The Eastern Shore

by Ward Just

  The rendezvous between reporter and source ended shortly after that exchange. Gus left Fred in the Good Times, a sneer on his face, stroking his goatee, nursing his beer. Gus drove slowly the twenty miles to Herman, thinking about the story he had been handed. When he got to the newspaper office he sat for thirty minutes in his car, still thinking. He would verify the news articles and the court documents but he knew they were genuine. Fred was genuine, too, a genuine first-class bastard holding a grudge. The story about the money could be true or not true. Gus doubted it. He did not know William Grant well. They moved in different circles, to say the least of it. He had never been inside the haberdashery; the goods on offer were well beyond his budget. Also, he had no need of a three-piece suit. He remembered then that his wife had bought him a Christmas tie and that Mr. Grant had been most helpful. He wrapped the gift as expertly as any woman. That surprised her. He did not look like a man who could wrap presents complete with a little red bow. Gus himself had never heard a bad word about William Grant. Civic leader, family man, nicely summed him up. He was not a fairy. He didn’t look like a fairy. Gus decided to keep that news to himself. Dirty linen.

  So he would do his job. He would go to the office, sit at his desk, and write a story. And he would take that story to the city editor, young Ned Ayres, and Ned would walk it across the room to the managing editor, who would walk it upstairs to the publisher, who would decide whether Gus Harding would take it to Mr. William Grant. Hand Mr. Grant the story, watch him read it, and then ask the salient questions: Any comment? Is this story accurate?

  And then what? the managing editor said. We know it’s accurate.

  We print, the publisher said.

  Are you sure about that?

  We are not in the business of suppressing news, the publisher said. That’s not what we do. Moreover, it’s an inspiring story. It’s the story of a man who—triumphed over adversity. Held bad cards. Dealt himself another hand. So far’s I’m concerned, the son of a gun is a hero.

  The managing editor opened his mouth a fraction but did not speak. The Press-Gazette often suppressed news. The lawyer arrested for drunken driving and discreetly chauffeured home by a patrolman. There were eyewitnesses. The Republican committeeman photographed inside the room when the ballot boxes were unsealed. He was supervising the count, adding a stroke here and subtracting one there.

  The publisher thought a moment while he lit a cigar. What does Ayres think?

  Neddy is on the fence, the editor said.

  Get him up here, the publisher said. We’ll hash this one out right now.

  Ned Ayres was out of the office. By the time he returned, the story was in galley proof with the headline “A Second Life.” The publisher had determined that the piece would run on page one, below the fold, with a photograph of William Grant on the golf course. They gathered around the publisher’s desk, the publisher, the managing editor, Gus Harding, and Ned Ayres. Gus Harding did volunteer the information that Fred whatever-his-name-was did not inspire confidence. An awful son of a bitch, Gus said. Not trustworthy? the publisher asked. The material checks out, Gus said. Every idotted, every tcrossed. Airtight, he added. The publisher, Carl Kaminski, turned to Ned Ayres, silent these many minutes. He was the junior man in the room by twenty years. Carl said, Do you have an opinion on these matters? For a moment Ned did not speak.

  They were standing in the publisher’s bare-bones office, three uncomfortable chairs, a davenport, a coffee table, a plain pine desk, and a pendulum clock in the corner that discharged a muted chime every fifteen minutes. The clock ran two hours slow and had done so for years, but its great age and scrollwork around the face commanded attention. The fifteen-minute interval suggested a quick pace, a trot, while everything else in the room was stationary. The room was spare, no photographs or artworks or citations from Kiwanis or the Elks. The single sash window looked past the department store to the Daggett River, and beyond that the golf course, where even now a foursome could be seen finishing a round. Dusk was coming on and the clock chime sounded once more. The four men were silent now, all of them considering the task at hand. We haven’t really considered the effect on him and his family, Gus said. That’s been settled, the publisher said. Certainly the situation was unique, the managing editor, Tom Kenny, thought but did not say. The story was serious in a way that others had not been. An important story, one with meaning, even if that meaning was elusive. Subject to interpretation. More than a story, certainly; more like a saga, something Jack London might have written or thought about. The story had grit. All the known facts were in order. The men all stood a little taller, waiting for young Ned Ayres to speak. Carl Kaminski broke the silence.

  He said, Speak up, boy.

  Ned was silent a moment more. He had never been asked his opinion on anything but the most routine situations. He was young and therefore inexperienced, except with the younger element in town. But he’d had no similar situations he could draw on. There were ambiguities that would be beyond him. A bright lad, yes; but brightness took you only so far. Experience in the trenches won the day. Carl had asked the question out of politeness. Ned was city editor; he could have his say along with the others. But now it seemed he was out of his depth. Well, Carl thought, this was good experience, a building block for the future. And so Carl buried his irritation and waited stolidly for what was to come.

  Ned continued to stare at the pendulum clock, at a loss. He felt his eyes twitch. There seemed to him to be no cut-and-dried answer. An editor could go either way, Ned wanted to say. Let’s think about this overnight. Give the story a moment to gel. But it was gelled. It was as gelled as it would ever be, one fact after another, all of them verified.

  Time’s wasting, Carl said.

  So he would have to improvise. He had always been good at improvisation. Ned explained that he had read Gus Harding’s piece with the closest attention. He believed it brought the reader a better understanding of human nature, mistakes made, mistakes redeemed or not redeemed, and the reach of plain fate in the affairs of human beings. Something inexorable about it. That would be the element of chance in a man’s life. Something of the devil, too. Fred. Or, Ned went on in a rush, not sure of his ground because the publisher was looking at him in a strange way—or, to be precise, to look beyond the facts, as if the facts were a kind of, well, blindman’s buff, a thicket in which one could lose one’s way. Easy to be overwhelmed by them, facts, so numerous and at times contradictory. So difficult to judge motive. Was William Grant trying to put something over on them? Or was he sincere in trying to salvage his life? That is to say, bury his past, beginning with the name change. That was fundamental. He had been shamed, and now he sought to erase the shame . . . Ned’s voice trailed off.

  Gus Harding’s piece was pristine, though clumsy in places. The clumsiness added to the authenticity. The facts ruled, but the facts did not include context. Context was beyond a reporter’s brief, involving, as it did, speculation. Also, if William Grant had been a bus driver, there would be no story. It was a story because William Grant was prosperous, owned a business, married the banker’s daughter, was generally admired. In its own way William Grant’s story was inspiring, a cautionary tale of—what? Resilience. Ambition. More to the point, Gus’s story was the truth and fortified by fact. Written without slant.

  Ned said finally, Gus has done a fine job. A professional job. No mysteries here. It’s dispassionate. I say print.

  Carl Kaminski grunted. His eyes were on the pendulum clock. He said, There’s always mystery, Ned. It is not given to us to know it all. Question is, do we know enough?

  Managing editor Tom Kenny sighed and spoke for the first time. He said to Carl, Well, Chief, I’m going to have to disagree with you on that. We know what there is to know. I’m confident in the integrity—

  Some facts are missing, Carl said. This is always the case, no exceptions. I hope they’re no-account facts. Otherwise, we’re on the wrong side of things. No criticism of you, Gus
. It’s the nature of our work.

  I’ve left nothing out, Gus said. Nothing. Except Fred’s bad breath. Awful.

  The tension in the room eased. Carl said, What? Garlic?

  I don’t know, Gus said. I can find out.

  Forget it, Carl said. The pendulum clock chimed. So we print, he said, and in any case, Mr. Grant will have his opportunity to rebut. If he has nothing to say, if all he offers is bluster, then we print.

  The meeting broke up at six p.m. Gus Harding was instructed to show the story to William Grant. It’s fair to say that none of the four newspapermen were entirely happy with the deliberations. Fred was a question mark. Unspoken among them was the near certainty that the story would be picked up on the AP wire. It would have national distribution, and the Press-Gazette would be under a scrutiny unknown in the paper’s history. The available facts would be checked and checked again by outsiders, reporters with no knowledge of Herman beyond Ed Watts’s slanders. Some of the reporters would be contemptuous of a little pissant paper to hell and gone in Indiana. Tom Kenny was of that view. The national press was remorseless, with an arrogance that had to be seen to be believed. So Herman would be on the map as something other than Joke Town. They’ll tear us apart, Tom said. Ned Ayres looked at this prospect the other way around. He was interested in how the big feet danced, how they carried themselves, their interviewing techniques. Did they use tape recorders? Ned knew they traveled in packs and had no sympathy for small, isolated American towns of the sort described by Sinclair Lewis. Theodore Dreiser. Still, Ned imagined that for a short period of time William Grant Haberdashery would be as familiar to the world as Marshall Field & Co. He couldn’t wait.

  The slant of the piece was undeniably sympathetic to William Grant, a man who had remade himself. He had owed a debt to society and had settled the debt. He had gone straight. Gus had spoken to William Grant’s lawyer, who confirmed that his fantasist defense was weak, in the circumstances ill advised. Not that it wasn’t true. That was exactly Grant’s profile. No question, he lived in a dreamworld. But alas, fantasy did not trump breaking and entering, robbery, and assault. And Grant’s surly demeanor worked against him, his scarred face, his great height. He frightened the jury. His decision to invoke the Fifth Amendment won him suspicion, not sympathy. I’ve worried this case for many years, the lawyer said. But it was the only defense I had. Billy was certainly guilty. Beyond a doubt. But still . . . The lawyer’s voice trailed off. A soft click indicated he had ended the conversation.

  That left William Grant. Gus arrived at the haberdashery at nine the next morning. As he expected, the hour was too early for customers. Grant was in the rear of the store checking the display of suits, the latest offerings from Hart, Schaffner & Marx, heavy serge suits for the winter soon to come. Gus waited a moment in the front of the store, then walked to the rear and introduced himself. If Mr. Grant had a few moments, Gus had a newspaper article the paper intended to run the next day. He would like a comment, if Mr. Grant chose to give one.

  In the sharp fluorescence of the store, Gus noted an oily patina on William Grant’s furrowed face, a kind of conditioner that had sheen to it. William Grant said, What’s it all about? Gus handed him the galley proof, and at first glance Grant’s eyes closed and his hands went to his ravaged face. The galley proof floated to the floor. Gus Harding picked it up and handed it to him once more. William Grant murmured something unintelligible and commenced to read the proof. His face was tight, strange with its sheen. He read slowly while Gus waited. When he finished, a rough look came to him, the look of a prizefighter in his corner before the bell. Some arrogance there, Gus thought, the way Grant spoke, a clipped speech. What’s it’s all about? He was nicely turned out in a blue blazer and gray flannel slacks, a blood-red Jack London at his throat. He took a step forward, crowding Gus. Gus slid his notebook from his pocket, a pen already in his hand. Show the colors, he thought. The haberdasher glared at the reporter as if he were a ghost-messenger, someone from an infernal place, scarcely human. But when he spoke, his voice was temperate.

  William Grant said, Please do not print this.

  Gus Harding said, Is it inaccurate? If it is, I can fix that.

  It is not inaccurate.

  Gus made a note on his pad.

  I beg you not to print this. This—filth.

  We think it is an inspiring story. The publisher himself said so.

  It will not be inspiring to my family. My family will fall apart.

  Once they see it—

  They will not see it. I will not allow it.

  Mr. Grant—

  My family does not know. They know nothing of my life when I was young.

  I see, Gus said.

  No, you do not see. William Grant took a step forward, his hands, now fists, rigid at his side. He said, I have a settled life here. I have done no one harm. I run my business and take care of my family. I have a wife, two sons. I love those boys more than I can say. What right do you have—

  There are court records, Gus said. In the public domain. I have spoken to your lawyer, who gave me a sympathetic account—

  —to interfere.

  Gus made another note on his pad.

  What do you want? Do you want money? I can give you money.

  Mr. Grant!

  As for your records. They are public when you choose to make them public. This is your decision.

  Please look at my article again, Mr. Grant. It is not an unsympathetic story. It describes a man—and then Gus remembered the publisher’s words. A man who dealt himself a fresh hand. A man determined to succeed in the world. A man determined to put his unfortunate past behind him. Really, a triumph.

  I will be ruined, Grant said. My wife will be ruined. My wife, my children. They will be ruined also if you print this garbage.

  It is not garbage. My story has been verified.

  It is not your story. It is my story.

  It is in the public domain, Gus said. Would you like to speak to my publisher?

  I am speaking to you. You who have taken my life and written it up. You wrote it and you must take responsibility for it.

  Yes, Gus began.

  I have worked so hard—

  And been successful. Very successful. The object of envy. And your offense was years back. No one remembers.

  Yes, that’s the point. Don’t you see?

  Gus made another note on his pad.

  What are you writing? Stop writing! I have not given you permission to write. Stop it at once. William Grant turned away, his hand resting on the shoulder of a mannequin dressed in a Hart, Schaffner & Marx blue serge suit. The haberdasher fingered the cloth as if testing its durability, how it would wear in the bitter cold of an Indiana January. Gus noticed again the sheen on his cheeks and forehead. William Grant was perspiring heavily. He seemed to think that the newspaper had no rights in the matter. Everyone had a life that must be owned up to. That was the point Grant could not escape. He had made mistakes and paid for the mistakes, but that did not make the mistakes go away. It was hard to understand. Here he was, being offered a clean bill of health over three columns on page one with a photograph, and he was insulted by it. Gus made another note on his pad, though Grant did not notice this because he was looking out the window. A passerby waved and Grant waved back.

  Gus cleared his throat but said nothing. They seemed at an impasse. Well and good. Point was, the public interest came first. That meant the public’s right to know, and that was what Mr. William Grant would not concede. Even so, Gus Harding felt sorry for the haberdasher whose troubled voice gave away so much.

  Is this your business, ruining people?

  I don’t see it that way, Gus said.

  Because that’s the consequence.

  William Grant let the blue serge slip from his fingers and the suit coat dropped to the floor. He sighed heavily, in other circumstances a signal that he was ill.

  I’m only doing my job, Gus said.

  Grant looked u
p and gave a crooked smile, sarcastic around the edges. He said, Is that right?

  That’s right. That’s what I do.

  Still smiling, Grant said, I suppose you let the chips fall where they may.

  That’s it, Gus said.

  There’s no escaping you people, Grant said. Scavengers. That’s what you are, scavengers of dirty linen. And you call that serving the public interest.

  Gus made another note on his pad.

  Stop that! Grant said.

  Gus looked up from his notepad.

  Where’d you find this story? Who told you about it?

  I had a source, Gus said.

  Does this source have a name? Or wouldn’t that serve your public interest.

  Gus thought a moment, then decided to break the rule. He said, Your friend Fred.

  Fred who? I don’t know any Fred.

  He wouldn’t give up his last name.

  Describe him.

  Heavyset, thick goatee. He had a tattoo on his arm. Maybe he was fifty or so.

  William Grant shook his head. And this Fred called you?

  We met out of town, Gus said.

  William Grant seemed to sag slightly. His hands went to his face, touching the scars. He said, I don’t know who that can be. He accused me. I don’t even know his name and neither do you. He paused again, staring out the window onto Benjamin Franklin Boulevard. He said in a low voice, Get the hell out of my store, Harding. Don’t come back.

  Gus closed his notebook and put it in his pocket. He said, Thank you for your time, Mr. Grant. I’ll leave you these, he added, placing the newspaper articles, the court transcripts, and the rest on the table that displayed tie pins, shirt studs, and handkerchiefs. William Grant said nothing. Gus said, For what it’s worth, I don’t think Fred was his real name. And he is a lowlife. But that does not mean his story is not genuine.

  And in a moment Gus Harding was out the door and on the sidewalk in a gray drizzle. He lit a cigarette and stood, ill at ease, looking in the haberdasher’s window, suits and shirts, Bass Weejun loafers, socks of various lengths and colors, suspenders, even a silver-handled ebony umbrella with a little printed card: Not For Sale. When Gus looked inside the store, William Grant stared back at him, a look of the most profound confusion. Hatred was there, too, and sorrow. The blue serge suit coat was still gathered at his feet. With infinite patience William Grant bent to retrieve the coat and replaced it on its plastic hanger.