Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  Well, that explained that. Hermann had assigned me the story out of sheer desperation.

  “By the way,” he said, “Byersmith and McCory will be here in fifteen minutes.”

  By the way?

  I panicked. Normally I collected my thoughts before an interview and maybe did a little research even on lightweight stories. On a piece about communists, anticommunists and whatever, I intended to do even more research, since all I knew about communism, despite Mr. Hinton’s detailed charts, was how to spell it.

  What no amount of research could help me understand was why anyone gave a shit whether a commie spoke on campus, since most students slept through lectures no matter who delivered them.

  That mystery aside, clearly I’d have to wing it on my first major interview.

  #

  I led Tim Byersmith and Ann McCory down the hallway to a room midway between editorial and advertising. The space was reserved mostly for interviews, though staffers were rumored to make out there. My guests hung their overcoats on the backs of the chairs in front of the room’s single desk and seated themselves, while I eased into the swivel chair behind it and observed my two guests.

  By my estimate they were in their mid-to-late twenties. Ann McCory fell short of pretty, thanks to a pair of horsy front teeth and a stern countenance, but she had green eyes and red hair going for her, plus perfume that smelled like rose petals or orange blossoms or something. Her skirt was long and her blouse high-necked, but both hinted she had more to offer than her opinions. Just for the hell of it, I checked her fourth finger, left hand. No ring-a-ding-ding. As for Tim Byersmith, he looked like—I don’t know how else to put it—a ghost. He was both pale and skeletal, traits that a dark, oversized suit only served to emphasize. And yet he too had more to offer than first seemed apparent—a Godlike basso profundo.

  “We appreciate this, your writing about us,” he said, causing the room to vibrate. “But we’d like to get something straight before we start.”

  “Um, what’s that?”

  “We wish to be treated with … that is, please don’t …”

  Ann McCory came to his aid. “What he’s trying to say is, please don’t treat us like most newspapers do, disrespectfully, as if we’re crazy or something for hating communists. We know that your newspaper, unfortunately, has backed the university’s decision, which is why we wanted to write our own article … to be sure our side is heard and we don’t come across as lunatics. Okay, only staff members can write stories for the paper. We get it. But if you’re going to do this story, we hope you’ll remain neutral and respectful.”

  “Oh, we will,” I assured her. “We won’t make you look crazy, and we’ll go out of our way to be objective. That’s also the paper’s policy … to provide the facts and let readers draw their own conclusions.”

  Frank Harris growled his approval in my ear.

  “Okay, all right then,” Byersmith said.

  I prepared to take notes.

  “Here are the facts. Communism is a godless doctrine that oppresses all those who live under it. That’s evident in Russia and China, to name two communist countries. What’s even more terrifying, though, is that communism is spreading throughout Europe, Asia and North America, and even infecting the United States, the freest country on earth. So the communists’ goal is clear: world domination.”

  Ann McCory grabbed the baton. “A year ago this month, communists came to power in Cuba, which I needn’t remind you is only ninety miles from our shores.”

  To be honest, she did need to remind me. All I knew about Cuba’s proximity to the United States was that it must be close, since Sheldon’s Uncle Murray, who lived in Florida, visited the country about once a month.

  I tried recalling what I’d read about Cuba in the papers last year. A bearded commie named Castro and a bunch of other unshaven rebels had overthrown a dictator named Batista. Some Cubans were happy about this, while others were upset. The unhappy ones either hated communism or loved gambling, which Castro made difficult by closing all the casinos. This last piece of information I got from Sheldon, whose high-rolling uncle had objected to the shutterings. But how were Castro and Cuba related to the rescinded ban?

  “All of this is useful background information,” I said, just to be courteous “But what about the ban, the one on this campus, and your efforts to reinstate it?”

  Byersmith straightened, his nostrils flaring. “Yes, the ban, which your pinko trustees have repealed.”

  “Here’s the point.” Ann McCory said. “Communists are not only creeping closer to our shores, but possibly into our schools. And unless we slam the door on them, they’ll have access to impressionable young minds right here, in our own country.”

  Before the interview I’d had just enough time to read Ellen’s article on lifting the ban. Now I recalled a quote from President Hillberger.

  “The trustees want to give all ideas a hearing,” I paraphrased, “and let students decide which ones are valid. They have confidence in us.”

  Miss McCory’s cheeks turned splotchy. “So do we! That’s why we’re circulating a petition to reinstate the ban.”

  I was no expert on contradictions, but this sounded like one to me. Before I could point it out, though, Ann reached into her patent-leather purse, withdrew a sheaf of papers and waved it at me. “Nine hundred and twenty-three signatures, and we’re just getting started!”

  “Our goal is two thousand,” Byersmith said. “We’re hoping to have the rest by March when the board votes again.”

  I stopped scribbling and looked up. “That’s cutting it kind of close, no?”

  Byersmith’s face went from solemn to more solemn. “We do what we can. But we’re determined to stop this travesty.”

  “We must, for all our sakes,” Ann McCory said.

  Throughout the interview I’d found her increasingly attractive, despite the horsy face, stern demeanor and pursuit of a cause in which I had no interest. Maybe I was hornier than I thought. Hell, did this woman even have time for anything besides preaching and petitioning?

  I yanked my attention back to the interview and, with Frank Harris looking over my shoulder, confronted her on the contradiction. “You say you agree with President Hillberger, that all ideas should get a hearing, yet you’re trying to keep someone you disagree with from speaking on campus. So what are you saying? All ideas should get a hearing except those you disagree with?”

  That earned me the wrath of God.

  “You … you …” a red-faced Tim Byersmith began. “You’re just like all the other reporters, a communist at heart.”

  Little did he know I was nothing at heart, but before I could set him straight Ann placed a hand on her partner’s shoulder.

  “Now Tim, his question is perfectly valid, although misguided.” I was working on a frown when she elaborated. “Communism is not just another idea. It’s an evil and wicked one. So the university does no service to free people everywhere by supporting its spread. And that’s exactly what the school is doing by allowing a communist speaker on campus.” She paused before asking, “Does that answer your question?”

  Kind of, but it was time to conclude the interview, since teetering between wanting the story and wanting Ann McCory was stressing me out. “Yes, thanks,” I said, then asked how I might contact her should I have any questions after the two of them left.

  Ann turned to Byersmith. “Why don’t you give him your card.”

  Shit.

  He pawed at his pockets and came up empty-handed. “I forgot, I’m fresh out. This is embarrassing. How about you?”

  Ann reached into her purse and withdrew a pack of business cards. She extracted one and handed it to me. “Call anytime.”

  I searched her eyes for some meaning beyond the literal, but they were noncommittal.

  Who was I kidding, anyway? Shikseh or not, Ann McCory surely would have nothing to do with an atheist college freshman who was neither for nor against communism. Besides, even if she w
ere willing, did I want to lose my virginity to a woman whom others might consider a fruitcake?

  The answer was simple.

  Yes.

  Definitely.

  #

  I shook off thoughts of sex, as much as I could, and focused on conducting the remaining interviews via Michigan Bell. Then I pecked out the story, turned the copy in to Gustav and stood by, per his request, while he went over it, mumbling to himself and scrawling notes in the margin. Five years later he placed the copy face down on his desk and stared at me as if I’d murdered the Pope.

  I knew it, I’d botched it, I should never have taken this assignment. Why I’d accepted it was beyond me. So I wouldn’t feel guilty for blowing an opportunity? Hell, I felt guilty waking up in the morning. Guilt was part of my heritage, so why couldn’t I learn to live with it? Now I’d be lucky to get any assignment, let alone one with some “heft” to it.

  Hermann patted the copy as he might a dog. Next he’d swat it for pooping on his desk. But he surprised me. “Not bad, not bad at all,” he said. “A few holes here and there, but all things considered, good job.”

  I felt giddy and wary. I’d never received such high praise—hell, any praise—from him. Surely a snit would follow. When it didn’t, I relaxed a second, then clenched up again after checking the wall clock. I was due at Harry’s in an hour and a half. How many holes did this story have?

  Hermann glanced at his news list. “We’ve got enough for today, so you can make some calls now and turn the piece in tomorrow.” He handed me the draft.

  Relief over this reprieve gave way to frustration as I strained to read his notes.

  “You look like you’re constipated,” he said. “Here, give me that.”

  He yanked at the copy, tearing off a corner. I handed him the rest before he did further damage.

  Hermann pointed at the uppermost clump of squiggles. “Find out what Byersmith and McCory intend to do if the ban isn’t restored.” His finger moved down the page. “Call Skolnick and get his reaction to all the uproar. He’ll be hard to reach but try. He’s eminently quotable.” And finally, “Get another comment or two in favor of the ban. You’ve got one pro and three cons. We don’t want to appear biased.”

  Hermann leaned back, looking quite pleased with his performance. But I wasn’t at all happy with mine, despite the accolades. I’d been so eager to prove my objectivity, despite being attracted to Ann McCory, that I’d loaded the dice against her. Or maybe, equally objectionable, I’d been lazy. The trustees who voted to restore the ban had been difficult to reach, thanks to their uppity secretaries. I should have persisted, been a little creative, maybe suggested that an “unavailable for comment” would reflect badly on their bosses. But I’d settled for sources that were easier to access.

  Well, no use dwelling on the sordid past.

  I started with the Rev. Steven Tanner, who by day was pastor of the Evangelical Church of the Holy Spirit. His officious secretary announced he was at a meeting, which is where he’d been the last time I called. I tried my unavailable-for-comment strategy on madam secretary, who, after going silent, put me on hold.

  A minute later an unctuous voice came on the line. “Reverend Tanner here.”

  Eager to squeeze in my questions before he left for another meeting, I asked him right off why he wanted to maintain the ban.

  Tanner cleared his throat, then delivered a sermon denouncing agnostics, communists and Benedict Arnolds who spit on the Bible and stomped on the flag. He closed with a question of his own. “Why expose our students to Satan?”

  I knew he didn’t expect an answer, not that I had one, so I thanked the good reverend for his time and hung up.

  Next I dialed Aaron Skolnick, whose secretary announced he was busy. Before I could woo her she transferred me to Joe Finmeister, Red Flag’s managing editor, who, she said, could speak on the publisher’s behalf. When the ME came on the line I asked for his thoughts regarding the fracas on campus and the ban’s possible reinstatement, which would mean withdrawal of the school’s invitation to his boss.

  Finmeister informed me that Red Flag and Aaron Skolnick weren’t exactly strangers to controversy. “In a capitalist society, those who champion the proletariat over the power elite are used to reactionary opposition.” But, he promised, the publisher will continue to toil on workers’ behalf whether the trustees allow him to speak on campus or not. “If they do permit him, good for them. If they withdraw their invitation, they will have proved McCarthyism is alive and well in academia.”

  That old beast again. McCarthyism reminded me of the Loch Ness monster, whose sightings would apparently go on forever. I hoped old Joe was happy in his grave.

  I thanked the ME for his time and dialed Ann McCory.

  “Hello?” She sounded rushed.

  “Hi, it’s Nate Rubin. I—”

  “Listen, I’ve got one foot out the door. Can this wait?”

  It couldn’t, but instead of saying so I went with, “I only have a couple questions. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

  “It’s not your questions I’m worried about,” Ann said. “It’s my answers. When I don’t take my time I often say things I didn’t intend to, or that are easily misunderstood.”

  “Look, I’ll make sure—”

  “No, really, I have to go. How about tomorrow morning?”

  “Um—”

  “We could meet for coffee if you’d like.”

  Ever cooperative with a woman for whom I had the hots, I said sure and we made arrangements. I then informed Hermann I’d conduct the last interview in the morning and write the story after my final class.

  He glared at me as if I’d not only murdered the Pope but burned down the Vatican. “I was hoping you’d finish the interviews today.”

  “I’ll still meet tomorrow’s deadline.”

  “What if the interview is canceled?” He clasped his hands on the desk. “Who’s it with?”

  I told him.

  “Why not call Byersmith?”

  “I don’t have his number.”

  “But you have hers.”

  I shrugged.

  He smirked. “Okay, it’s not like the story is breaking news or anything. But you’d better meet deadline.” Hermann reinforced the point by finding an open spot on his desk and slamming it with his palm.

  His coffee cup jumped, as did I. But neither of us spilled.

  Chapter 24

  Despite qualifying as ordinary in every way, from menu to service to décor to ambiance, the Koffee Klatch on Woodward Avenue had two primary virtues. It was located near campus, and it boasted a well-stocked jukebox. This second asset might prove problematic during an interview, but no one ever accused me of being practical. So I’d suggested that Ann McCory meet me at this standard-issue coffee shop the next morning. I did stipulate an hour, 7 a.m., that would give me enough time to conduct the interview and make an eight o’clock class, so let it not be said I was totally impractical.

  Whether this could be said or not, at 7:07 I began worrying that I hadn’t allowed enough time for Ann to be a half-hour late, or worse, that Hermann had been right and she’d canceled, in which case he’d have me shot at dawn. But then Ann showed up at 7:10 with profuse apologies and I again looked forward to a long and fretful life.

  Ann and I exchanged greetings, removed our winter coats and headed for a booth. She looked more comfortable in a dark-green blouse and pleated skirt than she had in that straightjacket she’d worn to the interview. Her hair seemed different too, more fulsome and fiery. Women’s hairstyles weren’t my area of expertise, but I could recognize an upgrade when I saw one.

  We’d no sooner settled in the booth than a waitress appeared with menus and a carafe. I gave her the go-ahead and she filled our cups.

  Ann returned the menu. “Nothing else for me, thank you.”

  “Same here.”

  I said this a bit reluctantly because for once I was hungry. And yet if I’d learned anything about the craft of int
erviewing, it was that eating and note-taking were incompatible. So I settled for cream and sugar in my coffee.

  “Well now, what more can I tell you?” Ann asked after the waitress departed.

  I got out my pen and notebook just as Carl Perkins began warning people to stay off his blue suede shoes.

  “Let’s say, for the sake of conversation,” I began, “that despite all the protests the trustees vote to keep the ban in place. What’ll you do?”

  I leaned forward to hear above “Go, cat, go.”

  “If the ban isn’t reinstated,” Ann said in a raised voice, “and if that communist does speak on campus, we’ll demonstrate outside the Student Union, distribute pamphlets, discourage people from going in, etcetera and so on. The main thing is, we will not give up … because our cause is just.”

  I hated to admit it, but her cause, just or otherwise, was the furthest thing from my mind. And yet I had a job to do, despite my obsession with the thing that was on my mind, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. So I kept jotting notes as Ann McCory continued. “We’ll keep pushing the university to reinstate the ban, while enlisting more and more students to support us in our battle.”

  I looked up and saw her eyes boring into mine. Was she trying to enlist me in her battle, or did she have something else in mind? I thrust this question aside and asked one that was more germane to the story. “What’s this battle you’re fighting? For the record.”

  A clever ploy, I must say. The addendum implied I knew the answer to my own question, but preferred to use her words instead of mine.

  “Take your time,” I added, further distinguishing myself from other reporters.

  The waitress topped off our coffees and Ann sipped hers while looking pensive.

  “We’re waging a battle between good and evil,” she said. “Between a godless, immoral system, which is communism, and a holy Christian way of life, which is American democracy.”