by Bryan Gruley
He began to pace between the leaky watercooler and the copier-and-fax machine that had been low on toner for two weeks. His penny loafers clacked on the linoleum, almost but not quite drowning out the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.
“Let’s hear it,” I said.
“Hutch’s Hockey Heaven wants to lock in a quarter-page ad twice a week for a month, ramping up to a half page when the new rink opens,” Philo said. “That alone”—he stopped and closed his eyes as he counted on his fingers—“is close to twenty percent of current budget and would help push us up, quarter to quarter, a couple of percentage points.”
“Nothing to sneeze at,” I said, although, in truth, I knew almost nothing about ads or circulation or anything but putting stories in the paper, such as they were in a town like Starvation. I knew ads brought in money, and money gave me space in the paper. The rest I left to the business guys.
“No, sir,” he said. “Better up than down, which is where it’s been going for the last two years.”
“Maybe we could get some toner,” I said. “I had to call the Kiwanis the other day because I couldn’t read the flyer they faxed about their mostacciolli dinner.”
Philo hesitated for a second before resuming his pacing.
“Even better,” he said, “the rink itself has proposed a month’s buy of full pages in the weeks before it opens followed by a special section—they’re talking eight pages, full color—about the rink, the local hockey team, et cetera. That’s a little gold mine in and of itself. Then they’ll renew the weekly ads on a month-to-month basis depending on local interest, which I’m sure will be no problem to sustain. The town is dying for this.”
Starvation was indeed eager for the new rink. The old one, once called the John D. Blackburn Memorial Ice Arena after an old River Rats coach but now called simply Starvation Lake Arena, was a little more than thirty years old, almost as old as me. It had always been a patchwork job. It had opened as an outdoor rink, complete with hockey boards and goal nets and refrigeration pipes running invisibly beneath the ice to keep it hard through the occasional warm winter day.
I could still remember the thrill of stepping out onto the ice for the first time as a five- or six-year-old and how I yanked my mittened hand from my father’s and then promptly fell down, wondering if I was smelling the secret chemical that froze the ice in the snow that scraped my cheeks. That night, Dad, Mom, and I stood along the boards with hundreds of people from Starvation and Kalkaska and Sandy Cove and Mancelona and cheered for the River Rats midget squad against some Detroit team. I didn’t care that the Rats lost by five or six or that I had to get up on my tippytoes to see over the boards. I had a foam cup of hot chocolate from a thermos Mom had brought and I rolled the miniature marshmallows around in my mouth until they melted away.
By the time Dad died of cancer—I was seven years old—the rink had a ceiling and walls built on two of the four sides. A few years later, the town scraped up the money to close the north and south ends, which meant goaltenders no longer had to blink against snow and sleet being sucked through one end and out the other.
Bad memories lingered, though. The River Rats had lost their one chance at a state championship in that rink. I was the goaltender who’d given up the overtime goal that lost the title game. Eighteen years had passed, and I thought I had finally gotten over it. The town had not.
Now a wealthy man had come from downstate to build a brand-new rink with no bittersweet history. He had brought millions of dollars and a fourteen-year-old son who some said was the best young hockey player Starvation had ever seen. The boy happened to be a goaltender.
“That sounds terrific, Philo,” I said. “What’s the catch?”
Philo stopped pacing and looked at me. He was standing in front of a desk in the back that had nearly disappeared beneath old copies of the Detroit Free Press and Chicago Tribune. The pile wasn’t going to grow because Media North—actually, Philo—had canceled those subscriptions.
“It is a great opportunity for us,” he said.
“Yep. Are the ad guys in Traverse working it?”
“Of course. But we can’t rely on them to carry the entire load.”
“Well,” I said,“you don’t want me selling ads, do you?”
Philo walked over and sat against my desk, pushed his glasses up his nose, folded his arms. Now I heard the fluorescent lamps. I hated that buzzing. It made me feel lonely, even with this long hockey stick of a man sitting next to me on my desk.
“Look,” Philo said, “I only minored in journalism at Penn, but I got my master’s in it at Columbia. I have a deep and abiding appreciation for the historical separation of church and state in news organizations.”
“I’m Michigan, no grad school, but agreed.”
“Emphasis on ‘historical.’ As you know, the present-day realities of newspaper economics do not fit very well with many of the historical templates that our forefathers, with the very best of intentions, constructed for us.”
I was beginning to wish I’d just gone to Audrey’s. “And your point is?”
“All right. I really don’t have to tell you this, but look: if we have no business—and we certainly don’t have much at the moment—then we have no newspaper, which means we have no place to do your journalism. No money, no stories.”
My journalism? I thought. I’d left my naïveté about newspapers being a calling at the Detroit Times. I’d worked there for more than ten years, writing mostly about the big automotive companies. I came damn close to winning a Pulitzer Prize reporting about a certain model of pickup truck that burned a lot of people to death. But I went to some extremes in my reporting methods that got me fired instead. In the end, it did not matter that my stories were true.
So here I was, back in my nothing hometown.
“Right,” I said. I planted the soles of my boots against the edge of my computer stand. “But if you don’t do good stories, you have no business either.”
“That’s very true,” Philo said. “But I think you would agree that ‘good’”—he held up his hands and waggled his fingers to signify quote marks—“is a subjective matter. We can count the dollars coming in, and we can count the dollars going out, right down to the penny. But good stories and bad stories all look the same on a balance sheet, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I know what you mean. If the stories I’ve done about the new rink showed up on your balance sheet, they’d be entered on the ‘bad’”—I waggled my own quote marks—“side of the ledger, huh?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I had written a few stories for the Pilot suggesting that the rich guy building the new rink might not have all the money he needed to build it, that it wasn’t clear where he was going to get it, that he might have to cut a few corners to get the rink up in time for the state hockey playoffs in March, as everyone in town had hoped. It was as though the entire town believed that a new sheet of ice set beneath a shiny new roof with a nice new concession stand and four new locker rooms with showers that actually spewed hot water would make the River Rats winners, as though it had nothing to do with whether they were fast and tough and determined enough to beat the powerhouse Compuware and Mic-Mac and HoneyBaked Ham teams from downstate.
For Philo, it was actually a simpler matter. He had been dispatched to the Pilot by his CEO uncle to fix the finances. He would not be judged on whether we hung plaques on the paneled walls for our sterling reporting and writing and photographs but on whether we paid the bills and had some left over to transfer into Media North’s bank accounts. The rich guy building the rink was offering us a blank check that—assuming it cleared—promised to solve Philo’s problem, at least for now. The guy just wanted us—that is, me—to go a little easier on him.
I can’t say as I blamed him. Hell, a new rink sounded great. I didn’t like ice-cold showers any more than the next guy. And I really couldn’t blame Philo. He was a smart young man with a bright future who was trying to prove h
e could walk the tightrope between elusive truth and hard reality. I had tried it once myself and fallen flat on my ass.
“Hell,” I said, “the Internet’s going to save us anyway, right?”
“Go ahead and laugh,” Philo said. “The world is speeding up, my friend. The earth’s spinning faster on its axis. People are going to want their news now”—he snapped his fingers—“instantaneously, pronto, immédiatement. The Web will get it to them when they want it, where they want it, how they want it.”
I stared past him at the clock on the wall: 7:28. Mom wouldn’t be up for a while. I wanted to get over there before she turned on the news.
“How about a coffee with cream? Can the Internet get me that? Or do I have to walk all the way over to Audrey’s?”
“Forget the Internet,” Philo said. “Look, Gus. I know—I know all of this ad stuff sounds, well, shitty probably, especially to a guy who’s done such exemplary work—”
“Work that got me fired.”
“—not just in Detroit but here in Starvation, those stories you did last year about the old hockey coach here—”
“No, no, no, Philo, you haven’t been spending enough time listening to the codgers at Audrey’s. That was all the work of another reporter who’s since gone on to greener pastures. Man, I couldn’t write my way out of a—”
“Goddammit!” He slammed a hand down on the top of my desk, rattling the pens and pencils in my Detroit Tigers beer mug. “Stop fucking with me.”
I took my feet down.
“Whoa,” I said. “Settle down, man.”
Philo took off his glasses and pointed them at me. “I know what you’re capable of,” he said. “I’ve read your stories, including what you did at the Times. I know you can hang this guy like that silly stupid loser hanged herself last night. All I’m asking is that you give him a fair shot.”
“How have I not given him a fair shot?” I said. “He doesn’t return my calls.”
“Have you spoken with his lawyer?”
“I thought you read my stories. The lawyer’s quoted: ‘No comment.’”
Philo rubbed his eyes. He slid his glasses back on.
“‘No comment’ just isn’t good enough,” he said.
“You want me to put a gun to his head?” I said.
“Come on, Gus. I think we both agree that this rink—that any new building around here that employs actual people—would be beneficial. But Mr. Haskell has now halted construction because of your stories.”
Laird Haskell was the rich guy building the rink. I knew why he was dodging me. He and I had a past Philo didn’t know about.
“Bullshit,” I said. “He stopped building because he didn’t have the money, because he was taking cash from Peter to pay Paul and his subcontractors walked.”
Philo sighed. He looked up at the ceiling. The poor kid was doing his best. I doubted Columbia had prepared him for this, especially the amoebic water stain he must have seen blackening the ceiling panel over his head.
“Haskell,” he said, “would like to meet with you.”
“News to me. When?”
I got up out of my chair and pulled out my cell phone. No wonder I hadn’t gotten a call from Darlene. I had left the phone off. I kind of liked the thing but I was still getting used to it.
“Today,” Philo said. “I’m waiting to hear the precise time.”
“He called you?”
“Not exactly. But I’ll get back to you.”
“Happy to meet with him. Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
Philo walked back to his desk and, standing, punched a few computer keys. He didn’t say so in the first place because he’d wanted me to hear about that ad opportunity first.
“Time still not certain,” he said. “But it’ll be at his house. Someone else will be with him. His lawyer, I assume.”
“Great.”
“You know the house?”
“I’ve seen it once or twice.”
You could step outside the Pilot and see it from Main Street, the biggest house on the lake, peering out from the northeastern shore.
“Thank you,” Philo said. He looked up from the keyboard. “Would you mind bringing me a coffee? No cream, four sugars?” He reached into his pocket.
“I got it,” I said. “Back in a few.”
As I started out of the room, Philo called after me, “Hey, Gus.”
I stopped and turned to face him.
“Yeah?”
“Hockey’s really a big deal here, isn’t it?”
“You’re catching on.”
“Where I grew up, we play lacrosse.”
“Tough game. You never saw hockey?”
“Well, not in Annapolis, but they had it in D.C., I guess, but it wasn’t … I don’t know … it wasn’t like it seems to be here.”
“No, not like here. Here, it’s everything.”
Outside on the sidewalk, I turned my cell phone on. There was indeed a message. Waiting for it, I felt the dry morning cold rush down the open neck of my coat and thought of Darlene asleep the night before, the warmth of her bare shoulder blades against my chest.
“Hey,” I heard her say. She wasn’t quite whispering, but she was trying to keep her voice down. “I’m guessing you’ll be at Audrey’s. Don’t believe everything you hear, OK? I’ll try you later. Love you.”
“Me, too,” I said, dialing her back. I watched Audrey’s as I listened to three rings and a click followed by her voice.
“You’ve almost reached Pine County sheriff’s deputy Darlene Esper. Please leave a message, keeping in mind this is not Books on Tape.”
I’d heard the message plenty of times but still it made me smile. The phone beeped. “Darl,” I said. “Got your message. Don’t worry. I hope you’re doing all right. I’m thinking about you.”
* * *
The little bells on the door at Audrey’s Diner jangled when I walked in, and every head in the place turned. The smells of bacon grease and maple syrup washed over me.
“Morning,” I said, as friendly as I could without making eye contact with anyone. I went straight to the counter across from where Audrey DeYonghe was bent over the griddle in a crisp white apron over a smock embroidered with yellow and orange flowers, her hair tied back in a walnut bun wrapped in a hairnet. She glanced over a shoulder at me, smiled, turned back to the pancakes she was flipping. “Good morning, Gussy,” she said. “What’ll you be needing today?”
“A vacation is what he needs,” came the voice from the back of the restaurant. Elvis Bontrager, squeezed behind his usual table, spoke through a mouthful of half-chewed egg and sausage. “A nice long vacation,” he said, “so we can get our damned rink built.”
Elvis was my personal Greek chorus. Whatever I wrote in the Pilot, from a few grafs on the upcoming Rotary Club lunch to a half page on the school board spending a thousand dollars on a “fact-finding” trip to Chicago, I could count on Elvis to let me know, in front of everyone at Audrey’s, what he didn’t care for. That turned out to be pretty much every word I wrote—or failed to write, if he thought there was something I should have written. It wasn’t because Elvis didn’t like the Pilot; he just didn’t like me. Hadn’t liked me since I let that goal in that cost the Rats the state title. Liked me even less when, instead of marrying his niece, one Darlene Bontrager—now Esper—I took off to make my name as a big-time reporter in Detroit. And I had heard he wasn’t too pleased that I was now fooling around with Darlene, even though, at least on paper, she was still married.
“How are you today, Elvis?” I said. There was no sense in arguing; his ears might as well have been filled with cement. I pointed at a spot just below his shirt pocket, where a chunk of cheese-covered sausage had fetched up on the roof of his potbelly. “You’re missing the best part.”
Elvis kept his eyes on me while his wife, blushing, reached across the table and plucked the scrap off of his shirt.
“You got the scoop yet on the McBride girl,
boy?” he said. “I’m thinking not.”
“Why do you have to talk about this here?” Elvis’s wife said.
My eyes swept the room. The music of forks and knives on china kept playing. Everyone kept their eyes on their raisin French toast and American fries. But nobody was talking because they were all listening. They must have been so grateful that Elvis was willing to be a loudmouth. It was hard to get the really tough questions answered talking behind people’s backs.
“Gracie?” I said. “What happened?”
“You know what happened, son,” he said.
“Gussy,” Audrey said. “What would you like?”
“Thanks, Mrs. DeYonghe. Two large coffees, one cream only, one no cream, four sugars.”
“Nothing to eat?”
Audrey glanced sideways at Elvis to keep him shut up. He was shoveling potatoes into his face, his red suspenders straining against his girth. I would have loved to sit down and savor one of her Swiss-and-mushroom omelets, but I hadn’t time nor did I want the hassle.
“Uh, sure, how about some rye bread, grilled?”
“Coming right up. With blackberry jam? I made fresh.”
“That would be great.”
She leaned over the counter and touched one of my hands. The aroma of lemon wafted off of her face. “I’m so sorry about Gracie,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“How’s Darlene? And your mother?”
“It’s a shame is what it is,” Elvis said.
I ignored him. “Darlene’s working, so that’ll distract her for now. I’m going to go over to Mom’s in a few minutes.”
“Good. How is she otherwise?”
“You mean … right. Her memory’s not so good some days. Maybe it’s just old age. She’ll be sixty-six soon.”
“Let’s hope,” Audrey said.
“It’s a damn shame,” Elvis said again.
“Yes, it is, Elvis,” Audrey said. She took out two slices of rye, picked up a knife, and started spreading butter on each slice. “She was a young woman with her whole life in front of her. And a grieving mother. And others who cared about her. Leave it be.”