"Meaning?"
"You'll never leave Blackbridge."
"I'll leave when we both get jobs somewhere else."
"We'll see," she said.
"What makes you say that?"
"Are you getting angry at me?"
"Just want to know why you'd think I'd stay in this place after all I've been through."
"It's because of all you've been through. You have a lot of gold to mine here, Darling, and I think you're just getting started. You've found your niche."
"Hell," I said.
"You'll see."
"I'll go wherever you go," I said.
"Don't say that."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Don't put your life plans in someone else's hands, Milton." She looked at me with a stern face and shook her head. "Don't rely on someone else for your goals or happiness. You talk about things that break your heart? That'll break your heart."
***
"So . . . why'd you turn down that scholarship?" The voice was calm and even. Over the telephone, it almost sounded robotic. I sat at my small desk in the corner of The Scrantonian's layout offices biting the end of a pen and staring into a paper-white computer screen, cradling the telephone handset between my neck and shoulder.
"Who is this?" I asked.
"You don't remember me, Milton?"
"I'm sorry, but I don't—"
"This is Bentley," the voice said. "Bentley Burke."
I placed my pen on the desk and turned away from the computer screen. "Yes," was all I said.
"You sound thrilled to be speaking to me."
"It's not something I thought I'd be doing when I woke up today."
"Fair enough."
"Still in Chicago?"
"Came back to Blackbridge yesterday," he said.
"That so?"
"That so."
"And the first thing you do when you get back in town is call me and ask why I didn't take that scholarship years ago—"
"I know you're busy," he said. "Sure, I'm curious about it, but it's not that important. But I do have another question for you."
"What's that?"
"What time do you get off work?" he asked, his voice trailing off, sounding almost sheepish.
"Why?"
"I would like to talk to you about something. We can meet somewhere in Blackbridge when you get out."
"Is it newsworthy?" I asked.
He was quiet for a few seconds. "No, Milton. No, it's not newsworthy, but you might find it . . . interesting. What time are you usually in town after work?"
"Six or so."
"Okay, we'll meet at seven. Your house."
"Why not yours?" I asked.
"You know why."
"Actually, I don't," I said.
"We'll meet at your house. Don't worry, it'll be interesting." The line clicked, then purred and went silent.
***
Bentley arrived in a teardrop-shaped black Audi coupe. My mother's old car sat next to it in the driveway, sunburns in the paint enlarging like mange. I wanted to tell him Liz wouldn't be able to park in the driveway with his car parked there, but he spoke before I could tell him.
"So," he said, sitting on the living room loveseat, dressed in black overcoat, black pants, black shoes and white shirt opened at the collar, "You've got your parents' house now."
"I do," I said, eyeing the large briefcase he'd set on the floor.
"Good to have a place free and clear. Very good. Debt can kill, Milton. Literally. I've seen it." He paused again, eyes darting around the room. "Married, too?"
"You've been researching me," I said.
"Actually, no. People just know you here. Word gets around fast. Even when you're not looking for information, it just comes your way. I'll . . . well . . . I'll give you an example: I was in Chicago a few months ago sitting at some dinner party not too far from the Mercantile Exchange. I was sitting next to a table of people with no idea who they were, and one of them mentions a book coming out this December. Starts talking about this, I think the phrase was, dark as hell, book about a small town in Pennsylvania. Then they say it's a memoir of a kid who lived in this small town called Blackbridge."
"Jesus," I said, throwing up my hands.
"No, no . . . wait a second," Bentley said, holding up a hand. "I turned to these people and said, 'Well, I'm from Blackbridge,' and they said, 'Really? Well, maybe you know this guy named Milton Conroy'. Do you see what I mean, Milton? Word just gets around, even if you can't help it."
"If you're worried about your family's name, don't," I said. "It's mostly about me, not you."
"I'm aware of that," he said. "They gave me an advance copy, and it got me thinking about what I was doing. You know what I was doing, Milton? This job at a hedge fund. Shuffling papers, looking at, for God's sake, mortgage-backed securities, energy futures, that sort of thing. I get these big checks, and have no idea what I did to earn them, and here you are, already got a book coming out with a small, but very respectable, publisher. You've got a legacy, Milton."
"Some legacy," I sniffed.
"More than that what most people leave behind. You left something that'll be floating around out there long after you're gone." Bentley looked away, pursed his lips. I saw that the sides of his hair already had flecks of gray. I'd seen pictures of his father, and I wondered how long before Bentley's smooth skin would wrinkle and drop like his. He said: "The two people at that table who read your book were really excited about it. You did what you wanted to do, Milton. I fell into what I'm doing now. So I'm thinking: What would I really like to do?"
I shrugged. In the kitchen, the coffeemaker gurgled and hissed.
He picked up his briefcase, opened it, and pulled out a thick fold of high-quality newsprint. "You know how those of us would always see those ghost hunters come in town? Ghost tours? Television crews that pop their heads up around Halloween? I was thinking how people think of us outside the valley. How they see us in this . . . dark light, like touched in a bad way."
"You're not going to build a ghost-centric amusement park, are you?"
"Give me more credit than that, Milton," he said, "No." He dropped the thick fold of paper onto the coffee table. He pointed at it. "Have a look."
I picked it up. It was heavy, the paper thick and bright white. I unfurled it, saw a richly colored banner of a town silhouetted under a night sky. In the background, black hills topped by red-beaconed antennas. Below the large banner, the words Blackbridge Banner. The paper was sturdy, the text was Greeked out but used an elegant typeface in headline and body text. Each page, each section laid out with large colorful pictures and infographics. The layout was rich and expansive. There was a small local section and two other sections that caught my eye.
"The new Blackbridge Banner," he said. "I'm remaking the whole newspaper."
"Bentley," I said, "papers are downsizing and consolidating all over the country. A paper with this quality—"
"Expensive," he said, nodding. "Yes. It'll be weekly, not daily."
"But only the front section is news," I said. "What are these other sections?"
"Milton," he said, "the Banner is on its last legs. Everything in print is on its last legs. Newspapers. Magazines. I was thinking of something different, something that would give people outside this town a reason to read it. Something more . . . traditional, but not . . . traditional, if that makes any sense. I have an idea, but it's not concrete yet. But I'll need you to help me shape it."
"Me," I said.
"You."
"Bentley, this is just a pipe dream," I said. " I know your family has money, but newspapers are money sponges, and you're thinking of remaking a tiny newspaper on the brink of bankruptcy for a town of less than ten thousand and thinking people will buy it."
"Like I said, I have some ideas, Milton."
"But if you don't have a solid idea of what it's going to be, I don't know w
hat I can do. It's all a bit, excuse me for saying, crazy."
"I'm from Blackbridge, Milton," he said. "What else would you expect? Tell me, Milton, you like laying out stories about dog catchers in Dupont or city hall highlights in Scranton, or would you rather work on something that uses your real talents, namely your writing? And, let me ask: Do you like scraping by on that check they toss at you?"
I placed the paper back on the table. The coffee machine was silent, and the house filled with coffee aroma.
"Milton," he said, "you're a storyteller."
"I'm also married. I can't just jump into an experiment that may go belly-up in a few months. We need health insurance, we need to buy groceries."
"I know what you mean, Milton, I got married, too. Brought her back from Chicago. Have you—no, you haven't met her. You'll like her, which reminds me. . . ." He stood up and checked his watch. "Keep the sample of the paper, he said, but don't show or tell anyone else about it, except your wife. Think it over, think of a salary, call me back." He placed his business card on the coffee table.
"Why are you doing all this?" I asked. "Why'd you come back and want to be a Charles Foster Kane in some creepy little town? Why'd you call me in the first place?"
He buttoned his coat and picked up his briefcase. "Tell me, Milton, why'd you turn down that journalism scholarship?"
"I didn't want to owe anyone anything."
He nodded. "Please call me when you have an answer to my proposal." Bentley turned and made his way to the door. "Look forward to your call, Milton."
Before I could stand up, he opened the door, waved good-bye, and closed the door behind him. I sat in the living room chair, staring at the newspaper mock-up on the table.
Liz came home after nine. I was still sitting in the chair, still looking at the newspaper mock-up.
"Hi," she said, textbook-laden bag slung over her right shoulder.
"Hi," I replied.
"How was your day?"
***
"When does he want your answer?" Liz asked.
"I'm assuming soon," I said. I sat beside her on the loveseat, her hand brushing my right thigh. "I've got my job now. I don't want to be jobless in two months if I work at the Banner and it falls apart."
"Do you have a guarantee that the Scrantonian won't fall apart, Milt?" she said. "You're always telling me how hard it is to get jobs as a reporter, or as anything, in the newspaper business anymore, telling me how everything's downsizing. No move's a safe move, Darling." She kissed my cheek, stood up, and walked upstairs to the study, her footsteps padding and creaking through the ceiling like a ghost pushing through the walls.
I stared at the wall, sorting options through my head until they became a jumble.
When I went to bed, Liz was hunched over the desk, writing in a thick textbook, her nose almost touching the pages.
***
At one in the morning, I sat on the edge of the bed, looking aimlessly out the window, thinking of what was and what could be, living in near-poverty in the present, maybe earning a livable wage in the near-future. I'd earned little up to that point. The house was a hand-me-down, my car was a hand-me-down, my education was financed through life insurance money and government loans. My book advance was swallowed up by taxes and debt. Curled in the blankets was my wife, and I still wasn't sure why she'd married me, why I'd had any right to have wanted her to marry me. I didn't think marrying someone who was just barely scraping by was in her cards.
Liz's hand brushed against my back.
"Milton," she said, "take the job."
Through my shirt, static crackled over my skin.
Chapter Nine
I met Bentley at the Blackbridge Banner offices two days later. The newspaper occupied an entire floor at the top of a red brick warehouse in the center of town. Its large windows gave a complete panorama of the entire town and valley from rivers to hilltops, and its varnished hardwood floors creaked underfoot. Boxes were piled in corners and against a wall, and the air smelled of ink toner and new plastic. Bentley himself sat behind a clean gray metal desk in the corner editor-in-chief's office. The office had been cleaned out, the only decoration a wall calendar from the previous year. It was the office where an elderly man named Jeff Genell had his two reporters write reports on potholes and parking meters and where he had his layout staff of one paste up blurry photographs around his lengthy editorials about how much things were better in Blackbridge in the 1940's and 1950's. Mr. Genell was nowhere to be seen, just Bentley, who looked tired and dark-eyed. He'd just shaved that morning, fresh pink razor nicks visible under his nose.
I told him the salary and benefits I needed, that I needed them iron-clad for two years, and that I needed to know a job was waiting for me as soon as I turned in my two-weeks' notice at The Scrantonian.
"My wife and I are kind of living on the financial edge right now," I said.
Bentley nodded. "I understand."
I expected negotiation, but got none. "Does this mean my salary requirement is fine?"
"It is."
I fidgeted. "It's a high salary. Especially for someone new to it all, I mean."
He leaned forward, placed his arms on the desk, looked down at the green blotter. "Like I said the other night, Milton. It won't be a typical newspaper."
"Any solid idea of what it will be?"
"It's still in the works." He then looked off into space, like Liz when sorting through clutter in her brain. The office was quiet, and when I sniffed, it echoed loudly off the red brick walls. I didn't smell alcohol on his breath, only cologne that smelled vaguely like wood shavings. He stared off and nodded.
"So," I said, that's what I'm looking for. "I'm mostly concerned that my wife and I have some security."
"What does your wife do?" he asked, now looking over my shoulder at the wall behind me.
I cleared my throat. "She's started graduate study at Coxton College. Getting a master's in physics."
"Oh, that's interesting. Was she the source of your article on the physics department at Coxton?
"No, she wasn't. I met her after it was published."
"Oh."
"Yes."
We sat in silence for almost a minute before he stood up and extended his hand, which I shook. "I'll see you in two weeks," he said, walking me to the office door.
"I suppose so," I said. We walked into the main offices where new computers still in their boxes were stacked against the far wall. Two workers were busy unpacking large color printers from their crates. Bentley pointed to the boxes against the wall and the boxes strewn about the corners.
"The old ones seemed—inadequate," he said.
"They probably were," I replied. "For what you seem to want, I think."
He stood, folded his arms, nodded at the boxes.
"I'll be going, then?" I said.
"Okay," Bentley said, still nodding at the boxes.
I backed away slowly, leaving Bentley in reverie.
***
I called Liz on her phone from the house, but was routed to her voicemail. I told her that I'd accepted the position, that Bentley had accepted my salary, that the whole meeting was odd, like the first, and asked what she thought.
I walked through the house, forgetting how quiet the town and the house were during a weekday, how every pop and creak in the house's skeleton was amplified in the silence, how every brush of breeze against the windows brought rattling reports from room to room until Liz filled it with her voice, her laughter, her pens and pencils scribbling on paper and textbooks in the study. I ran my fingers over furniture and the bannister, remembering how the dust piled high after Mom's death, how the plates piled in the sink and the windows remained dirt streaked for months until I'd met Liz. I smiled when I thought about her laugh, about her face, about when she first touched me and how it made me vibrate from head to toe.
I walked into the study, saw how Liz kept her books arrange
d perfectly in her bookcase, alphabetized by subject matter, her paper stacked neatly at the center of the green desk blotter, the computer angled at the desk's edge against the wall. Three black pens were lined up neatly next to the paper stack. One had teeth marks in it, and I imagined her biting away at it while she worked through an equation. I picked up the pen and saw a small shape emerge behind it. I picked up the other pens and uncovered a postage-stamp-sized ink drawing of a pair of clouds over a flat plain. It was the first doodle of Liz's that I'd ever seen. I replaced the pens over the drawing, walked back downstairs, sat on the couch, and waited for Liz to return my call.
***
"I'm sorry, Milt. I was so busy. What did your message say?"
Liz paced her backpack on the floor, sat in the living room chair across from me.
I told her about the meeting with Bentley. "Just wanted to know what you thought about it," I said.
"Does it matter?" she asked. "You made your decision, and if you think it was the right one, then it was. You don't need my opinion, Milt." Her voice was slow, as if the air had to pull words from her mouth.
"You thought I should take the job."
"Didn't you want to?"
"I think."
"And now you don't?"
"Do you think I made the right choice?"
"It doesn't matter, Milt."
"But it does, Liz. What if Bentley can't follow through, and I lose my job and don't have an old one to go back to?"
"If it happens, it happens," Liz said, a smile on her face.
"It isn't funny," I said.
"No, it isn't," she said. "But you had to make a choice of some sort, right? You made it, you live with the consequences, good or bad. You asked me to marry you, I did. I saw choices, I made one. You can't get locked in fear cycles, Milt. No choice is ever going to be perfect, no situation's ever going to be perfect. You make it, see what happens. If it works, fine, if it doesn't, you walk away. You don't need other people's opinions or judgment on what you do with your life. It's like when you went and wrote that story on the physics program at Coxton. You made a choice and did it."
"And almost got expelled," I said.
"And you didn't. That might have been the first time you took a risk, and it paid off. If you don't take risks, you stay in the same place, you melt into the shadows until you become one. That's not for me, Milton, and I hope that's not for you." Liz stood up, walked over, and kissed me lightly on the cheek before walking to the kitchen.
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