Night of the Ice Storm

by Stout, David;

  “I was thinking about what’s become of me.” Shafer laughed bitterly.

  “And what has, Will?”

  “I have become what I once despised.”

  “Which is?”

  “A man on the wrong side of forty who … I don’t know.” But he did, in a sudden, cruel insight. “I have become what the undead me in his early twenties despises. Do you see? The part of me that is young, or regrets not being, not being …”

  “Take your time, Will.”

  “No! That’s the point. I spent my time already, my best time, spent it badly.”

  The doctor lit his pipe and puffed.

  “I feel like there’s a rat inside my skull, trying to eat its way out.”

  “A powerful image, Will. You have a gift with words—”

  “A modest gift, which I squandered. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  Will paused, the doctor waited.

  “Do you know what that jerk told me to do today?” The shorthand between doctor and patient was well enough established so that Dr. Hopkins knew the jerk was Lyle Glanford, publisher of the Bessemer Gazette.

  “What, Will?”

  “I’ll tell you. But first let me tell a little more about my sins.” He paused, then felt the sins start to slither out of his soul like maggots. “I’m a journalist—me—but I missed the bus. When I was younger, starting out, when I should have had a cutting edge—” Without warning, his voice began to break, and he had to pause. “When I still had it, history was being made. In the South, with the civil rights movement, and in Vietnam. And … I …”

  Through the blue smoke the doctor spoke softly. “You missed out.”

  “Yes! The world offered adventure, a feast. I stood at the table and … and …”

  “You didn’t take a bite. And now you hate yourself for it.”

  “Hate myself. If we were talking about videotape, I could just rewind it, start over. But we’re talking about life. My life. And my work.”

  “How is work, Will?”

  The question, delivered in the doctor’s studied, low-key manner, triggered instant laughter. Will laughed loudly, shook his head, giggled like a baby, and wiped the tears from his cheeks with a handkerchief.

  “Laughter is good therapy, Will. Now, before I coax you to go on, I want to remind you of something. You’re not alone in thinking you missed a bus.”

  “I know, I feel sorry for myself.”

  “I wasn’t implying that at all. I’m only trying to remind you that just because you didn’t do something in your twenties doesn’t mean you are helpless in your forties. What we are talking about is control. Control, Will. Your ability to control your own life.”

  “Okay. So maybe I shouldn’t be talking about petty shit. Especially at your prices. Maybe I should go right to the big stuff instead. Whatever that is.”

  “If it bothered you enough to make you this angry, it’s not petty shit. So tell me, Will, how is work?”

  Will told the psychiatrist about his meeting that morning with the publisher.

  The summons had come just as Will Shafer was finishing reading that day’s paper. Shafer had heard from a couple of subordinate editors about stories that had been messed up badly enough to require corrections. He wondered if someone with clout—a department store owner, a hospital trustee, a banker, an industrialist, the bishop—had complained to the publisher.

  “Good morning, Will. Sit down and have coffee with me. I’ve thought of the name.”

  “Ah, the name.” Will sat in the visitor’s chair facing the huge desk. What name? he wondered. What the hell is he talking about?

  “For the celebration, Will. What we talked about the other day.” The publisher leaned forward, winked conspiratorily, and whispered, “Breaking ninety.”

  “Breaking ninety …”

  “You remember, Will.” Glanford’s blue eyes brightened slightly with impatience. “It’ll be perfect. The Gazette’s ninetieth birthday celebration will be topped off by a golf tournament, the theme of which will be … breaking ninety.”

  A pun, Will Shafer realized.

  “It’ll be perfect, Will. Lucky for us the paper’s anniversary falls in midsummer. I’ve already sounded out a few close friends at the club to work with you in setting things up. The Gazette is going to be the biggest story in town in midsummer, Will. My grandfather would be so … well, never mind. I just wanted to bounce the theme off you, knowing that you’re a golfer.”

  “Not much of one, I’m afraid. But the name is clever.”

  “I want this to be a real triumph,” the publisher said. “God knows, our community has had its share of troubles lately. But I really feel we’re starting to turn things around.”

  Lyle Glanford’s “sources,” Will Shafer knew, were the merchants and industrialists who most wanted to see the city’s economy get better and who were, to varying degrees, part of the problem.

  “Anyhow,” Glanford went on, “I know the remodeling of the clubhouse will be done on time. I mean”—the publisher leaned forward and winked again—“it is going to be done on time, if you get my drift.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “The movers and shakers of business and industry are human, even as you and I. When there’s talk of locating a plant or a regional office in a city, a little thing like whether the country club is tip-top or tacky can make a difference.”

  The phone on the publisher’s desk buzzed discreetly. He picked it up, smiled, and said, “How are you, Senator? … Good … good …”

  As Lyle Glanford leaned back in his chair and turned sideways toward him, Will Shafer studied the man. How very much like a publisher he looks, Shafer thought. How very much indeed, with his clear, shiny skin and ice-blue eyes and luxurious, gray-turning-white hair. The publisher always wore dark, classically tailored suits. He bought them out of town, and Will was sure there was not a clothier in Bessemer who made such fine suits.

  Shafer hadn’t seen the golf tournament coming, but he realized that the signs had been there. The publisher had mentioned wistfully from time to time that he wished the Gazette were approaching its one hundredth anniversary this year instead of just the ninetieth. What had the publisher said recently? “I’m sixty-six and I’ve already had one heart attack, so who knows if I’ll be around ten years from now, Will.”

  Lyle Glanford hung up and swung his chair around again to face his executive editor. “So, Will, this could be fun, eh?”

  “It certainly could be.” Will tried as hard as he could to inject enthusiasm into his voice.

  “You won’t be too busy to put in an hour or two a week to make it all work, will you?”

  “I’ll find the time.” More like several hours a week, Will thought.

  The publisher’s face turned solemn. “I know all the heavy hitters in Bessemer are looking forward to this, Will. But I want us to go a step further, to show … to, well, to blow our own horn a little to the whole world.”

  Will Shafer braced himself. There was no telling what that might mean.

  “I’m talking about bringing back some of our famous alumni, Will. Bessemer alumni who have gone on to make good, people who have made it in bigger, though certainly not better, cities. That’s where you come in. Look up some of the people who got their starts here at the Gazette, then went on to big things. Bring them back here for some golf and a good prime rib. A sentimental celebration, but one with a purpose. To show the world … well, you know …”

  “You want me to see if, to see who might come back? To play golf?” Will Shafer was dumbfounded.

  “Sure! Tap into your old-boy network.”

  I don’t have an old-boy network, Will thought.

  “It’s a small world, the newspaper business,” the publisher went on. “I don’t have to tell you that. All it takes is a few people from the national press, put ’em in friendly surroundings, fill ’em with good food and good ideas … hell, we might even get a cover story out of it.” The publisher beame
d.

  “A cover story?”

  “Why not? On Time, Newsweek …”

  Will Shafer was flabbergasted. What an unreal world the publisher dwelled in.

  “I know I’ve seen stories like that, Will. On Houston, Miami, Los Angeles …”

  “Those are major cities, sir.”

  “And we’re not, you mean? Let’s not lower our sights, Will.”

  “We’ll do what we can, I promise you.” Steady, Shafer told himself. Keep your voice steady.

  “Great. I know your best will be tip-top, Will. Lyle can help you.”

  “Fine.” Lyle Glanford, Jr., was the publisher’s son. He was not an unlikable man, especially considering whose son he was.

  “All right, then,” the publisher said. “Full speed ahead and all that. We’ve got an opportunity here for horn-tooting and … and … fun besides. Oh, and how’s Kathleen?”

  “Karen’s fine, sir.” The publisher often got Will’s wife’s name wrong.

  “Good, good. We’ll talk.”

  When Will Shafer got back to his desk, an assistant city editor was waiting for him. Shafer could tell from his face that there was trouble.

  “What’s up, Gene?”

  “Will, we’ve got a factual error in this morning’s installment of the housing series. We say that a company pleaded guilty five years ago …”

  Dear God, Will thought. “And?”

  “The company pleaded no contest. Their lawyer called.”

  “All right.” Shafer let out a long, slow breath of relief. “That’s not insignificant, but it’s not fatal either.”

  “No. It’s just wrong. The reporter feels bad about it.”

  “So do I. All right. Send me a memo for the official files, okay? I’ll talk to her later.”

  “Sure, Will.”

  Will thought he saw several sets of eyes looking at him. Other people were waiting for the opportunity to bring him their problems. Which would instantly become his problems. He needed a respite.

  He picked up the phone and dialed. The voice on the other end was familiar; Will knew the words by heart: “Hello, and thank you for calling Dial-a-Prayer. You know, the Bible tells us …”

  Dr. Hopkins puffed sympathetically on his pipe, creating languid curls of blue smoke. “Not such a great day at work, Will. All things considered.”

  “I love your understatement. This golf thing is too much. He thinks of me as his personal aide.”

  “And that makes you angry?”

  “Jesus Christ, yes!”

  “Good. That’s a healthy response.”

  “It makes me feel like I’m wasting my life. This golf tournament thing will eat up more and more of my time. Details, petty shit—Jesus!” He had to stop; a vein in his forehead was pulsing with anger.

  “Let me put a bookmark in here, Will. Our time is almost up, and it’s a good place to pause anyway.” The psychiatrist relit his pipe. “In no way do I make light of your difficulties at work, Will. But—and listen now, because I’ll say this as many times as I have to, until it sinks in—if you had more self-esteem, more sense of your own inner power, you’d be much, much better at dealing with these troubles.”

  Will Shafer nodded his agreement, though the pain in his forehead was still there.

  “I can’t wave a wand and make Lyle Glanford less of a jerk, Will. But I can help you find the strength in yourself to do what’s appropriate.”

  “That might be tough.”

  “It will be tough. And it won’t come overnight. You’ll have to do the work; I can provide some insight. And support.” The doctor paused, his eyes turning serious and laser bright. Then he said gently, “Eventually we’ll talk about your guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Guilt. We’ll get to it, Will. We’ll find what you’re burying, or choosing to forget.”

  “How do you know I feel guilt?”

  The doctor just smiled wisely.

  “What if I’m afraid to go there?” Will said.

  “One step at a time, Will. I’ll see you next week.”

  Eight

  The next morning, Will Shafer knocked on the half-open door to Lyle Glanford, Jr.’s, office. The publisher’s son looked up from his cluttered desk, smiled, and waved him in.

  “Morning,” Will said.

  “Good morning, Will. Bet I know why you’re here so early. Breaking ninety?”

  “Yes. Right.”

  “Hell of an idea, Will. Don’t you think? And a hell of a slogan, too. Don’t you agree?”

  “Well, it’s catchy in a way, I guess.”

  “It sucks, Will.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said, it sucks. You and I have known each other long enough, we don’t have to bullshit each other.”

  Will chuckled. “I gotta say, I was taken off guard by the publisher yesterday when he dumped it all on me.” He could feel himself relaxing.

  “You and me both, Will. I’m only his son, and not incidentally the vice president of the Gazette Publishing Company, whatever the hell that means. I’ll tell you what it means: it means I have to do some things I don’t like. You want coffee, Will? I mean decent coffee, instead of that terrible stuff you brew in your office.”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  Lyle Glanford, Jr., pressed a buzzer under his desk, mumbled something into it.

  “Lucky for you I’m an early riser, Will. Maybe I can get enough of this shit squared away to take a lot of load off you.”

  “I could live with that.”

  “Really? You mean running a paper in a decaying industrial town and trying to keep the bankers and bishop and candlestick makers happy and do your job at the same time … you mean that keeps you busy, fella?”

  “Most days, yes.”

  “I bet. Thanks, Gladys.”

  Lyle was right; the coffee was better than the stuff Will Shafer brewed for himself.

  “Can I be frank, Will?”

  “Sure.”

  “We have something in common on this thing, Will. I mean, the publisher says he wants something, and we have to do it. Even if it isn’t our cup of tea. Or coffee.”

  Shafer didn’t know what to say, so he nodded.

  “Of course, my old man would say I never found out what my cup of tea is, Will. But that’s my problem.” Lyle Glanford, Jr., smiled self-deprecatingly. “Anyhow, I’m going to help you on this thing.”

  “Thanks, Lyle. I can use it. I appreciate it.”

  “Hey, I owe you. Seems to me I can recall your doing me some favors.”

  “Well, everybody needs a favor sometime.”

  “Sure is the truth.”

  The desk phone buzzed.

  “Gladys,” Lyle Glanford said, “I really do want the calls held.… Oh. In that case …”

  The publisher’s son put his hand over the phone and whispered to Will: “It’s my ex-wife calling.”

  Will stood up to leave, but Lyle waved vigorously, good-naturedly, for him to stay.

  “Michelle? How are you?” Lyle said into the phone. “Okay.… Sure.… All right, you can do that, but ideally those would be rolled over.… Oh, I see. I see what you mean. Listen, let me get back to you, okay? Good … good.… You, too. Bye.”

  Will was embarrassed as Lyle hung up and shook his head. “How’s Karen, Will?”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re a lucky man, Will. Let me tell you, if there’s a hell on earth, it’s a divorce. Hey, I say that, and I’ve been divorced a couple of years already. Ah, you don’t need to hear this shit. I guess marriage wasn’t my cup of tea.”

  Will Shafer saw the pain on the face and was touched by compassion for the man sipping coffee across from him. “Who’s to say what the right brew is, Lyle?”

  Lyle nodded and smiled. “That’s a nice thing to say, Will. I appreciate it. Anyhow, so you can get back to editing this goddamn newspaper, let me give you a rundown.”

  For the next hour, they discussed plans for the Gazette’s ninetieth re
union and the golf tournament that would cap it. Lyle Glanford, Jr., led the conversation, and Will was impressed at what he had already done in terms of planning. Lyle’s ideas about whom to invite and what to serve them, what companies to hire for food and decorations, which people to tap for committees and why—they all made more sense than Will had thought they might. And Lyle had planned for emergencies ranging from rain to possible strikes in the catering business.

  “Terrific, Lyle,” Will said at last, meaning it.

  “Hey! Maybe I’ve found my niche, Will. Party organizer! What the hell, a sense of humor helps me hold on to my sanity.”

  Lyle laughed, and Will chuckled with him, even though he couldn’t help feeling sorry for the publisher’s son. “Lyle, you must have put a lot of hours in on this.”

  “I won’t deny it, Will. But if we’re gonna do it, I want it to be right.”

  “I have to admit, when I talked to the publisher, I had the idea we were starting from ground zero. I had no idea you—”

  “Will, I could win a Nobel for perfecting cold fusion, and the old man wouldn’t … Never mind. When he mentioned this damn reunion thing to me, I knew he’d drag you into it. I know what a job running this damn paper is, and I know you’re gonna be plenty busy regardless. Least I can do …”

  “Lyle, you’ve done a lot. I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Will. Not until it’s over. But I’ll help all I can. Hey, maybe we’ll even have some fun. What about the staff? How do you think they’ll react to writing anniversary stories?”

  “Oh, I guess …”

  “Yeah, they’ll piss and moan. Complain about writing puff pieces to make advertisers and the Chamber of Commerce feel good. But they’ll quiet down when they have some booze and good food. The golfers among them will probably enjoy a chance to play at the country club. Don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. Probably. It’s a good course.”

  “By Bessemer standards. Don’t bullshit me, Will. We’ve known each other too long.”

  Will laughed. “Actually, it isn’t a bad course.”

  “Hey, Will, the important thing is getting the clubhouse remodeled in time. I’m leaving that up to the old man. Stay in touch.”

  “I will.”