by Tom Hogan
William nodded. “From what I gather, the big issue is getting Pete to dive under the waves as they approach. Josh keeps telling Pete how tranquil it is under there, that the waves can’t get to you. That if you stay on your feet, where the wave can get at you, you’ll get punished. Pete’s rejoinder is that there’s only water where Josh wants him to go, while there’s air up where he is.”
“Sounds like Josh may have met his match.” The Gimp motioned around the bar. “What are you doing down here so early, anyway? It’s usually Lucky at this time, dodging whatever work there is up at the camp.”
“Paul wants to talk about something. Said he’d rather talk to me down here than up in the L.”
“Everything okay between you two?” William nodded. “Between him and Josh?”
“Best I can tell.” William looked at his watch and stood up. “Okay if I use the upstairs office?”
“So what’s so mysterious that we couldn’t talk up in the L?”
“I need to get your advice on something. It’s related to my career.”
“I’m not that kind of counselor, but what’s going on?”
“Well, as you know, I’m on a bit of a roll down here.”
“Tell me about it. You’re in almost every magazine that Lucky subscribes to, and Harry doesn’t even call out to us anymore when your commercials come on the TV.”
“Jerry, my agent, says I’ve got the best of both worlds. The older audience sees a familiar face, the younger audience is seeing me for the first time.”
“So what’s the issue?”
“Michelob wants to relaunch the Michelob Man campaign—print and radio as well as TV. They want to develop the character over a two-year period.”
“And the problem is…?”
“Dialogue. Speaking roles. I don’t test well. Every time I read for something, I don’t know, it all seems so fake that I just come off…’wooden’ is the word that keeps coming back to us.”
“Can’t you get a coach? Take a class?”
“The Michelob folks want to get going soon. Like in two weeks.”
“So what’s the issue? And why am I down at The Gimp’s talking to you instead of up in the camp?”
“Because Jerry has an idea, something he thinks that could take me to the next level—certainly of modeling, maybe even television or film. He says that while I was away, modeling changed. It used to be anonymous—you might know the face but almost never, unless you were someone like Lauren Hutton, did you know the name. That’s changed, at least for women. Almost anyone these days could name five models. They’re even calling some of them ‘supermodels’. Jerry thinks I could be the first male supermodel.”
“Again, Paul, what…”
“It means getting the press involved.” He waited for a response, then said, “Now do you see why I called?”
William was quiet for a long moment. “So where do things currently stand?”
“Jerry says I’m hot enough now—and he’s surprised that no one in the press has gotten wind of my story already. It just shows how different the world of male models is from female. But he says that we either get in front of the story and do it on our terms or wait and hold our breath that when the press gets ahold of it, they tell it right.”
“And he’s counseling the first option.”
“Yeah. He says that if we hold off, it’ll look like we were trying to hide something, even though I was innocent.”
“So is there a reporter down there he likes? That you can trust?”
There was a pause. “You ever heard of a show called POV? Stands for ‘Point of View.’”
William cringed. “Celebrity journalism? That’s your forum?”
“Jerry says they’d kill for a story like this. To the point that we could not only set the terms but the questions as well.”
“So you’re going to do it?”
“Well, that’s what I want to talk to Josh about. What do you think?”
William drew circles on a pad of paper, the pen digging into the paper until it ripped. “Does Jerry know about Baltimore?” he said finally.
“No. Why would he know anything about that?”
“You should talk to Carol. Once the press starts looking into your past, who says they’re going to stop at Phoenix?” When there was no answer on the other end, he continued. “All I’m saying is that you better make sure this never goes anywhere near Baltimore. Or near Josh, for that matter. Or be prepared to stay away from here for a good long while, if it does.”
“I’ve got no option, Jerry says. They’re going to get the story either way.”
“You’ve got an option,” William almost sighed. “You can pass on the Michelob campaign.”
“How many beers have you had, Will? You’re talking about the chance of a lifetime balanced against a longshot. Make it three longshots. That they’ll go back past Phoenix, that they’ll find out about Baltimore, and that they’ll care about what happened there, since it had to do with Josh, not me.”
William’s pen dug into the paper again. “I’m just saying talk to Carol. Then talk to Josh. Then make your decision. But don’t say you don’t have options.”
Three days later, at eight in the evening, the population of Moetown, joined by The Gimp, sat in front of the set in the L and watched as the theme music from POV washed over the opening credits. Then a serious-faced Dick Robbins and Jenny Moore walked out of the curtain to loud applause from the three hundred avid fans in the studio. Dick motioned for quiet.
“Thank you and welcome to POV. Tonight we’re devoting the entire hour to a special subject—to a special man, really. We’re going to be witness to an injustice—how it happened and what it cost our guest. You may not know his name, but I guarantee you know his face. And after today, I can guarantee you’ll remember his story.”
As they went to commercial, Josh stood up, whistled Zeke from his post-dinner nap, grabbed the heavy flashlight by the door, and the two headed off into the woods.
“I’m surprised he made it that far,” Lucky said to no one in particular.
“What did Paul tell him?” Donna asked William.
“That he and Jerry met with the producers and hosts and set both the terms and the structure of the show. A ten-minute intro on Paul and his career, pre-Phoenix, with interviews with the Michelob folks. Then fifteen minutes on Phoenix and its resolution. Then they bring Paul out and play the innocent-man-wrongly-jailed to the max. And a final segment on his plans now, with emphasis on the new Michelob campaign.”
Zeke and Josh were gone two hours, Zeke splitting off from Josh as they approached the L and heading off to Clark’s cabin. William sat on the front porch; he closed his book as Josh approached and stood up.
Josh looked at William, his eyes searching. “That bad?”
William nodded. “Let’s go down to your cabin.”
Josh’s cabin consisted of a single large room and a bathroom, the large room divided into a living area and a sleeping area by a long couch. There was also a wingback chair with ottoman next to the Franklin stove. In the northwest corner was a freshly-framed doorway covered in plastic.
Over the past six months Josh, Clark and Pete had started adding on to each structure, starting with Number Three, which gained a bedroom for Pete and Donna and a smaller one for Harry. This was followed by two bedrooms for Number Six, mostly at the urging of The Gimp, who said he was sick of explaining to people that William and Lucky weren’t queer, just lazy. Then a study for Carol.
Josh sat down on the wingback chair, William took the stool. “So what happened?”
“The first half stayed on script. Paul wasn’t on stage. Just the segment on life before Phoenix and then the section with the police and DA about how it had all gone wrong. Then, after the commercial, they brought Paul out.”
“How’d he do?”
>
“He did well. Came off as gracious, understanding even. No bitterness.”
Josh hesitated. “Baltimore come up at all?”
“Not by name. They asked how his family handled all of this and he told them that both his folks were dead. That pretty much shut down that line of questioning. You didn’t come up at all.”
“So what aren’t you telling me?”
“About ten minutes left, they asked him his feelings towards his accuser. You could see the subject was wearing thin, but Paul gathered himself for one more gracious moment. He said he’d seen in jail how violence can do strange things to a person, that he’d seen the police photos and knew how badly she was hurt, how much fear she was living in. As a result, he’d left the bitterness behind.”
“So back to my question.”
“The woman host—I can’t remember her name—said what would you say to her if you had the chance. And Paul says he hadn’t given it much thought, since he really didn’t expect their paths to cross. The next thing you know, the curtain parts and the woman is standing there. She’s frozen—timid, pitiful almost—so the host goes over and guides her to a seat across from Paul.”
“Jesus. What did Paul do?”
“He was somewhere between stunned and furious. The show had sandbagged him, it was clear. Then the camera shifted to a wide shot as the hosts went after the woman, asking her what happened and how could she see an innocent man go to jail in the prime of his life.”
William frowned. “And she just collapses. Tells the story, but it’s in between these large, gulping sobs. She couldn’t look at Paul the whole time.”
“Jesus,” Josh said in a low voice, almost to himself.
William held up a hand. “It gets worse. When she finishes, the woman asks Paul did he believe the woman, that she was sorry. He looks at her like she’s crazy and gestures to the sobbing woman. Of course he believes her. So the host presses him—did he forgive her?”
“I’m not believing this.”
“The whole thing was like a Pinter play. Then the host went over to the woman and got her to her feet. She suggested that they hug, to bring some closure to this whole affair. She kind of pushes the woman gently towards Paul. So here’s this sobbing, pathetic woman walking towards Paul with her arms out. I mean, what was he supposed to do?”
“The Hug”, as it became known, became a journalistic sensation. Not because of its news value, Carol explained, but because it was emblematic of a newly aggressive journalism. Op-ed pieces proliferated and journalism schools took up the topic. Paul, taking Carol’s advice, had no comment or participation in any of the activities.
Just when it looked like the story had run its course, People magazine, beaten to the punch by POV, came out with its cover story on Paul. Since Phoenix was trodden turf, it went deeper and further back, interviewing women he had dated and men who had served time with him. They searched the university databases and found his one semester at the University of Maryland, which led to five paragraphs on Paul and Josh’s Baltimore roots: father dead when Paul was four, mother at fifteen, the boys shunted from one relative to another for two years until they took their own apartment, supporting themselves with odd jobs. There was one photo from this period, the boys fourteen and twelve, though they could pass for twins.
Paul called up to the L the day after the article appeared. He talked to Lucky for a minute, then asked him to hand the phone to William.
“Has he seen the article yet?”
“Someone had it down at The Gimp’s last night.”
“And…?”
“You should have warned him about it.”
“I didn’t know anything about it. I was ready to fire Jerry, but he swore he didn’t have anything to do with it. But he did say that he was getting a lot of calls, all either sympathetic or looking to hire me.” There was a pause. “How’s Josh doing with all this?”
“Luckily Carol was there when he saw the article. She took him into the pool room and explained that this week was the peak of it. No one was going to try to top a People cover story, so just ride it out and in a couple of weeks you’ll be yesterday’s news.”
“You think he believed her?”
“Well, he didn’t leave the bar, so yeah, I think so.”
“Think it would be okay if I came up? I’ve cleared my schedule for the next couple of weeks. I don’t want this thing to fester. If he wants to take it out on me, he’s got a right to.”
“I don’t think he will, but sure, come on up. Besides, The Gimp will be ecstatic. The playoffs are starting this weekend and Bernie’s having a tough time out in center field.”
CHAPTER 25
Half a mile north of the L, surrounded by a natural amphitheater of pines and granite, two small cement-lined pools lie side by side. They are all that remain of a health spa from the previous century. Fed by an underground reservoir of percolating water, their temperatures are constant, the lower pool three degrees cooler than its partner. The springs are a closely-kept mountain secret, with outsiders warned by the locals that they are owned by a group of ex-cons who don’t take well to strangers.
Over the years an unwritten schedule has developed. Weekdays mornings and the entire weekend are open to the mountain community; weekday afternoon and evenings are reserved for Moetown, plus The Gimp.
Of the Moetown citizens, William was the springs’ primary frequenter, hiking up to them most days, either with company or a book. If The Gimp wanted to use the springs, Josh met him on the turnout above the springs and, with the terrain too rough for a wheelchair, slung him over his back and hiked down. If the two of them were alone or the other bathers were men, he stripped down and joined The Gimp and the others. If there were women there, he stayed, seated and clothed, on the granite slab and waited until The Gimp was ready to leave.
On Paul’s first day in the camp after the POV episode, the two brothers holed up in his trailer, talking through lunch and into the afternoon. Finally, around four, the two changed into their running shorts and set out on a long run. The route Josh chose was a torturous eleven-mile route that he generally ran only once a month, and then alone. At the end of the run, the two walked with difficulty up to the springs.
“You boys look like hell,” William called to them as they breached the bushes. The water up to his chin, he leaned his head back so that he could read the paperback that he held clear of the water. “Was he punishing you, Paul?” He lowered his gaze to look at them. “Were you punishing him, Josh?”
“William, what a pleasant surprise.” Josh slipped out of his running clothes and submerged himself in the pool above William.
“So are you two pals again?” William said when Josh surfaced.
Josh looked at him evenly. “We never weren’t. Excuse the double negative.”
“Just this once.” He turned to Paul. “So how long are you going to be hiding out with us?”
“Two weeks, three tops. Jerry says he can use my absence to put the heat on the Michelob execs.”
An easy silence settled over the pool. William went back to his book and the brothers let the water leech the pain from their legs and upper body. They stared up into the late August sky and its thin blue texture, drained of its depth by weeks of steady heat. The trees surrounding the springs were thin and crisp, motionless in the dry air.
Finally Josh hoisted himself out and dressed quickly, slipping into his running shoes without putting on socks. “I told Carol I’d help her with dinner,” he said and was gone.
Paul joined William in the lower pool and settled in. William put his book down but stared up into the sky for over five minutes.
“You guys were in the trailer for a long time.”
“We had a lot to talk about.”
“You think the People piece is the end of it?”
“I hope so. He was pissed about the photo o
f the two of us as kids, wanted me to find out who leaked it. He’s worried that it might be someone from the gang, which would raise a new set of questions.”
William cupped his hand and let the water leak through his fingers. “What kind of gang are we talking about?”
“It wasn’t anything serious. Just a bunch of punks hanging together for company and for our own defense. And we protected the neighborhood, of course.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, but are we talking about extortion?”
Paul winced slightly. “More or less. It was a neighborhood tradition. The shopkeepers and business owners had always paid someone, just to keep the more serious gangs off their back. This time it was us.”
Paul looked over at William, who kept his mouth shut and his eyes fixed on the trees. “I’m not defending it. But when you’re seventeen and you’ve got yourself and a fifteen-year-old brother to take care of, a paper route won’t do the trick.”
William’s eyes stayed on the trees. “So that’s where he learned to fight like that.”
“That was prison. Back in Baltimore he wasn’t much of a fighter. Not unless he was pushed. Tell you the truth, if it hadn’t been my gang, he’d never have gotten involved.”
“Your gang?”
“Yeah. I started it once we came back from our last foster home. And I don’t apologize for it. It kept us in rent and food.” He paused. “The only thing I’d have done different…” His voice trailed off.
“Would be what?”
“I’d have kept Josh out of it.” His gaze joined William’s, off in the trees. “I’d have protected him better.”
CHAPTER 26
Two weeks into Paul’s retreat from the public eye, late on a Wednesday afternoon, the phone in the L rang. Lucky stood up as Harry asked him if he had any sevens. He shook his head and pointed to the deck as he picked up the phone.
“Hello?” He listened for a moment, then cupped the receiver. “Go get your mom. Tell her it’s long distance.” He turned back to the receiver. “It’ll take a couple of minutes. You want to talk to me or have her call you back?”