Are You Happy Now? (12 page)

“I see her every day at Starbucks. Nothing has changed. Whether we go out again...” Flam wraps himself in his arms and shrugs.

The next morning at work, Lincoln tries to borrow some of Flam’s cool detachment in an e-mail to Tony Buford. He thanks the writer for sharing his poems. He offers, somewhat honestly, that the work shows imagination and a care for language. He posits that the poems might well find an enthusiastic audience. With the cushioning in place, however, Lincoln gets tough: several years ago, Pistakee made a firm decision not to publish poetry, and the house intends to hold to that resolve. Lincoln names a few other small publishers in the Midwest who might be interested, but doesn’t insult with the suggestion of a vanity press. Then he dropkicks Buford with a concluding sentence: “We appreciate your interest, and good luck with your writing career.”

Seconds after hitting the
SEND
icon on his e-mail, Lincoln is tucking Buford’s manuscript into a new envelope (all that heavy, expensive paper—the guy will probably want the hard copy back) when the phone rings. “Tony Buford is on the line,” says Kim, the receptionist.

“Shit.”

“What?” says the clueless young woman. “Oh, should I tell him you’re in a meeting?”

Lincoln quickly decides that putting Buford off risks another office visit or worse. “I’ll take it.”

Waiting grimly for the connection, Lincoln stares at the keypad on his phone. Grime has built up around the numbers in a curious pattern. Heaviest on the “7,” “5,” and “3,” light on the “2” and “0.” Why? What does that say about the telephone numbers he dials? Then a click: “Mr. Lincoln?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think you understand. I’m offering you the opportunity to publish my poems.” The familiar voice is deep and resonant. Commanding. Since adulthood, Lincoln has been slightly disappointed in his own wobbly tenor.

“As I explained in my e-mail, Mr. Buford, we don’t publish poetry.”

“Of course you do.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pistakee is a publisher. Its business is publishing books. This is a book.”

“We are not a vanity press, Mr. Buford.” (Who is this guy to lecture on the nature of Lincoln’s job?) “We decide what we will publish.”

“You decide?”

“Yes.”

“You, personally?”

“I’m the executive editor here.”

“You, personally.” Buford has carefully moved from a question to a statement of fact, a crafty cross-examination ploy Lincoln recognizes from TV court dramas.

“Me, in consultation with my colleagues,” he says carefully.

“Oh.” Perkily. “And did you share my work with your colleagues?”

Be firm, Lincoln reminds himself. “No, I made the decision on my own.”

“So you handled my manuscript differently from others?”

A frightening thought: Could Buford be tape-recording this conversation? “Look, Mr. Buford, I’m terribly sorry you’re disappointed, but your book simply doesn’t fit with Pistakee’s plans. It may be fine for another publisher, but it’s not for us.”

The pause on the other end gives Lincoln a moment to hope his message has been accepted. Nope. “I really am surprised at you,” Buford continues. “Surprised and disappointed. My mother’s condition has not improved. If anything, it’s deteriorated, and one of the things that has brought her solace—that’s eased her pain better than the drugs, frankly—is the thought that she will see her son’s book of poetry published. Perhaps she and I should come down there and have a meeting with you and your colleagues.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“I assume your office is ADA approved. You can handle a wheelchair.”

The fragile psychological dam Lincoln has constructed to block his anger—the mental equivalence of twigs and mud—finally gives out. “Listen, Mr. Buford,” he shouts into the phone. “Enough! I’ve had it. If you are going to sue me over that stupid accident, then sue me. I don’t care. But I won’t be blackmailed.” Lincoln is vaguely aware that half of Pistakee Press can probably hear him through the flimsy walls, but he can’t help himself.

“My God, Mr. Lincoln, what’s this about blackmail?” The voice on the other end suddenly modulates. The baritone moves up several octaves.

“That’s what you’re up to.”

“Oh, I’m sure you misunderstood. Blackmail? My God, Mr. Lincoln, I’m an academic.”

“Well...”

“I’m simply a writer who believes in his work. You must know the type.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I got a little offended when I saw your curt e-mail. I’m sorry.”

“OK.” Lincoln feels whipsawed. He’s not sure he’s off the hook, but he wants to push for conciliation. “I’m sorry I raised my voice.”

“Listen, let me buy you a drink. Apologize in person.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Please, I insist.” The baritone again. Buford can tune it to accommodate an incredible range of emotions. “Look at it this way: you can tell me in person that you don’t like my work, which will erase the impersonal offense of e-mail, and I can apologize in person for being too persistent.”

Lincoln hesitates. The relief flowing through him at the sudden slaking of anger leaves him feeling slightly giddy. His clarity of purpose gets clouded, and for the moment, he forgets he’s the object of a police investigation. “OK.”

“Terrific! It’ll be a couple of weeks. I’m about to head off on a little trip to Iceland.”

“Iceland?”

“Beautiful country. You’ve never been there? Remarkably happy people. I’ve got a conference in Reykjavik that I’m turning into a vacation. But I’ll send you an e-mail when I get back.”

“OK.”

“Terrific. Maybe in the meantime, you might just take another look.”

“Another look?”

“See you in a few weeks.” Click.

Lincoln gently places the phone back in the cradle, then stares dumbly at the machine. Did I just make another mistake? he wonders. How did this happen? Maybe, he tells himself, maybe this is like a hostage situation—better to keep the perpetrator talking, hope that he’ll tire or that something serendipitous will happen. Maybe time will heal—even heal the old lady’s neck.

After a minute or so, Lincoln gets up from his desk and pulls the last three years of Pistakee catalogs from his bookshelf, then makes an inventory: out of fifty-seven books the house published in that time, the period of Lincoln’s employment, only three were by African Americans, and two of those were acquired before Lincoln arrived. This, in a city that is almost 40 percent black. That sent the first black man in history to the White House. Lincoln immediately confects a scene outside the Pistakee building—a crowd milling, traffic stopped, bullhorns blaring, the Reverend Jesse Jackson leading an angry protest with Tony Buford as the aggrieved centerpiece, the noise and infamy blowing away Lincoln’s reputation, his dignity, his family’s honor—and all his various hopes, up to and including the possibility of getting a job in New York.

12

T
HANK
G
OD FOR
Bill Lemke, thinks John Lincoln. The washed-up sportswriter puts in a week of heroic work, e-mailing chapters to Lincoln that arrive at all hours of the day and night (11:44 p.m., 2:19 a.m., 5:05 a.m.—when does the man sleep?). Long ago, Lemke enjoyed an all-state career as a third baseman for Chicago’s huge Lane Tech High School, and Duddleston’s challenge has tapped the dormant competitive instincts of the vanished athlete (like extracting DNA from a fossilized bone). Lincoln has never heard Lemke sound so focused and thoughtful, so youthful. Lincoln crunches and polishes the new work, rationalizing sentences, excavating clichés, trimming lines, tightening scenes, inserting questions for the author that the two of them will go over later, though Lincoln finds that Lemke has done an admirable job of cleaning up his own text (apparently taking to heart many of the snippy and embittered suggestions Lincoln made on the original manuscript).

On the first weekend of the book’s new, frantic publishing schedule, Lincoln spends most of both days at the office to keep up with Lemke’s prodigious pace. Lincoln feels drugged by the stale building air and sodden with Starbucks coffee, but in a nice turn, Duddleston swings by late Sunday afternoon.
He’s ostensibly come to pick up some symphony tickets left in his desk, but Lincoln wonders if the boss hasn’t in fact found an excuse to check up, knowing the harsh deadline Pistakee faces to produce a finished manuscript.

“Hard at work!” Duddleston pronounces admiringly when he finds Lincoln in his office.

“Comin’ ’round the bend,” responds the executive editor, secretly thrilling, since he had been about to leave for the day and this small triumph of dedication could easily have been missed.

“Been here long?”

“Since about ten this morning.” Lincoln pauses, then adds modestly, “I was here most of yesterday, too. Bill is really churning the stuff out.”

Duddleston nods his appreciation. The two men consider each other’s casual attire. Duddleston’s trim white polo shirt and navy linen slacks outclass Lincoln’s old Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt and khaki shorts, but that’s OK with Lincoln (evidence of his utter focus on the task at hand). “How are you and Mary getting on these days?” asks Duddleston when the pause in the conversation grows uncomfortable.

“Oh, we talk.”

“I hope this tough deadline doesn’t get in the way of your reconciliation.”

“Not a problem.”

“Well, if you can manage it, take her out to dinner tonight and charge it to Pistakee. You guys deserve it.”

“Thanks!” says Lincoln, wondering whether the offer would work for Flam, since he hasn’t heard from Mary since their brief, prickly Sedona conversation.

“Give her my best,” says Duddleston as he departs, and Lincoln decides, no, better not to have to explain Flam to the company’s vigilant comptroller.

At the office several days later, Lincoln is finishing up a
Wrigley Field
chapter on the Bleacher Bums of ’69 when a message from Duddleston pops up in Lincoln’s e-mail inbox tagged with the bland subject “Personnel Communication.” Lincoln assumes it’s more on changes to the company health plan, which he can never understand anyway, so he continues editing. He only opens the message a few minutes later when he takes a break. “Senior Editor Arthur Wendt has resigned from Pistakee Press as of this morning,” the e-mail reads. “Arthur contributed seven years to the success of the company, and we wish him the best in his next endeavor.”

And that’s it. No elaboration. Nothing about why he’s leaving or where he’s going.

Lincoln stares at the computer screen in disbelief. Wendt was the first editor hired by Duddleston. He didn’t come up with a lot of interesting books, but he had connections in academia, and he could provide the slog of an edit to convert a professor’s manuscript into something approaching readability. And his books sold steadily. Every now and then, Lincoln checked the numbers, and in fact, cumulatively, Wendt’s books notched more sales each year than did Lincoln’s.

What has happened? Lincoln has no one to ask. Wendt himself was the only gossip in the company. As comptroller, Matt Breeson must have some insight, but he’d never betray his vows of discretion. And as for Duddleston—Lincoln can’t imagine asking his Presbyterian boss, who considers personal privacy the cornerstone of the country’s founding principles and who conducts his business, and his life, on a need-to-know basis. Lincoln briefly thinks about calling up Amy, who might have picked up some intelligence sitting outside the owner’s office, but her cubicle is just feet away from the desk of the loyal Mrs. Macintosh. Lincoln has no choice but to suppress his curiosity and get back to work.

An hour or so later, another e-mail arrives from the owner. In this one, the entire message is contained in the subject field: “Pls stop down.” Lincoln immediately assumes the worst. So that’s the way the word arrives—in the banal shorthand of officespeak. Duddleston must be picking off his editors one by one. Maybe the owner has suffered a sudden setback and now he’s cleaning house. Is this the end of Pistakee? Lincoln prolongs his agony for a few minutes, wandering the Web, scanning the news on Jim Romenesko’s media site, trying to distract himself and slow his heartbeat. Finally Lincoln does some deep breathing exercises and makes the
Dead Man Walking
march down to Duddleston’s office. Just outside, Amy looks up at him and silently signals doom with her face. “Go right in,” says Mrs. Macintosh solemnly.

Duddleston commands from a large, carpeted western-facing corner office, the scene of a constant war between the afternoon sun (here the building’s renovators have replaced the portholes with wide windows) and tall, fusty shelves of Duddleston’s first editions and favorite books. In winter’s low light, the room can resemble a London men’s club of Edwardian vintage. But on sunny days like today, even with the shades drawn, the relentless brightness reminds Lincoln of a hospital operating room. Duddleston sits at his desk, the taut, athletic body firmly erect. “Come in,” he tells Lincoln. “Close the door.”

Lincoln follows orders and takes a seat in an Aeron chair across the desk from his boss.

“You saw my note about Arthur?” Duddleston asks.