Providence (17 page)

I could tell Arthur was struggling to restrain himself from interrupting Susan.

“If you do end up making appearances on television,” she went on, “you’ll be asked about the circumstances by which this money was earned.” Susan rested her writing tablet across her lap and let out a relaxed breath. “To be completely frank, some people are going to question how a white man goes into a poor black neighborhood, writes a book about their stories, and walks out with twenty million dollars. I know your program has done wonders, but these people are still living in basically the same socioeconomic environment.” She held up the pen as if to halt my response. “To some it will look like the same old race story: White takes advantage of black.”

Susan flipped to a new page in her notebook. It looked like she went through a lot of them. “The last important issue is the allegations of, here wait a minute …” She pulled a manilla folder from her leather satchel. Inside was a newspaper clipping and several printouts from the internet. She held a sheet of paper in front of her and studied it like incriminating evidence.

“Allegations of … several run-ins with law enforcement including two shootings: one in Chicago, and another near Clovis, New Mexico.” She lowered the newspaper clipping and stared at me.

“Go on,” I said, not taking the cue. She ran her tongue over her upper lip.

“Jack, problems with the law are a different matter. People aren’t as forgiving of … certain things. It makes a
big difference
to our PR strategy if more facts are going to start surfacing about these events. Are there more details to this story that we should know about?”

All eyes and ears awaited my response. I pushed aside for the moment that none of this was anyone’s business, and tried to forget how labeling the private lives of public people “news” gave the media license to wear their serious, sober faces while delivering nothing more than gossip.

“You’re asking if there’s other shoe waiting to drop?” She nodded. “Susan, I appreciate that you’ve come down here on a Sunday afternoon on my behalf. I’m going to be candid because I owe you that much. Each day I sit for eight hours looking at a computer screen and pulling out fragments from my past with a pair of pliers. It’s like extracting shrapnel from underneath the skin.” Arthur bristled at the comment. I suspect he’d never thought that writing could be a painful process. I continued, “Are there issues in your personal life, things you find particularly challenging that you scarcely have strength to face privately? Things you might speak about with a counselor or a clergyman?” Susan nodded again. “Picture working through your issues in front of the whole world, Susan, surrounded by journalists and cameramen.”

Susan was silent.

“I can’t go on national television. Not because I’m a stubborn person, but because I’m a private person. I will not sacrifice myself to the altar of the twenty-four-hour news cycle.”

There were a few seconds of silence, an impasse.

“Can I say something?” Susan’s assistant, Mary Young, spoke up. I turned to her.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Clayton, it must be hard being asked to talk so much about your private life, but a lot of young people really look up to you. Think about how those people will feel if you
don’t
respond to these allegations. They might lose hope in what they’ve seen at Norwood. They might wonder if it’s all a big lie. I’ve read all three of your books, and I have to admit when I first heard the news story, I was crushed. Meeting you and listening to you, I’m embarrassed I believed it even for a second. But not everyone has the chance to come spend an hour with you.”

“Thank you, Mary. Believe me, stealing hope from the people who need it most is the last thing I want to do.”

I swiveled to face the rest of the group. “Upstairs on my answering machine are dozens of messages—mostly from the twilight zone. There’s a hostile board member who—though he’s known me for twelve years—is demanding I meet with a special assembly this week to answer their questions. There are crank calls, and threats from reporters demanding I call them back and spill everything, or else they’ll report how I’m dodging them.” I stood up, the anger creeping back in. “I’m really fed up with this whole thing.” I looked to Arthur. “I didn’t want to write a memoir. I didn’t ask to sell eighteen million books! I’ve only asked to follow God …”
I’ve only asked to follow God, even if life gets crazy. That’s been my prayer all along. God’s giving me what I asked for.

“I’m guilty of sidestepping interviews because I won’t play their game, giving out my financial data, my medical records, sitting on their TV shows and answering all their questions about my past and present life.”

I stood behind a chair and gripped the back to regain my composure. “So here’s what I will and won’t do. Susan, send out a response to the story our friend Bud Abbott has written. I’m sure you have enough to answer most of the allegations. I won’t be conducting interviews or giving out financial information.”

“You
have
to, Jack,” Arthur was adamant.

“No, I don’t have to. My book will be out by summer. I’ll cover any of the financial stuff there, but in a dignified manner.” I worked to shake off the straight jacket so many strangers were trying to fit me with. “There’s one more thing I think I can do, but I’ll have to get back to you on it.”

Susan’s eyebrows shot up and down, her wise counsel rejected. “Jack, you should at least consider some sort of two-way communication.”

“Such as?”

“Maybe a Web conference. People could email their questions. Or we … you could talk to someone you trust in the news media like the writer of that
Time
magazine article …”

“No. You’ll have to trust me. I think I know how to fix this.”

“Well, would you mind sharing your plan with us?” Arthur asked.

“Not yet, Arthur. But soon.”

By six o’clock the trio was back on their way to Indianapolis. Susan probably thought I was in need of psychiatric help. Arthur probably would have severed our increasingly contentious relationship right then and there were it not for a little book I was still writing. He needed me to find a screw I’d lost, and how do you talk someone into that?

Only a week ago I’d started writing my life story. Now I was writing a plan to extricate myself from this quagmire. I felt confident my plan would take me off defense and give me back the ball. I would be like tailback Derek Smith, heading to the end zone. There was enough time on the clock. I just needed to keep the chains moving along the sidelines.

Back in my office I switched on the iMac. In the wake of my plan, I could almost smell the grass of college football fields. I thought of chilly October days and the end of that first football season at Providence. The summer-warm day in November, and the snowy weeks that followed, all of which led to a tender hand on a shoulder and the unspoken words sent through an electric current of touch.

I’ve found you.

Part of me longed for a way to go back in time. I didn’t have a time machine, but at least I had this computer to send me. I headed back to Providence. This town, this same place, familiar landmarks all still here. But a different time, different people. I couldn’t reach them in the physical world, but I would be with them soon.

I pressed Return.

~
E
IGHTEEN
~

Some walk by night
Some fly by day …
Moonlighting strangers
Who just met on the way.

—Al Jarreau

“Moonlighting”

After that night in Lillian Hall, Jenny Cameron stepped completely into my world. Whatever magic comes with the onset of young love, I had it. I had what I’d seen in Erin’s eyes for Mitchell and in his eyes for her, the enchanting emotion that casts its soft shadows in private moments. During those months of discovery, I experienced the intensity of first love. Maybe it’s this way for everyone who falls in love, or maybe love’s so unique that what’s created between two people is only theirs, never repeated.

Life changed after Bruce Willis chased Cybill Shepherd in
Moonlighting
that night. It was the little things at first. Like Jenny calling me out of the blue to see how I was, or leaving little “forget-me-nots” tucked in the top drawer of my desk, or hiding scribbled love notes inside my coat pockets.

In December, two weeks before the end of fall term, a Christmas formal was held in the newly renovated student-union building. Jenny wore a pretty red and black dress. Her hair was cut shoulder length, tucked behind her ears, showing off a pair of silver earrings shaped like miniature Christmas trees. That night we danced to a little big band set up in the cavernlike Morton Room. Jenny clasped her hands loosely around my neck, swaying with the music. We talked about our Christmas plans. I told her Marianne was hinting that she’d like me to come back to Overton, but I’d yet to commit.

“I think you should go. You can’t spend Christmas alone in your apartment, Jack.”

“It’s not that simple. Overton holds too many memories … It’s complicated.”

“How complicated?”

“Do you remember me telling you about my sister, Ruthie? There’s just a lot of sadness to an empty house at Christmas.”

“I empathize with your mother’s situation. While you’ve lost two important people in your family, she’s lost three.”

“When Thomas Wolfe said you can’t go home again, I think he may have been giving good advice.”

“A lot has changed since last summer, Jack. You’ve got your first semester of college under your belt, you’ve got a job, your own apartment, and an enchanting and beautiful girlfriend.” She smiled, pulling me closer.

“Yes, I do have that.”

“And you can’t stay here in Providence all alone—that’s just too depressing to think about. Would you consider coming home with me for part of the break?” she asked.

“I thought your parents were still out of the country?”

“Didn’t I tell you? They’re coming in on the twenty-second. Then they start a new assignment in London after the first of the year.”

“London? Where do I sign up to be a missionary?”

“No kidding. Actually, we spent two years in Suffolk when I was twelve. My parents are only going to be here a short time. I’d like them to meet you.”

“Possible. When are you and Erin going?”

“You mean Erin, Mitchell, and me.” It was the first I’d heard of this.

“They’re going to spend Christmas with Erin’s family, then go to Mitchell’s for New Year’s. We’re carpooling, the first stint of the trip, anyway.”

“I had no idea you were all such good planners.”

“It’s come together quickly. I can’t think of a reason to slow down the spontaneity.”

“And it’s all right with your parents for me to visit?”

“I think so. I sort of brought it up to my sister over the phone, and she didn’t think it was a problem. They have plenty of room. I’ll talk to my mom this weekend. What about
your
mom? What will you do?”

“Send a nice gift?”

“Jack!” Jenny slapped my arm.

“What do you think I should do?” I asked.

“I think we should all go to Indianapolis for Christmas. Then, before New Year’s, we can all drive to Overton and see what this mythical town is all about.”

“You’d stay at my mom’s house?”

“If you asked me nicely.” Jenny looked up. Her body softened as she pressed up against me on the dance floor. “Does that surprise you?”

“Pleasantly so.”

“Maybe it’s time to breathe some life into the old place.” We kissed to close the deal.

My last final exam ended on a Thursday. Erin and Jenny would wrap up their last test on Friday morning. By noon Mitch and I had loaded up the Cutlass for our Christmas road trip.

The skies opened, launching a heavy snowfall just before noon, making the scene at Lillian Hall a madhouse. Every student at Providence was heading home for the holidays. The line of cars waiting to get into Lillian’s rear parking lot was staggering. Parents who’d dropped off their freshmen daughters in September returned (riding on snow tires) to collect them from a winter wonderland. Boyfriends picked up girlfriends. Groups of underclassmen loaded themselves into the backseats of huge Buicks and Oldsmobiles, their parents falsely comforted by the safety of all that metal.

Mitchell steered the Cutlass over the curb and onto the snowy lawn next to the lot. Jenny waved madly to us from the back door, propped open with someone’s suitcase. We zigzagged through a tangle of cars, dodging suitcases and trunks and open car doors.

“Come rescue us!” Jenny cried.

Inside the dorm room, we collected two sets of matching luggage, a small Igloo cooler weighed down by an assortment of snacks, and two women ready to roll. Mitch and I pushed through the pandemonium, using the bags to shield us from bursts of arctic air that blew up the stairs whenever the back door was opened.

We stormed outside and threw the bags into the Cutlass’s oversize trunk while Mitchell fired up the engine. With a toss of newly fallen snow from the back tires, Mitchell slipped and slid across the lawn, bypassing lines of bottlenecked traffic. We escaped the fracas of the last day of school in blizzardlike conditions.