by Shelly Frome
“Josh?”
“Yes?”
“Can I just ask how you managed to get Alice away from Darryl? I’ve been told, once he gets riled-up . . . You see, it’s crossed my mind that Alice may not really be safe here.”
“Look, for starters, let’s say I faked Darryl out. Gave Alice a head start, pretended I was ready to take him on and then ran off as fast as she did. As a card-carrying coward, I can attest that ploy works every time.”
With her quizzical glance showing no sign of relief, he told her Darryl was officially under wraps. Otherwise Josh wouldn’t be casually sitting around here passing the time of day.
“But you’re not casually sitting around,” LuAnn said, now that they were really getting into it. “And Alice isn’t casually sitting around. And, I’m sorry but I can’t slough it off.”
“But you can for now. Thanks to you she’s well out of it. And I’m well out of it. And we can give all that nutty Darryl business a rest. Okay?”
Another wistful smile, another “okay” hand-pat.
Unable to hold still a moment longer, Josh stood up and said, “Look, I know this makes no sense, but can I borrow this photo? I’ll bring it right back, I promise. Then I’ll run up and check on Alice and we’ll just play it by ear.”
Watching him remove the framed picture from the wall, she said, “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand?”
“It’s really nothing. Call it research. As it happens, I have a brief appointment with Hunter Cobb over at the Southern Studies building at five.”
“Who?”
“You know, the newspaper editor. Listen, if all goes well, he’ll be able to give me some much needed perspective and also set me straight as to the dwindling prospects in my former stock in trade. Which, either way, certainly can’t hurt.”
She shook her head, which seemed to mean that Josh was just kidding himself. Either that or he was simply unable to hold still for any length of time.
He countered by reaching for some whimsical parting words. He came up short and she only offered another shake of her head and an offer of some sandwiches and coffee soon as he got back.
He left things that way. He also put aside his remaining deliveries. He hurried to the print shop a few blocks away to make a copy figuring he might possibly show the photo to Alice to jog her memory. In any event, he would run it by Hunter Cobb.
His only valid realization was the fact he was never going to connect the dots by jotting down random signals and pointers and hoping they would suddenly jell. Whatever was going on kept reaching back to a string of memories. Though Alice scoffed at the idea, he wondered if they might hold the key. That if and when her mind began to clear, the pull of yesteryear would be tugging at her too, enabling her to have a whole story to tell.
22.
Alice had the TV on full blast causing Josh to knock even harder on the door to LuAnn’s flat.
“Get away, get away!” she yelled, fumbling with the chain, doing her damnedest to slide it into place.
“It’s all right, kid. Only the Good Samaritan making a courtesy call.”
The scratching, fumbling sounds stopped. The door jerked open, Josh stepped inside. Alice gingerly retreated to her station on the love seat between the scattered throw pillows. Careful not to jar her left arm held snuggly in a sling pouch, she snatched the remote with her right hand, hit the muting button but kept her eyes glued to the images on the flat screen.
“It’s color, man. And cable. Light years away from Ada Mae’s black-and-white set from the stone age.”
It was obvious that Josh’s presence caused her to go into her hyper deflecting act like LuAnn said. It certainly gave Josh the impetus to keep the photo inside the manila folder out of sight. It also gave him second thoughts about asking her about anything except how she was doing. She’d had enough for one day. She’d had enough period. But before he had a chance to set the folder aside, she held out her hand and they started slipping right back into it.
“What you got there? Not a present. Nope, I’d say it’s one of those brochures or something. Fun things to do while you’re playing hooky or a list of takeouts while you’re holed up. Well, don’t just stand there, man, hand it over.”
Without making anything of it, he tossed the folder by her side. She flipped it open, gave the photo a cursory glance, rolled her eyes and said, “Oh ho, speaking of black-and-white, what is this? Don’t tell me you ripped something off Ella’s bar to carry with you. Remind you of the old timey days when that harmonica was still in. No no, I got it. You glommed it off LuAnn’s wall. What for?”
“Well, while I’m here, I thought I’d take a little time off to check out one of the local papers. And, while I was at it, I thought I might as well run something by the editor.”
“Boring. Good God, never mind, forget I asked. I don’t want to hear any more of your ancient history crap. So, spit it out. What brings you banging on my door?”
“Guess. First things first. I came by to make sure you were okay.”
“Wrong-o, teddy bear. First you did some deliveries, then you came by to check in with LuAnn, and then you came by to see for yourself.”
“Fine, whatever you say.”
“So open your eyeballs. Take a two-minute look-see and then you can split.”
Josh retrieved the photo, put it back in the folder and sat down in a padded rocking chair cattycorner from where she was nestled. Humoring her, he took in the surroundings. Framed reproductions of soft impressionistic scenes above the low-lying bookcases. Flowering potted geraniums on little round tables soaking in the light from the lace-curtained windows. Pastel-colored throw rugs on the floor. All told, a fitting retreat for Miss LuAnn.
“So,” Alice said for a third time breaking into the awkward silence, “like I was saying. All’s I have to do is keep my brain locked, my head in the sand and my nose clean and I got it made. Everything I could ever need long as I remember to chain-lock the door.”
Averting more non-sequiturs or another awkward silence, Josh jumped in with, “Thought you’d like to know Darryl’s out of commission. Up on charges thanks to Deputy Sonny Drew and tucked away. Back deep in the woods at his old stand.”
“Darryl? Oh yeah, you mean the crazy bastard who nearly tore my arm off. And is that the same Darryl who went after Dewey? Whoops, I forgot everything is so cool. Whatever am I doing?”
Deflecting again as fast she could, Alice began flipping the channels and commenting that all she could get even on cable were reruns, cooking shows, soaps and a mess of other junk. She clicked the remote, got on her feet and walked around aimlessly.
“Can you beat it? Look at this computer stuff. And check out all these books. Must be a zillion of them. All so’s LuAnn can finish up and get some dumb certificate or something on social work, whatever that is. And when she does, guess what? She says this new governor coming in is gonna scrap all the clutter. Meaning that social work is out, anything taking care of anybody is out, and she’ll be stuck running The Bottletree and filling in over at Cody’s till she drops.”
Flitting over to the front window, Alice peered down through the curtains on the foot traffic below and muttered, “That’s it, folks. Keep smiling. I mean, what the hell?”
Pivoting around, she scrunched up her sliver of a face and said, “So? What are you staring at? Is this the part where I thank you for saving my butt again? Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Going over to a side window, she said, “You gonna tell me what you were doing there in the first place? Beating the bushes, checking up on me?”
“Hardly. You sent me a voice message. You were supposed to meet me first thing.”
“Oh yeah. Maybe I made a mistake. Shouldn’t have called Cody’s either, dumb move. Runaway stupid juvie stuff you see a thousand times. Okay, that’s it, time’s up. You can get back in your teddy bear booze truck and furrr-get-it.”
“Fine,” Josh said going over to her. “Truth is, I’m set to see someb
ody right now who can help give me a line on all this. Maybe Ada Mae put her finger on it. Way back when Darryl and Bubba were kids and did some malicious mischief right around here, maybe that had something to do with why Darryl was picking on Dewey.”
“Oh great, Ada Mae opened her Looney Tunes mouth and told you about Bubba.”
“Is that it, Alice? Are we close, is that the kicker?”
“Oh dear, you found me out. Let’s see, how can I put it? How about, all these years Bubba’s had it on his conscience what a baddie he and Darryl was? Ada Mae told him to repent but he told her where to get off. Except this time, he got drunk and told me. And I blackmailed him. And when he wouldn’t pay up, I told Dewey. Darryl got so scared Dewey was gonna spill the beans after all these years, he went up to Billy’s place, hammered Dewey and then took off after me.”
The second Josh shook his head she blurted out, “What’s the matter, you don’t like that one? I thought I was going pretty good there. Almost as good as your Huckleberry crap. Only trouble, this is big time pain, baby! So big you don’t want to remember. Oh sure, little stuff maybe, like when I spotted Bubba having trouble with . . .”
Alice caught herself and hurried back to the love seat. She dug under one of the pillows for the cell phone, curled herself up despite her gimpy arm and closed her eyes tight.
“So skip it, okay? So why don’t you get lost? Like I said over the stupid cell phone, who needs you? I can call downstairs. I can call anywhere, man. I am well protected.”
Alice was so choked-up that all Josh could say was, “Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to set you off.”
He retrieved the folder, felt bad about inadvertently making things worse, let her be and moved on to his appointment. Before he’d taken no more than a few steps away from the flat, he could hear Alice on the other side of the door testing the latch and the chain-lock to make doubly sure.
. . .
Less than fifteen minutes into their encounter, Hunter Cobb gave Josh another exasperated look, plunked himself down on the leather armchair with the brass buttons and leaned back with his hands clasped behind his neck. But in spite of this latest rebuff, Josh remained standing directly in front of his desk.
They were in his office on the second floor of the Southern Studies building. The only room with a bank of monitors, scanners, printers and other devices connected to the University’s mainframe, digital archives, online catalogues and direct access to a myriad of documents and sources. Framed citations and an array of plaques attesting to his award-winning editorial status lined the walls above his head. The only thing that wasn’t impressive was Cobbs’ rumpled beige corduroy suit with its worn leather patches at the elbows and his frayed blue-and-white polka dot bow tie. His white hair was closely cropped: a throwback to his college days and/or an attempt to indicate he was still youthful and would be damned if he was ever going to retire.
All the while, Josh couldn’t help thinking that Hunter Cobb had the best of both worlds: a refuge at the University, a fixture at one of the last of the weeklies still rolling off the presses. How many working journalists could even come close?
Breaking the silence, leaning forward, Cobb said, “I tell you, I just don’t get it. A few weeks back you show up here looking for all the world like the last of the hippies. Nothing panned out for you like that stint on gambling in Vegas but no matter. Hell, nothing mattered. You got a kick out of my piece on Lamar Dean’s private academy ploy, but that’s as far as it goes. A maneuver, let it be said, Lamar conveniently will take no credit for.”
“Nevertheless—”
Cobb cut him off again, continuing to ramble on, totally unaware of the time passing by. “By the way, you just now commented you caught Mr. Dean’s so-called interview on Clayton’s so-called news show. So you must have heard the reference to conspicuous non-consumption. That dig, you know, was specifically aimed at me and my making do with my old Ford Falcon. I expect you know the one, parked right near by. The sixties compact, the poor man’s economy car.”
Getting more and more jittery, Josh leaned over the cluttered desk, pushed his journal to one side and nudged the photo a few inches closer to Cobb’s face.
Disregarding the photo again, Cobb said, “Let me finish my thought here. Are you in some kind of hurry?”
“Not exactly but—”
“Can we kindly dispense with the ‘yes-and-no-buts’ for a minute? It’s been a long day, the grad students are out of my sight at last, the campus is finally all but deserted, and I am trying to give you some undivided attention. That is, if you will take a deep breath and partake of some of my golden bits of advice.”
With this last rejoinder, Cobb rose up again to his full height of about five-foot-seven, grabbed a corncob pipe off the desk and began using the stem as a pointer. The pipe had obviously never been smoked and was another in his arsenal of affectations.
“So now, here you are, all cleaned up. But apparently since polishing your appearance, you have apparently lost your cavalier view. And also lost your nodding acquaintance with logic and coherence. As you may recall, I am especially fond of those two verities along with a big helping of credibility. I am appalled, in case you’ve forgotten, by the gossip-mad, biased sound-bite news, knee-jerk tweets and blogs. Then you got your videographers, or turn to any of the media--never mind Russ Clayton and his swill--and what-the-hell? Nothing thought-out or even a cursory attempt to delve. Instead it’s, ‘What’s the grabber? That’ll do, let’s move on.’ You take the tonnage of today’s instant bilge, you add it up and what’ve you got? Who’s out there looking into things, coming up with the straight goods from beginning to end, finding out what the powers that be are really up to? What’s happened to a truly informed citizenry who can cut through this slew of buckshot and keep it all from falling apart?”
“I know, I know, I get it.”
“You know?” Cobb stuck the pipe in his jacket pocket, snatched up Josh’s journal and waved it in the air. “Then tell me, please, is this your idea of coherence? It puts me in mind of the old Freudian thing: ‘Lie down on the coach, ma’am, and say anything that comes to mind. Could be the pieces of glass you keep daydreaming about might actually represent something symbolic.’”
“Okay,” said Josh, tapping on the photo, “I admit it. They’re all pointers and that’s why I’m here. I had a pretty good editor who told me when it eats at you, when your bungling makes things worse but still and all you feel some kind of responsibility —”
“Then what?” Cobb said, plunking the journal hard on the desk. “How much time have you spent on this?”
“Enough to call on you for some input.”
“What do you call enough? A week or two?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what exactly? Less than a week? A few goddamn days? You say there are far-reaching implications. Based on what?”
When Josh was stumped for an answer, Cobb returned to his arm chair, leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck once again.
“Okay, since we’re in no rush, let’s us consider those fine ol’ five burglars who got caught trying to bug Democratic offices. Bob Woodward at The Washington Post subsequently—you got that—subsequently learns a GOP security aid was among those arrested and was on the payroll of Nixon’s reelection committee. After weeks of digging, he and his buddy Bernstein learn that two men who’d worked in the Nixon White House may have been guiding the burglars with walkie-talkies from across the way.”
“Hunt and Liddy,” Josh said, barely able to tolerate the way Cobb was patronizing him.
“Exactly. Later on, and I am talking much later on, Bernstein learns a check for Nixon’s reelection campaign was deposited in the bank account of one of the burglars. Then much much later—”
“Terrific,” Josh said, having had enough. “This way this story will never get out and nothing will get done. But who cares? Who suffers?” Pointing every which way, Josh went on.
“Let’s see now, we’ve got
a kid on the run from some crazies who can’t take the chance her busted memory will come back. Plus Dewey Charles who, by the same token, needs to get permanent amnesia because his cover has been blown. And now that I’ve gotten entangled, the prospect of long-term-delving is absolutely ludicrous and . . .”
Stopping himself in mid-sentence, realizing he was losing it for the second time today, Josh stepped away and said, “I’m sorry. Don’t know what got into me. Sorry to have wasted your time.”
He turned to go, remembered the photo and the journal, turned back and was about to retrieve them when Cobb snatched up both items, grabbed a pen out of a leather holder and a legal pad from one of the drawers.
“Hold on a sec,” Cobb said, putting on a pair of reading glasses and riffling through the pages of the journal. Grumbling to himself, Cobb unscrewed the top of his fountain pen and started to make a few notes. Josh couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying, but the gist of it was that Cobb had no patience with the general manager’s attempts to downsize the Star, embrace electronic publishing, give in to the blogosphere in lieu of Cobb’s watchdog editorials and think pieces.
Still unnerved after his little tirade, Josh said, “What are you doing? I don’t get it?”
Cobb ignored him, studied the photo and continued with his note taking. Once he paused, raised his glasses, looked up at Josh but didn’t say a word. Another few minutes went by with Cobb still peering through his glasses and making a few more jottings until he handed the journal over but kept the photo.
Finally, Cobb pocketed his glasses and said, “Mind you, if you have heard anything I have said, I have no patience with reporting by the seat of your pants. That is why the University offered me this sanctuary in return for a few seminars. To foster the professionalism and fearless accountability of old.”
“Fine. But just tell me. Are you actually considering this or not? And if so, why the sudden change of heart?”
Cobb gazed past Josh as though whimsically tracing his possible motives. “Honestly, I don’t rightly know. Maybe you caught me when my backside was up. Maybe it’s this old fraternity photo you slapped on my desk. Can’t resist anything that ties in any which way to Lamar. You know, it’s a funny thing. Every year at this time he gets on the radio and gushes that Southern Comfort drivel that spurs me into the exact opposite. Also there’s maybe something about ol’ Dewey Charles that’s starting to ring a bell. All part of that backward glance we Mississippians can never shake off.”
