s nonsense. People are painfully predictable. Animals acting according to their instincts. They vary only as much as their circumstances have.
That bothers you, doesn’t it? You want to believe that you are a special snowflake. Or that your lover is. Or your child. You want to believe that you are capable of amazing and outstanding acts … you just haven’t been called upon yet.
Think about the people we like to laud as heroes―people who actually have
performed those outstanding acts. What do they all like to say?
“I’m no hero. I only did what anyone else would have done.”
Well, I see two possibilities. Either all heroes are manipulative liars who practice false modesty so they can garner even more adulation than the act alone would get them, or they’re telling the truth. They all say the same thing, because in that moment, they all realize it’s the way things are.
Heroism isn’t unique to human beings, after all. We’ve all seen the videos of elephant herds working to save a baby from the mud pits, or a beaver carrying its young out of floodwaters, or a mated eagle pair enduring snow and ice to keep a damned egg alive.
Even our vices aren’t noteworthy. Plenty of species devour their own young or kill their mates. Ever watch elephant seals mating? It’s nothing more than rape and pillage and murder. But it’s animals, so it’s acceptable fare for evening television viewing. All with a pleasant baritone narrating move by move.
So when I walk the sidewalks, I usually drop people into their slots by size and shape without even thinking too much about it. The reason we write stories isn’t because people are such fascinating creatures: it’s because they are only of interest on the rare occasion they act outside of their nature. Most days they are as scintillating as snails.
That day, the soothing repetition of the sorting escaped me. Instead of satisfaction, I felt overwhelmed by irritation, contempt, and impatience. I was aware that these were not likable traits in anyone, but I couldn’t seem to push them aside. I kept my gaze down so that my disgust wouldn’t be read in my expression. I had to live there, after all. I didn’t want one day as a grouch to permanently damage any relationships I would need later. It might already be too late for Andy and me.
Naw, I didn’t really think so. He was more accustomed to my indulgences in doubt and dismay than anyone else, and he had always come back every other time. He’d come back this time, too. For all our commonalities, we still struggle to find people who can actually hear us when we talk. It’s a hard commodity to abandon.
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Too itchy in this human skin to face Crumbly’s, I headed into the police station without an offering. Bonnie Mac looked up with a smile that faded slightly when she saw me. My fake-it-’til-you-make-it pleasant expression must not have quite made it.
“How are you doing, Jeff?” Good woman. Just plowing forward, undeterred.
“Pretty good, Bonnie Mac. Anyone but you around?”
She shook her head. “You know how it is. Never a dull moment.”
“Really?”
She laughed. “Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration. I’d guess the chief is probably praying for speeders down at the bottom of Rutgers Hill about now.”
“That sounds more believable. I just thought I’d drop in, see if there was anything new I should know about.”
Pursing her ample lips, Bonnie Mac tilted her head. “You want to take a look at the log? It’s mostly more of the usual. Not the sort of thing The Herald usually covers. You already got the most-wanted for the week.”
“I figured. I was mostly wondering if the chief had made any headway on the dog story.”
Bonnie Mac shook her head sadly. “You’d think it would be easy to catch somebody like that, wouldn’t you? It’s so disturbing to think that that person lives here. I was hoping it would just be some crazy passing through. After it happening again this weekend, though, he must live here.”
“Maybe it’s someone who just relocated here,” I offered helpfully. “That could be why no one has come forward with any leads. Nobody knows them well enough to realize that their behavior is off.”
Bonnie Mac snorted. “Oh, there’ve been leads.”
“Ah.” I sidled up to her desk and did my attempt at batting my eyelashes. “Do tell.”
She laughed and shoved at my arm. “I didn’t say there’s been good leads. Everybody and their dog … ah, geez. That’s awful. Well, pretty much everybody has something they think is important to share. Even if it’s only a theory. I think the main reason the chief is out of his office today is so I’ll have to field all his calls.”
I nodded sympathetically. “I guess in a small town, everybody wants in on the action.”
“Yes. As many calls as we’ve gotten, you’d think it was impossible to pull off something like this. I mean, pretty much every citizen in town swears they were looking out of their window that night.”
“But no one actually saw anything?”
“Nothing helpful, at least. It’s as if the culprit was an invisible dog-whisperer.”
“It is odd,” I agreed. “Dogs are supposed to be good judges of character, right? I’m not a pet person, but I’m always hearing people say they trust their dog’s opinion of strangers more than their own. You’d think the poor creatures would have been barking or growling or something.”
Bonnie Mac harrumphed. “I’m a cat person myself,” she informed me. “I’ve always thought the intelligence of dogs was exaggerated. Those beasts will slobber over anyone with a bone in their hand.”
I laughed. “All right, all right. I’ll take your word for it.”
Just then the door opened behind me. Chief Joe walked in.
“Hey, Jeff. Snooping?”
“Always,” I acknowledged without the least defensiveness. “Got anything good for me?”
“Old lady Silvanus should have her license taken away, and I’m not man enough to do it.”
“Oh, man. Can I quote you on that?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll deny every word.”
“That’s all right. I don’t think I’m brave enough to make an enemy out of her myself.”
“Wise decision,” he told me. “Sorry to push past you, Jeff, but I only came back to sit in on a conference call with the other chiefs in the county.”
“Not at all. Anything interesting under discussion?”
“Not in particular. We try to touch base every week. In a county as low-populated as this one, it’s easy for people to get away with stuff by hopping jurisdictions. Maybe I’ll hear something about this dog-killer of ours.”
“Sure thing, Chief. I’ll probably be heading back to the office soon, so if something does come up, you know where to find me.”
“Oh, yeah, you’ll be my first call,” he told me drily.
I shrugged with a chuckle. “I have to try.”
He walked into his office and closed the door. I turned to leave myself, but Bonnie Mac called me back.
“Jeff.”
“Yeah?”
“You need to take better care of yourself. You look beat.”
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“Ah. Yes. Well, I didn’t sleep well last night. Once I get some rest, I’ll be good as new.”
Bonnie Mac didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t argue.
“You listen to me, Jeff. You can’t be running around town all day on empty. Fill that tank.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I offered her a sharp salute on my way out the door.
Black. White. Silver. Periwinkle. Thistle. Timber Wolf. Shadow.
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Sami made a rare in-person appearance at the office on Friday.
If Sami were a block, she’d be an equilateral triangle. I’ve read that human beings perceive symmetry as beauty, and if that’s true, then Sami was a stunner. Thick, brown hair framed a perfectly symmetrical face, with wide gold-hazel eyes trimmed with long lashes, a full, wide mouth, and a square jaw. She was a very earnest creature, Sami, always taking herself as seriously as possible. That made her my most dependable reporter. She thought this two-story-a-week job was her ticket to the New York Times.
“Jeff!” s
he declared.
I should also mention that Sami always declared. She never merely said.
“Hey there, Sami,” I rejoined. “What brings you into the office?”
She plopped down in the chair across my desk and sighed dramatically. “Jeff, I’m going to have to move on,” she declared.
“What?” Oh, that was not good news for me. Strange as it may seem, small towns are not just teeming with solid writers willing to meet deadlines in exchange for peanuts.
“You’re going to be fine,” she declared. “I’m giving you plenty of notice, don’t worry. I just wanted you to know as soon as I did. I’m moving to Boulder this fall, to finish my degree there. I just got the acceptance letter yesterday.”
Whew. She was right. That was plenty of notice. But I’d miss her. Her single-minded devotion was refreshing. In spite of her symmetry and nicely-stacked figure, I’d never found her tempting in the female department. She was too fresh-faced, too unlined, too unbroken for me. Boring, sadly, is what I’m trying to say. But she was a sweet kid. I enjoyed having her around from time to time.
Ada had always reminded me of that quote people are forever attributing to whoever the philosopher of the hour is: the Dalai Lama, Leonard Cohen, Hemingway, Confucius. The one about how light only gets in through the broken places? I’d loved all the dark places between her light.
Sweet Sami was all sunlight, no moonshadow.
“Congratulations,” I told her. I even think I meant it. “That’s what you wanted, right?”
She shoved a piece of hair behind her ears and shrugged. “Well, Columbia would have been nice, but you can’t beat in-state tuition.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “And a degree is a degree. A password. It’s your dedication, your drive, your instincts that will make or break you as a journalist. Once you start publishing stories in a major paper, no one will care which school you attended.”
She made a face. “Don’t tell me that! Tell me Boulder is the best school I could possibly have attended and they are lucky to have me.”
“Boulder is the best possible school you could have attended. They are lucky to have you.”
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