Providence (16 page)

Peter lifted a coffee mug from a peg and poured coffee into it.

I let out a long breath. “If Arthur’s right about scandals spreading like wildfire,” I said, “it’s doubly true when it comes to religious figures. They’re even more combustible.”

“That’s probably true, but why don’t you stop worrying about it?” Peter handed me the coffee and sat at the table.

“It doesn’t matter how far-fetched these accusations are,” I said. “What if they torpedo the program? The people in Norwood could lose their trust. That would be tragic.”

“Don’t let a few flies buzzing around your head give you grief. When people do good, other people always want to spoil it. You know better than anyone how many obstacles we faced in Norwood. Then there was the flack that came out with the book, and the reporters, the break-in. You’re starting something new, something good, so more static is being thrown at you.”

“Is that what you think this is?” I asked. “Spiritual warfare?”

“Does it matter? Spiritual attack, the thoughtlessness of people. Maybe it’s just envy, and when someone’s balloon gets too big, someone comes along with a pin. Anyway, your response shouldn’t be any different. Pray, then move forward. Don’t let barking dogs spook you.”

“I was bitten by a dog once.”

“Bite ’em back. I’d hate to see this annoyance interfere with your spa schedule at the Hyatt,” he teased.

“Very funny. I’d only gone there to write, Peter. Because it was snowing, because I had the blues. You’re the one who told me to take a vacation. How am I getting busted over this?”

“Jack, deep breaths. It’s too early to dig into the really deep questions. Let’s try a simpler one: Are you coming to church?”

“Only if I don’t disrupt the service and cause a scene.”

“That’s the spirit. You’re certainly dressed for it.”

Peter drove, and I rode shotgun, the same way I’d always done with Mitchell. The sun was hot, and it warmed the back of my neck as I prayed quietly that there’d be no camera crews lying in wait outside the church. Thankfully, except for a few extra smiles and waves of support as Peter and I made our way to our usual seats, it was as if the story hadn’t been written.

It was an inspiring service. We worshipped Christ in the music, and Pastor Lawrence’s message on perseverance was timely. This was an hour of focus solely on God, and His peace, “which passeth all understanding,” entered my soul. I counted every blessing on every face, every stranger and friend sitting around me.

After the service we waited until all the other worshippers had departed. A few stopped to share words of encouragement.

“What’s your plan?” Peter asked, bringing back the reality of the outside world.

“I don’t know. I’m not ready to go back and face the surreal life yet. I need to get to my place, but I have a nagging suspicion I won’t be alone there.”

“You can’t run from this.”

“Not going to.” I rose to my feet, gazing up at the cedar-hewn ceiling forty feet above us. Sunlight beamed through the high windows. Specks of dust reflected light as they floated through the beams. “I’ll need to speak with Aaron, see what the college needs from me. Arthur mentioned writing a statement of some kind.”

Pastor Lawrence walked toward us down the long center aisle. His strides were quick and powerful, his white robe swinging. “Good morning, Jack … Peter.”

“Morning,” we each said.

I held my breath, hoping Pastor Lawrence had faith in me, that I wasn’t a fraud. His initial trust had been influential in opening up Norwood to our ministry.

“Jack, I read the article. I wanted to let you know I’m here if you need a statement from me.”

“A statement?”

“Yes, a statement. I assume you’re going to fight this. Someone has taken your good name and smeared it. If I were you, I’d go get it back. If you need me to write something down for you, I will. As your pastor, someone who’s walked with you all these years, and as someone who’s familiar with the Norwood community, I believe in you.”

Pastor Lawrence’s sermon had renewed me. Now his words gave me the confidence to go to battle. His confidence in me loomed like a battalion of reinforcements.

“Thank you, Pastor.”

“You call me when you need to, Jack.”

Pastor Lawrence walked back toward the pulpit. He was strong and muscular, the strength of his spirit manifested in his physique. Once a poor black kid from Alabama who had sweated on a football field until he’d earned a scholarship to play at Auburn, he’d worked his way through seminary and had become the senior pastor at one of Providence’s largest white churches. Pastor Lawrence knew about adversity, and he knew how to stand up and fight.

And so did I.

~
S
EVENTEEN
~

Why don’t they
Do what they say, say what they mean?

—The Fixx

“One Thing Leads to Another”

Twenty minutes later I pulled into my drive. An unfamiliar white Chevy Blazer with black tinted windows was parked half a block up the street. Otherwise, all was quiet. Upstairs the message machine was flashing the number 46 in red. A lot of messages for a single guy with an unlisted number.

I hung my new sports coat in the upstairs closet and went down to the kitchen to make a sandwich. Somewhere between the top of the stairs and the first-floor landing a strange thought struck me. It was so bizarre that somehow I knew it had to be true. I grabbed the remote and switched on CNN. There I was emerging from my residence at the Hyatt, dressed in a new tailor-made suit and wearing five-dollar sunglasses. The shades gave me the detached look of a Hollywood actor avoiding the paparazzi. Conspicuously missing was video of me peeling away in my crappy $5,000 Jeep. I turned up the volume to hear the reporter retelling the basic newspaper story, only with a new sinister twist:

Little is known about Clayton, who burst onto the best-seller list three years ago. His book Laborers of the Orchard became one of the best-selling nonfiction books of all time. He has vigorously avoided news reporters and ducked interviews for years, leading many in the media to speculate about what he might be hiding.

Hiding. They say I’m hiding.
I muted the sound. The phone rang. I saw from caller ID it was Arthur.

“Good, you’re finally home. What are you doing?” He didn’t give me time to answer. “We’ve got to get a handle on this, Jack. The Bud Abbott piece is already on television.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen it.”

“So has everyone else in the United States and probably the world. It’s the hot chat topic of the day. By tomorrow night all the cable networks will carve space for it in their prime-time shows. This is
not
good for what we’re trying to do with the new book.”

I wished Arthur would have said it wasn’t good for CMO, or for the college, or the Norwood program, or even for my reputation. I wished it weren’t so blatantly obvious what Arthur cared most about.

“I thought any publicity was good publicity.”

“After the book’s in stores maybe, but not at this stage. We’ll have buyers canceling orders come Tuesday morning. Shoppers won’t reserve their advance copies. Bad press will turn people against you, Jack, and they’ll probably question the reliability of anything you write.”

I pictured cracks fracturing the walls of a dam; a trickle of water running out from the crevices, concrete being snapped off little by little until the current became a flood. My wall of privacy was coming down around me.

“Jack, I’ve got a plan to repair this, but I’ll need your full cooperation.”

“I agree we need to issue some kind of a response.”

“Well, good,” Arthur said, surprised by an agreement coming without a lot of arm wrestling. “It’s about time. We’re going to need a team effort here to beat this thing.”

The white Chevy rolled to a silent stop in front of my house. The tinted driver’s side window scrolled down and a long, black telescopic barrel emerged, pointed directly at me.

“You won’t believe this, but I’m being photographed by paparazzi.”

“Get away from the window.” I stepped out of the view from the camera lens and watched the Blazer roll slowly around the corner and up the hill, parking on a side street.

“Are they gone?”

“For the moment.”

Across the bottom of TV I saw my name crawl by in the news ticker:
AUTHOR TO THE POOR DUCKS QUESTIONS ABOUT LIVING LARGE
•
LABORERS OF THE ORCHARD
AUTHOR JACK CLAYTON REFUSES TO ANSWER QUESTIONS ABOUT FINANCES
,
EXTRAVAGANT LIFESTYLE
•

“This just underscores the urgency we need to address this scandal.”

Scandal
. I was involved in a scandal. Arthur was right. This story needed to be stopped.

“Right now your story has more questions than answers. Reporters are going to dig things up, unless we give them their answers first.”

“Why haven’t you asked me about the details in the story?” I asked. I wandered the house, looking out windows for other unmarked vehicles.

“Because I don’t care. My job is to publish your books, and to protect my investment. I’m your defense attorney in this respect. Your guilt or innocence doesn’t change my job one iota. The only thing that matters to me is clearing your name and getting things back to where they should be.”

“It matters to me that we protect the program, and the college, and my reputation—in that order. I’m willing to make some kind of statement, or a press release. Write whatever you like, but I’ll need to see it first.”

“I think it’s going to require a lot more than that, Jack.”

“What do you suggest?”

“A press release, a televised press conference, TV appearances, talk shows—the works. We’ve got to get your face out there. I know a PR firm up here in Indianapolis—McKinney & Company. Susan McKinney runs it. She’s fabulous. I’ve already been in contact with her, and she’s agreed to work with us. Her specialty is restoring clients with … tarnished reputations.”

“Is that what I have, a tarnished reputation? It’s more like they’ve got the facts wrong.” This was spinning well out of my control.

“Yes, they’ve got the facts wrong, but putting them all back in the right place takes more than a press release. You might find this hard to believe, Jack, but people lie all the time in press statements. The public isn’t swayed by them. That’s why we need to bring Susan on board. She’ll have more than a few good ideas.”

“When can we meet?”

“Today. And Jack, listen to Susan’s advice. She knows what she’s doing. A lot of innocent people will be unnecessarily hurt if we don’t do something now.”

We made plans to meet at my house at four.

Susan McKinney introduced herself by presenting a list of clients she’d worked with: professional athletes whose public ordeals had soured their reputations and corporate CEO’s who wanted to “freshen up” their public personas. She’d even worked with the governor’s office.

“Jack, Arthur filled me in on your situation. I spent some time this morning researching news sites and downloading what’s running in papers around the country. I’ve also seen what’s happening on cable news. I’m sorry for this situation; it doesn’t sound fair. However, I don’t believe it’s as devastating as you and Arthur perceive it to be. It actually should be reasonably easy to clear up, if you’re willing to do some things we haven’t seen before.”

“Like what?”

“Answer their accusations straight on. The first charge you face is that you dodge interviews. You can refute this by agreeing to sit down to one.”

“Jack,” Arthur interjected. “Susan and I were discussing this in the car and she thinks there’s any number of national platforms where we can get a booking.
Larry King, Good Morning America, Fox News.
”

“We’ll seek easy interviews, not hard hitters,” Susan threw in. “They’ll ask you to tell your story, then toss you softball versions of the questions raised by the press. Very straightforward. An easy fix. If we move fast enough, we can get your version out there right away so people can decide for themselves.”

“I don’t do interviews.”

Arthur and Susan exchanged worried looks.

“I know, Jack,” said Arthur. “You’ve made that perfectly clear. But don’t you want your reputation cleared up? It doesn’t matter how you got here. What matters is how you leave this.”

“We’ll send a statement to all television and print media addressing each of the so-called accusations,” Susan continued. “We can include any information you feel comfortable releasing.”

She reached into her large leather carry bag and produced a small, spiral notepad. She flipped through pages of preliminary notes until she reached a blank page.

“Okay, the first issue we need to address is the question of where your money goes—lifestyle questions, such as how extravagantly you spend. I can see by your house—is this the only one you own?—that the press certainly didn’t do very good research before running the story. Arthur told me you’re frugal on yourself, but generous with others. I think we can spin that in such a way that speaks to your generosity without making you sound like a saint. Then there’s the maid-slash-housekeeper. I suggest presenting her as someone who helps you because you’re a bachelor and you’re busy. She only works part-time, right? Hope I’m not going too fast here. I just want to lay all the points on the table where we can strategize a response you’re comfortable with.”