“For some reason I don’t believe you,” Amanda said. “Maybe because no man I ever met was willing to be friends, and only friends, with a woman.”
“Well, now you’ve met one.”
Okay, I wasn’t exactly lying.
“I don’t have any … white friends, I mean,” Amanda said.
“It’s never too late.”
“I don’t think I want any.”
“Why not?”
By now I was exasperated, maybe even more so than if she’d said sex was out of the question.
“They and I, you and me, we have nothing in common,” Amanda explained.
I could have argued the point, but I sensed that would get me nowhere. So I went with one of my specialties. Nonsense. “Look, I can do you a lot of good,” I said.
“That’s bullshit,” she snapped, then turned curious. “How?”
“Now hear me out, okay?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m listening.”
“All right. You’re fighting the man, correct?”
“You might skip the obvious, save us some time.”
Only slightly wounded, I soldiered on. “Well, when you engage in warfare, it pays to know your enemy and how it thinks … really thinks, rather than how you think it thinks. I could teach you.”
That got a smile. Not a big one, not the megawatter of which I knew she was capable, but a definite smile.
Thus encouraged, I reminded her of something. “You once said you liked me.”
Amanda thought a moment before replying. “I can’t remember everything I say to people. I might have said that. But if I did, that was then and this is now. Things have changed. I’m not the same person I was, and neither are you I suspect. You can’t just come barging in here after all these years and—”
“And what? Ask to be your friend? Well, shame on me.”
She started to respond but in a rare fit of chutzpah, I said, “You think it over. I’ll give you a call.”
Amanda said nothing, so I turned to go.
“Hold on.”
I pivoted.
“I’ll think it over if you’ll do the same about working for that newspaper. And I don’t mean kind of think it over.”
“I will, I promise. I’ll think about it.” I stepped out the door.
“You don’t have my number,” Amanda reminded me.
An auspicious start, if you asked me, since she could have taken advantage of my forgetfulness and let me go with no way of calling her.
I wrote the number down and practically ran to the car before she took it back.
Chapter 80
I spent several hours Thursday morning doing research, primarily demographic, at the main library on Woodward Avenue. Afterward I ate lunch at a nearby greasy spoon called—I’m not kidding—The Greasy Spoon. Stomach full, or as full as it ever got, I drove to the office, collected my thoughts and outlined the story, then revised the outline, then revised the revision. By the time I finished fiddling it was late afternoon and I returned to Miller Street to conduct the last of my interviews with Amanda’s neighbors, this time across the street from her. I found four people at home: a middle-aged accountant wearing a bad toupee, a blue-haired old lady surrounded by grandchildren and a humorless married couple with three yipping puppies. These people offered no strong objections to a black neighbor, but neither would they be inviting her to tea.
The next day I wrote the story, rewrote it twice, retyped it once and dropped it in Rachel’s inbox shortly after noon. She was gone for the day, having announced earlier, quite cryptically, that she had a personal errand to run. Which meant I’d have to wait until Monday for feedback.
I left the office in mid-afternoon, figuring I’d earned the early departure. This allowed me to stop off sooner than usual for my après-work drink or two, only this time I had three or four, maybe five.
Okay, I admit it. The pressure of working on this story and dealing with Amanda Fontaine threw me off track again. To my credit on this particular day, I remained sober enough to grab some Kentucky Fried takeout on my way home, and to feel the heartburn while watching Bonanza. I planned to stay up for the late-night news with Uncle Walter but succumbed to fatigue about ten o’clock and went to bed uninformed of that day’s rapes, murders, arsons and robberies.
I spent the weekend drinking Bud and reading the latest Len Deighton novel, though by Sunday afternoon the reading part had become difficult.
As had waiting for Monday morning.
#
Rachel and I arrived at the office about the same time and exchanged perfunctory greetings, after which I read Friday’s mail while she yakked on the phone. About a year later she hung up and began reading copy, presumably mine first since I’d placed it atop the pile. The next time I glanced over she wore a frown, which diminished only slightly as she progressed through the story. To hide my anxiety I engaged in several work-related activities, plus one-man tic-tac-toe.
“You can stop fidgeting,” Rachel said at last and motioned me to her desk.
“Good job,” she said after I was seated. “Excellent, in fact. You’ve covered all the bases and then some.”
I basked in the praise while bracing for the but.
“As expected, the objections to a black neighbor are much stronger than the non-objections and … also no big surprise … the non-objections are actually objections in disguise. The stats you’ve included show that Dearborn has the lowest black-to-white ratio of any same-size city in the North, and the gap began widening substantially after Richard Tubbin became mayor. So between the statistics and interviews the story implies, without stating it outright, that the city is hostile to blacks and the mayor is largely responsible.”
Nice summary but where was she headed? Had she changed her mind about running the story? Was it too in-your-face despite making no overt accusations?
Rachel continued, “I see you’ve included not only Miss Fontaine’s comments on the local police but the incident with Jackson Heywood, as narrated by … Wonderman. Is that the man’s real name?”
“It’s what he, um, likes to be called.”
“Well okay, but maybe we should talk to some other blacks living in Dearborn, as well as to the cops themselves.” She gave me one of her almost-smiles. “Nah, if we’re still here next week, we can include all of that in a follow-up.”
So no buts, no objections?
“All right, look …”
Here they come. “
… I meant it when I said you’ve done an excellent job. This is just what I had in mind. But it’s truth time, meaning time to look at reality before submitting the story to Phil. Normally he’d rather chug-a-lug Drano than criticize the mayor or this city. I said maybe he’d accept the piece once he read it, but now that I’ve read it I don’t believe he will. So in a way this is a suicide mission. There’s an outside chance I can talk him into running the story, but I wouldn’t count on it. He may only get angry rather than fire us, but I wouldn’t bet on that either, especially in your case, because … let’s face it … you’re already on his shit list.” She placed her hands flat on the desk. “What I’m saying is, you can back out now if you want to and I’ll spike the piece. Maybe you’ll get some satisfaction from having written it.”
So she was leaving it up to me, whether to fight and lose my job or not fight and lose my self-respect. Since I could always get another job—though I still hated the idea of searching for one—and since I couldn’t afford to lose what little self-respect I had left, the decision wasn’t all that hard.
“Go ahead, give him the story.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“All right then, I’ll submit it this afternoon.” Rachel gave me a full-blown smile while reaching out and patting my hand. “You’re a good man, Nate Rubin.”
I assumed she meant when I wasn’t wasting my talent. Normally I’d have taken the opportunity to agonize over her fluctuating attitude towar
d me, but now that she’d approved the story I was eager to ask a question that still lingered after my last encounter with Amanda.
“Rachel, why do you work here? I mean, you hate Dearborn, you hate Tubbin and you’re not overly fond of Doppler.”
She ran a hand through her hair, giving it a slightly tousled, yet no less appealing, look. “Good question,” she said. “I guess I’m here because, in many respects, the Gazette is an excellent newspaper. And I don’t hate Dearborn. It’s a pleasant enough city with some wonderful people in it. A portion of them keep reelecting Tubbin because they share his views on race, but a lot of others vote for him because he runs a clean, relatively crime-free city. As for Phil, he’s a bit of a prig but there are worse editors around, and by now I’ve learned to work with him.”
While listening to Rachel’s thoughtful answer to my question, I became distracted because I suddenly realized something was missing from her desk, something that had always been there. But what? The standard tools—pens, pencils, notepad, ruler, scissors, Scotch tape—were all present and accounted for. So what was absent?
And then it came to me.
Hubby’s photo.
So with my first newspaper job hanging in the balance, this is what I was thinking about, and took perverse satisfaction in for the rest of the afternoon.
Maybe I deserved to get canned.
Or at least horsewhipped.
#
Doppler called a few minutes before quitting time and asked—well, demanded—to see me right away. Judging by the suppressed fury in his voice, he was upset about something. I wondered what that could be.
The scene when I entered his office was not a happy one. The editor sat behind his desk about to pop a vein, while Rachel perched in front of it looking composed but somber. I couldn’t vouch for how I looked as I took the chair next to her, and I’d rather not guess.
Doppler glared at me while breathing fire. “What I want to know is, what made you think you could get away with this?”
I went for an air of innocence. “Get away with what?”
“This!” He waved several sheets of copy in my face.
“What’s that?” I asked, still playing the naïf.
“Your goddamned story, that’s what!”
“Something wrong with it?”
“Something wrong with it? He slammed the copy down. “You’re goddamn right something’s wrong with it.” He thrust his chin out at Rachel. “Tell him.”
She straightened in her chair. “He says the story is unfair and unbalanced. He says it makes Dearborn and its officials look racist. And he says it’ll upset the mayor, our readers and most of our advertisers.”
Doppler’s eyes bulged. “He says? He says? Like I’m making things up?” He shook a finger at Rachel. “You should be ashamed of yourself for bringing me this shit.”
Then he aimed the finger at me. “And you, you should be ashamed for writing this … this …”
“Shit?”
Now he gave out a full-throated yell. “You think this is funny, mister? You think this is a joke?”
Surprisingly, I remained calm. I told him no on both counts, adding, “The quotes are accurate, as are the demographics, which you’ll notice I sourced. Facts are facts. If they make the city look racist, that’s because it is, as is that mayor whose ass you’re always kissing.”
Did I just say that? I must have, since the voice was male and Doppler’s lips weren’t moving.
They opened wide now, though, and out came, “You’re fired.” Next he glowered at his city editor. “What about you? You have anything to say?”
“Only that what he said is true, same as his story, which by the way I assigned him and fully approve of.”
“In that case—”
“What’s more, I think you should run the piece, Phil. Practically everyone knows Dearborn is Alabama, Georgia and Mississippi rolled into one, because it’s run by a shameless bigot. And yet we say nothing about it. In fact, we act like we’re his private PR firm. It’s about time we served the public and said something, if not on the editorial page then in a news story, by letting the facts speak for themselves.” Pause. “Run the story, Phil.”
Instead of coming unglued, Doppler sighed, as if resigned to our fate. “Well then, you’re fired too. Pack your things, both of you, and get out of here. We’ll mail you your final paychecks.”
He stood. Apparently our little chat was over.
#
Rachel and I retrieved some empty cartons from the mailroom, returned to the office and began packing our things, each of us lost in our respective thoughts. I had no idea what hers were, but mine ran something like: What the hell have I done? I’m no caped crusader, and pretending otherwise was an act of lunacy that cost me my job, and a damned good one at that. And what have I accomplished? Nothing.
Nada. Zip. Diddly.
I told myself that at least I’d done the right thing, the decent thing, even the honorable thing, by striking a blow for truth, justice and Amanda Fontaine. But what I’d really done was screw up my career, such as it was. Now I couldn’t even list my former employer as a reference. While emptying my desk I cursed Dearborn, the Gazette, Phil Doppler and, not least of all, myself. I was still swearing like a sailor as I carried my single box to the Falcon, and continued, at least inwardly, while helping Rachel load her Chevy sedan.
Finished with our chores, we stood facing each other in the near-empty parking lot.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
“Getting you fired.”
“Hey, we were in this together. We knew it might happen, most likely would happen. And besides, it’s probably for the best in the long run.”
I doubted that, but agreed anyway. Then added, “Right now it feels shitty.”
“I know.”
“Also right now, I could use a drink. So … I mean … that’s where I’m headed. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize for that either. Can I come with?”
“What?”
“Want some company?”
“But I thought … that is …”
“What? What did you think?”
“I thought you didn’t, you know, indulge.”
She shook her head. “I told you, I have a drink now and then, mainly on special occasions.”
“And this is a special occasion?”
“In a way.” She offered a wistful smile. “It’s been a dreadful week, so right now I can use some company. Okay?”
It was more than okay, but I just nodded and drove us to the White Horse Bar and Grill.
#
We grabbed a table at the far end of the room. Rachel looked luminous in the glow of a glass-encased candle flickering between us. I probably looked ambivalent, since I was uncertain what might come of this evening, or whether anything should come of it given my companion’s marital status. I figured a drink might clarify matters so I waved the waitress over. Rachel ordered a glass of Riesling while I went with Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.
“Well, here we are,” Rachel said after the waitress departed.
“Yes, here we are,” I agreed. Then, feeling brave for some reason, I added, “It’s good to be here with you despite the rotten day.”
“Yes,” she said half-heartedly, after which she stared into space.
Was Rachel not happy with my company? Or was she as worried about her future as I was about mine? There wasn’t much I could do about the former, so I conveniently assumed the latter.
“You’ll get a job in no time,” I said. “You’re very, um, good. I mean … that is … as an editor.”
I may have lost my job, but happily I still had my glib tongue.
“That isn’t what I was thinking about,” Rachel said. “The thing is, Aaron and I are getting divorced.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
What else could I say? Yippee!?
That I said to myself.
Rachel shrugged. “We were
having problems, and I mean big problems. At first we considered separating, but then we visited a marriage counselor and he confessed something that made me want to kill him … right there, in front of a witness. Instead I waited until that night and told him I wanted a divorce. He resisted a little but finally said okay and so last week I hired a lawyer and filed.”
Our drinks arrived, and to relieve her pain I took a large swallow of whiskey. Surprisingly, Rachel gulped down half her wine.
“I shouldn’t be blabbing all this,” she said, “but what the hell. My husband admitted to having an affair … for a whole year without my even knowing it, if you can believe it. The woman is a divorced mother he met at a Little League game of all places. He coaches a team of … I don’t know their ages, just that they’re very young. I only hope he isn’t teaching them how to cheat on their wives when they grow up.” She gulped more wine. “The bastard said I met her once at a post-season pizza party. I remember him introducing me to a pretty blonde with big tits and a pea brain, so I guess that was her.” Rachel gazed at her near-empty glass, then disposed of its remnants. “I don’t get it. He’s shtupping some dimwit while insisting I quit my job, bear his children, and stay home and take care of them. What is it with men … are they crazy?” I was about to declare the fifth when she added, “You don’t have to answer that.”
Relieved, I downed the last of my whiskey and waved two fingers at the waitress, who nodded her understanding.
No dimwit she.
Rachel and I were quiet as we both scanned the half-empty room. With nothing much to see, we turned back and she placed a hand on mine for the second time that day. “Thanks for listening, and for being here for me.”
The waitress brought our drinks and Rachel and I both sipped. Then I said to hell with it and gulped most of mine.
“The irony,” Rachel said, “is that Aaron’s wish has come true. As of today I’m not working.”
“But at least you didn’t quit.”
Hey, it’s the best I could offer spur-of-the-moment.
Rachel smiled weakly and drank deeply of her wine. “Of course I quit. We both knew we might … probably would … get fired. But that’s okay. The important thing is, I won’t stay at home and be a housewife.”
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 43
