“Can you believe it?” Arthur fumed. “He’s twisted everything. If I wasn’t concerned about creating more bad press, I’d sue.”
There was indignation in Arthur’s voice, but he didn’t ask me for an explanation or a denial. Wasn’t he wondering about the accusations? Didn’t he want to know if any of the statements were true?
Two shootings …
“People don’t believe everything they read.”
“Jack, wake up. Your reputation has just been assassinated. Do you understand that? Not to mention your good standing. Someone has done this to you. Something has to be done. The college will suffer, the program will suffer, and you’ve got to be thinking about your memoir!” Arthur was as mad as a hornet’s nest swatted by a Chicago newspaper.
“I’m sure it will die down soon. How far can this go, anyway?”
“How far can this thing go? Think California wildfire during a long summer drought. The story’s already running all over the wire services this morning, the same week your face is on the cover of Time. Papers will absolutely run it, and by this time tomorrow, you’ll be all over the TV, too.”
I stood over the table rereading the story that opened my life like a can of sardines. Why was this happening? Bud Abbott was wrong about my commitment to Norwood and my normally spartan lifestyle. Surely everyone would understand this.
“We’ll have to do a press conference. You’ll need to be there, Jack. We can’t let this stand. We’ll take every accusation this hit-and-run jockey has made and stick them back down his throat.”
“I’m not doing a press conference.”
“I don’t see any other way around it.”
“One story isn’t enough to make me dash for the nearest microphone to start defending myself.”
“Jack, you don’t have a clue how juicy this stuff is. It’s blood in the water to sharks. This is just the lightning before the storm. The thunder won’t even get here until tomorrow. If they find out more, Jack, your name will be in the paper for weeks, months.”
I wanted to pack Mr. Duroth’s hand-tailored suits and flee the scene of the crime. In my old life, I’d still be sleeping. The old Brookstone alarm wasn’t set to ring for another hour. But fame had found me. Hiding from conspicuousness only inflated voyeuristic interest. As much as I had enjoyed the taste of the good life in my hotel room, I preferred the simple life. Waking up to brew a pot of coffee. Drinking orange juice straight from the carton dressed only in my pajamas. Looking forward to the connection I’d feel at church with God and people. These were the things I cared about. There was never anything scheduled on Sunday. Just plans to heat up a chicken dinner left by Mrs. Hernandez and watch football. I wanted that life back but knew instinctively that was going to be difficult if not impossible to find in light of Bud Abbott’s little story.
“It’s almost eight o’clock,” I told Arthur. “I’m going to church. We can continue this conversation later this afternoon, or tonight if needed.”
“If needed? You have to skip church and get up here to Indy as quickly as possible for some serious strategizing. We have more work to hack through today than we have time to hew.”
I closed my eyes, overwrought with the immensity of this developing circumstance. It was one thing having my name scandalized in the paper, but I could see visions of the fallout. The effect it could have on the college, the program, the people in Norwood. An enemy was attempting to pull me off course. I blew out my breath and fought the first small battle, the one for my will.
“No,” I said. “I’ll call you after church.”
“Jack, listen—”
I said good-bye to Arthur and hung up the phone. He was out of control … So was Bud Abbott. Arthur’s motivation was the preservation of his income stream—my next book. But what had provoked Bud Abbott?
I showered and dressed in a flurry, folding the clothes Mr. Duroth had given to me and placing them in a plastic bag, the only makeshift luggage I could find. Within fifteen minutes I was putting on my sunglasses and walking toward the elevators, my oasis of relaxation over. I’d miss being so high above the noise I couldn’t hear the questions, but not those coming from the poor. It was the questions from the media I wanted to escape.
I rode the elevator down seven stories alone, anxious to get to church, where I could experience God’s presence washing over me like cool river water over smooth stones.
When the elevator doors opened, two local news crews ambushed me with shoulder-mounted video cameras and blinding lights. A mob of television reporters rushed toward me.
“Mr. Clayton, is it true you’re living here at the Providence Hyatt? Are you thinking of buying it?”
“Mr. Clayton, how do you respond to allegations that you’re taking advantage of the poor here in Providence?”
“Mr. Clayton, is it true you’ve been recently fired from your job?”
I cut a path through the center of the crowd, and predictably they followed me step by step into the parking garage. I was never happier in my life to not own a Cadillac. My 2000 Jeep with the broken side mirror and missing radio was parked near the door, and I climbed up into it. I started the engine and backed out, causing the cluster of reporters to break into smaller scurrying groups.
I entered back into the shelterless real world through news vans plastered with photos of their smiling six o’clock news teams. I turned the Jeep up Ames Road, glancing in the rearview mirror to see if I was being followed. I chose not to drive home, expecting to find more reporters there. Peter’s house was four miles out of town. I hoped he was still home.
I pulled around back and cut the engine. Through the kitchen window, I could see Peter looking out at me, amusement on his face. I failed to see the humor. The past week had been a long walk down the sterile corridors of the Green Mile for me. Peter saw it differently, as though these were merely the steps Jesus wanted me to take.
“You know, for a guy who doesn’t like attention, you sure attract a lot of it.” Peter met me at the back door.
“This is no time for jokes, Peter. First the book, then Arthur’s deceptions, then a phone call from this reporter in Chicago. And this morning I was ambushed by reporters. I can’t think of one thing in all this that is in the least bit funny.”
“I’m not laughing at you. This morning you have my sympathy. How about some coffee?”
“What time is it? Are you going to church?”
“Relax, there’s plenty of time. Sit down, chill.”
Peter lifted a coffee mug from a peg and poured coffee into it.
I let out a long breath. “If Arthur’s right about scandals spreading like wildfire,” I said, “it’s doubly true when it comes to religious figures. They’re even more combustible.”
“That’s probably true, but why don’t you stop worrying about it?” Peter handed me the coffee and sat at the table.
“It doesn’t matter how far-fetched these accusations are,” I said. “What if they torpedo the program? The people in Norwood could lose their trust. That would be tragic.”
“Don’t let a few flies buzzing around your head give you grief. When people do good, other people always want to spoil it. You know better than anyone how many obstacles we faced in Norwood. Then there was the flack that came out with the book, and the reporters, the break-in. You’re starting something new, something good, so more static is being thrown at you.”
“Is that what you think this is?” I asked. “Spiritual warfare?”
“Does it matter? Spiritual attack, the thoughtlessness of people. Maybe it’s just envy, and when someone’s balloon gets too big, someone comes along with a pin. Anyway, your response shouldn’t be any different. Pray, then move forward. Don’t let barking dogs spook you.”
“I was bitten by a dog once.”
“Bite ’em back. I’d hate to see this annoyance interfere with your spa schedule at the Hyatt,” he teased.
“Very funny. I’d only gone there to write, Peter. Because it was snowin
g, because I had the blues. You’re the one who told me to take a vacation. How am I getting busted over this?”
“Jack, deep breaths. It’s too early to dig into the really deep questions. Let’s try a simpler one: Are you coming to church?”
“Only if I don’t disrupt the service and cause a scene.”
“That’s the spirit. You’re certainly dressed for it.”
Peter drove, and I rode shotgun, the same way I’d always done with Mitchell. The sun was hot, and it warmed the back of my neck as I prayed quietly that there’d be no camera crews lying in wait outside the church. Thankfully, except for a few extra smiles and waves of support as Peter and I made our way to our usual seats, it was as if the story hadn’t been written.
It was an inspiring service. We worshipped Christ in the music, and Pastor Lawrence’s message on perseverance was timely. This was an hour of focus solely on God, and His peace, “which passeth all understanding,” entered my soul. I counted every blessing on every face, every stranger and friend sitting around me.
After the service we waited until all the other worshippers had departed. A few stopped to share words of encouragement.
“What’s your plan?” Peter asked, bringing back the reality of the outside world.
“I don’t know. I’m not ready to go back and face the surreal life yet. I need to get to my place, but I have a nagging suspicion I won’t be alone there.”
“You can’t run from this.”
“Not going to.” I rose to my feet, gazing up at the cedar-hewn ceiling forty feet above us. Sunlight beamed through the high windows. Specks of dust reflected light as they floated through the beams. “I’ll need to speak with Aaron, see what the college needs from me. Arthur mentioned writing a statement of some kind.”
Pastor Lawrence walked toward us down the long center aisle. His strides were quick and powerful, his white robe swinging. “Good morning, Jack … Peter.”
“Morning,” we each said.
I held my breath, hoping Pastor Lawrence had faith in me, that I wasn’t a fraud. His initial trust had been influential in opening up Norwood to our ministry.
“Jack, I read the article. I wanted to let you know I’m here if you need a statement from me.”
“A statement?”
“Yes, a statement. I assume you’re going to fight this. Someone has taken your good name and smeared it. If I were you, I’d go get it back. If you need me to write something down for you, I will. As your pastor, someone who’s walked with you all these years, and as someone who’s familiar with the Norwood community, I believe in you.”
Pastor Lawrence’s sermon had renewed me. Now his words gave me the confidence to go to battle. His confidence in me loomed like a battalion of reinforcements.
“Thank you, Pastor.”
“You call me when you need to, Jack.”
Pastor Lawrence walked back toward the pulpit. He was strong and muscular, the strength of his spirit manifested in his physique. Once a poor black kid from Alabama who had sweated on a football field until he’d earned a scholarship to play at Auburn, he’d worked his way through seminary and had become the senior pastor at one of Providence’s largest white churches. Pastor Lawrence knew about adversity, and he knew how to stand up and fight.
And so did I.
~ SEVENTEEN ~
Why don’t they
Do what they say, say what they mean?
—The Fixx
“One Thing Leads to Another”
Twenty minutes later I pulled into my drive. An unfamiliar white Chevy Blazer with black tinted windows was parked half a block up the street. Otherwise, all was quiet. Upstairs the message machine was flashing the number 46 in red. A lot of messages for a single guy with an unlisted number.
I hung my new sports coat in the upstairs closet and went down to the kitchen to make a sandwich. Somewhere between the top of the stairs and the first-floor landing a strange thought struck me. It was so bizarre that somehow I knew it had to be true. I grabbed the remote and switched on CNN. There I was emerging from my residence at the Hyatt, dressed in a new tailor-made suit and wearing five-dollar sunglasses. The shades gave me the detached look of a Hollywood actor avoiding the paparazzi. Conspicuously missing was video of me peeling away in my crappy $5,000 Jeep. I turned up the volume to hear the reporter retelling the basic newspaper story, only with a new sinister twist:
Little is known about Clayton, who burst onto the best-seller list three years ago. His book Laborers of the Orchard became one of the best-selling nonfiction books of all time. He has vigorously avoided news reporters and ducked interviews for years, leading many in the media to speculate about what he might be hiding.
Hiding. They say I’m hiding. I muted the sound. The phone rang. I saw from caller ID it was Arthur.
“Good, you’re finally home. What are you doing?” He didn’t give me time to answer. “We’ve got to get a handle on this, Jack. The Bud Abbott piece is already on television.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve seen it.”
“So has everyone else in the United States and probably the world. It’s the hot chat topic of the day. By tomorrow night all the cable networks will carve space for it in their prime-time shows. This is not good for what we’re trying to do with the new book.”
I wished Arthur would have said it wasn’t good for CMO, or for the college, or the Norwood program, or even for my reputation. I wished it weren’t so blatantly obvious what Arthur cared most about.
“I thought any publicity was good publicity.”
“After the book’s in stores maybe, but not at this stage. We’ll have buyers canceling orders come Tuesday morning. Shoppers won’t reserve their advance copies. Bad press will turn people against you, Jack, and they’ll probably question the reliability of anything you write.”
I pictured cracks fracturing the walls of a dam; a trickle of water running out from the crevices, concrete being snapped off little by little until the current became a flood. My wall of privacy was coming down around me.
“Jack, I’ve got a plan to repair this, but I’ll need your full cooperation.”
“I agree we need to issue some kind of a response.”
“Well, good,” Arthur said, surprised by an agreement coming without a lot of arm wrestling. “It’s about time. We’re going to need a team effort here to beat this thing.”
The white Chevy rolled to a silent stop in front of my house. The tinted driver’s side window scrolled down and a long, black telescopic barrel emerged, pointed directly at me.
“You won’t believe this, but I’m being photographed by paparazzi.”
“Get away from the window.” I stepped out of the view from the camera lens and watched the Blazer roll slowly around the corner and up the hill, parking on a side street.
“Are they gone?”
“For the moment.”
Across the bottom of TV I saw my name crawl by in the news ticker: AUTHOR TO THE POOR DUCKS QUESTIONS ABOUT LIVING LARGE • LABORERS OF THE ORCHARD AUTHOR JACK CLAYTON REFUSES TO ANSWER QUESTIONS ABOUT FINANCES, EXTRAVAGANT LIFESTYLE •
“This just underscores the urgency we need to address this scandal.”
Scandal. I was involved in a scandal. Arthur was right. This story needed to be stopped.
“Right now your story has more questions than answers. Reporters are going to dig things up, unless we give them their answers first.”
“Why haven’t you asked me about the details in the story?” I asked. I wandered the house, looking out windows for other unmarked vehicles.
“Because I don’t care. My job is to publish your books, and to protect my investment. I’m your defense attorney in this respect. Your guilt or innocence doesn’t change my job one iota. The only thing that matters to me is clearing your name and getting things back to where they should be.”
“It matters to me that we protect the program, and the college, and my reputation—in that order. I’m willing to make some kind of state
ment, or a press release. Write whatever you like, but I’ll need to see it first.”
“I think it’s going to require a lot more than that, Jack.”
“What do you suggest?”
“A press release, a televised press conference, TV appearances, talk shows—the works. We’ve got to get your face out there. I know a PR firm up here in Indianapolis—McKinney & Company. Susan McKinney runs it. She’s fabulous. I’ve already been in contact with her, and she’s agreed to work with us. Her specialty is restoring clients with … tarnished reputations.”
“Is that what I have, a tarnished reputation? It’s more like they’ve got the facts wrong.” This was spinning well out of my control.
“Yes, they’ve got the facts wrong, but putting them all back in the right place takes more than a press release. You might find this hard to believe, Jack, but people lie all the time in press statements. The public isn’t swayed by them. That’s why we need to bring Susan on board. She’ll have more than a few good ideas.”
“When can we meet?”
“Today. And Jack, listen to Susan’s advice. She knows what she’s doing. A lot of innocent people will be unnecessarily hurt if we don’t do something now.”
We made plans to meet at my house at four.
Susan McKinney introduced herself by presenting a list of clients she’d worked with: professional athletes whose public ordeals had soured their reputations and corporate CEO’s who wanted to “freshen up” their public personas. She’d even worked with the governor’s office.
“Jack, Arthur filled me in on your situation. I spent some time this morning researching news sites and downloading what’s running in papers around the country. I’ve also seen what’s happening on cable news. I’m sorry for this situation; it doesn’t sound fair. However, I don’t believe it’s as devastating as you and Arthur perceive it to be. It actually should be reasonably easy to clear up, if you’re willing to do some things we haven’t seen before.”
“Like what?”
“Answer their accusations straight on. The first charge you face is that you dodge interviews. You can refute this by agreeing to sit down to one.”
Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance Page 12
