I am not sure where we are. It’s a flat, treeless, straight stretch of highway surrounded by fallow fields. We are in the Cadillac—I in the driver’s seat, my father riding shotgun.
“Rides nice, doesn’t she?” my father says, grinning at me from behind sunglasses.
“Real nice.”
“You know why, right?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re driving a goddamned Cadillac, that’s why!” He lets out a belly laugh.
“But where are we going?” I ask.
“Anywhere you want, Edward. But first, don’t you think you ought to go to…”
– • –
The grocery store. That’s what I’m thinking when my eyes flutter open at 7:38 a.m.
A man needs a good breakfast on a day like today, and I am a man, but I have no breakfast. Skipping the grocery store on Tuesday showed that I can be bold and impulsive, but it doesn’t help
me today, when I am out of food. If not for the tuna sandwich my mother made me for lunch and my leftover pizza for dinner, I might have remembered to go yesterday. But I did not. That failure is my fault.
I pull on clothes in the dark of my bedroom and then hustle out the door. I can remember 7:38 a.m. After all, I have awoken at that time 229 times in 311 days this year (because it’s a leap year). If I couldn’t remember that, I would have to have my head examined, which I don’t want to do.
I can ensure that my data is complete when I get back home.
– • –
It is dark and cold this early in the morning. The late-fall sky is a deep gray, like a gun barrel, and I would guess that it won’t get much above freezing today. I would guess, but I don’t like to. Guesses are conjecture. I prefer facts.
Inside the Albertsons on Thirteenth Street W. and Grand Avenue, though, it’s light and airy, and I enjoy walking the aisles, picking up the groceries I need.
I have decided to try again with different kinds of food. I realize that changing my grocery list didn’t have anything to do with what happened to my father; it was a coincidence. I still would like to see if I can learn how to cook a steak, and so I buy a package of two New York strip steaks, in case my first attempt goes poorly.
I also get corn flakes, as per usual (I love the phrase “as per usual”), and the makings of spaghetti, which remains my favorite food even though I said I felt like I was in a rut. A lot has changed since I said that.
I do try some of the Lean Cuisine meals, but I think it’s OK to get a few Banquet dinners as well, because I like Banquet dinners.
I make similar decisions on ice cream and pizza. I get the Dreyer’s vanilla and the DiGiorno pepperoni because I like them. It’s OK to get the things you like. It doesn’t mean that you’re slavish to convention.
I think Dr. Buckley would agree with me on that.
– • –
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here this early.” The woman at the checkout stand is talking to me.
“What?”
“You’re early. Don’t you usually come in later in the day?”
“Yes. On Tuesdays. I didn’t this week, though.”
“Forgot?”
“No. I chose not to.”
“Yeah, going to the store can be a real pain sometimes.” She continues sweeping my items across the electronic price reader.
“My father died. It sort of jumbled up my schedule.”
She looks crestfallen. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s OK.”
“Well,” she says, holding up the Dreyer’s, “ice cream makes excellent comfort food.”
“Yes.”
She finishes ringing up my items.
“OK, that will be fifty-four dollars and seventy-eight cents,” she says.
I swipe my card through the electronic reader, hit the credit option, and wait for the receipt to come up. When it does, I sign my name.
“Thanks so much. It was good to see you,” the woman at the checkout stand says. “Take care.”
I tell her good-bye.
As I’m walking back to the Cadillac, I think it’s interesting that I’ve never before had a conversation at the grocery store. That was fun.
– • –
For what it’s worth—and that’s not much, until I get the actual facts tomorrow—the weather forecast in the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
agrees with me: It’s going to be a cold one today, with a high of thirty-six and a low of twenty-two. It’s all just conjecture at this point, and I prefer the facts. Here are two: Yesterday’s high temperature was forty-eight, and the low was thirty-four. I record these things in my notebook, and my data is complete. I then finish off the last few bites of my corn flakes and chase my fluoxetine with orange juice, and my breakfast is complete, too.
Mr. Withers didn’t say how I should dress for our meeting today, so I am going to err on the side of formality and wear my George Foreman suit and shirt with blue stripes. I wore the same thing on my date with Joy-Annette, which momentarily gives me pause. But I have known Mr. Withers for a long time, and I have no anxiety that he will wig out on me like Joy-Annette did. I think it will be OK. That I’m wearing the same outfit is just coincidence. It doesn’t mean anything.
I head for the shower. I must keep moving so I am clean and dressed and at the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
by 10:00 a.m. sharp.
– • –
The woman at the front desk has a kind, cheerful face. “Can I help you?”
“Mr. Withers, please.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes.”
“Your name?”
“Edward Stanton.”
She picks up the phone and punches in a number. “There’s an Edward Stanton here to see you. Yes, OK.” She hangs up.
“He’ll be right down.”
I glance around the foyer of the
Herald-Gleaner.
The woman I’ve been talking to is behind a big glass wall, and through it, I can see dozens of cubicles, with people in them typing away on computers or looking down at paperwork. Along the wall to the left, on the north side of the building, are glass offices. In the middle of the big room beyond the glass wall is a small table in a small pit surrounded by what appear to be trees. I can’t tell if the trees are real, though. They look real; some of the leaves are withering. But I also know that manufacturers have gotten very good at making fake things look real. I will have to ask Mr. Withers about this.
Beyond the trees is a room with glass windows on three sides, a big table, and lots of chairs. Important meetings probably go on in there. To the right are more cubicles and more glass offices along the south wall. The
Herald-Gleaner
is a very active, important-looking place.
“Edward, my boy!” The booming voice of Mr. Withers comes at me from behind the glass. I would recognize it anywhere. He pushes open a door and tells me to come in.
“How are you, Edward?” he asks, offering a handshake, which I accept.
“I’m doing well.”
“Excellent, excellent.”
I have seen Mr. Withers only a few times since I graduated from Billings West High School twenty-one years ago. Back then, he was probably younger than I am now, perhaps around thirty-five or thirty-six years old. Now he’s in his mid-fifties, the reddish-brown hair that I remember gone fully gray. He’s a little heavier and a little more crinkly around the eyes, but the voice and the manner are the same.
“Edward, again, I was so sorry to hear about your dad. He was a good man.”
“Yes.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Well, my boy, come on upstairs with me. We have a lot to talk about.”
– • –
On the walk up the stairs, Mr. Withers is telling me about his job at the
Herald-Gleaner.
“I’m the operations director,” he says. “That means, essentially, that I keep things running around here. That has to do with mechanical things, like the press, and the maintenance of the offices and the grounds. It’s a lot of responsibility. It’s a big place. I’ll show you more of it in a bit.”
“Why did you leave Billings West?”
“I’d been there thirty-three years. It was time. I had my full pension, and the principals and regulations were getting harder and harder to deal with. I felt like it was time for a change. You know that feeling, Edward?”
“Yes.” I have been experiencing it a lot lately.
“Anyway, here’s my office,” he says, ushering me into a small room that overlooks Fourth Avenue N., one of the busier streets in Billings. “Have a seat.”
I sit down, and Mr. Withers settles in behind his desk.
“The reason I wrote to you, Edward, is that I want you to come work for me.”
I had not expected this, and so I can come up with only one word.
“Why?”
“I need someone like you. You’re good with your hands, and you can figure out anything mechanical. This place is forty years old. It needs a lot of maintenance. I figure you’re the guy who can help me.”
“When?” I am simultaneously excited and scared. It has been a long time since I worked anywhere.
“I’m thinking I’ll have you work what’s called the swing shift. It’s from the late afternoon until around midnight,” Mr. Withers says. Then, his voice gets a little lower and more serious. “Edward, I know about how you need to be left alone to do work. I know why. This job, you’ll be allowed to do that. You’ll report to me, but when you’re here, you’ll be working on tasks that I assign and that you’ll be able to do yourself. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says, reverting to his usual cheer. “What do you say we take a look around?”
– • –
Mr. Withers takes me all over the
Herald-Gleaner
and explains to me what each part of the building does.
The north side of the building, he says, is where the advertising and marketing staffs work, selling ads for the newspaper and its website and working on promotions and such. He introduces me to a lot of people, and I can’t remember all of their names.
On the south side of the building is the editorial staff—the reporters and editors and photographers who cover the news and make a newspaper every night. I expect a frenzy of activity, like you see in movies about newspapers, but it’s a quiet place at this time of day. A lot of people are on phones.
It turns out that the indoor tree is real. Mr. Withers smiles when I ask about it and points up to the ceiling, where there is a massive sunroof. “It’s a real pain to keep the leaves swept up,” he says.
He also shows me the press and the new packaging center, where the newspaper is merged with ads from department stores and other inserted items, like
Parade
magazine in the Sunday newspaper. Mr. Withers explains that the press is running much of the time—not just with each day’s newspaper, but also with specialty magazines and jobs for other publications around the region. The packaging center is vast, an addition to the building that went up just in the past year or so.
“It’s an exciting time around here,” Mr. Withers says.
It looks like a nice place to work.
On the way up the stairs, Mr. Withers tells me that he can give me about $12 an hour to start, and that sounds good to me. It’s more than I have ever made, except for when my father gave me $5 million.
– • –
Back behind his desk, Mr. Withers says, “So, my boy, will you come to work for me?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Excellent, excellent.”
“When do I start?”
“Come on in Monday morning at nine, Edward. We’ll get your paperwork filled out, show you what you’ll be doing, and hit the ground running. How does that sound?”
“Good.”
“All right,” he says, standing up and clapping me on the shoulder again. “I’ll walk you down.”
A few minutes later, I’m back behind the wheel of the Cadillac. My father told me in my dream that it would take me anywhere I wanted to go. I never would have expected that it would be here.
– • –
I drive the Cadillac the short distance home, and my mind is swimming. I never thought I would be going back to work, but I trust Mr. Withers to take care of me. The hours he has in mind may lead to some changes in my routine. My 10:00 p.m. viewings of
Dragnet
will have to be moved. Maybe I can watch it after I get home at night. That means I won’t be going to bed at midnight sharp anymore. My common wake-up time of 7:38 a.m. will probably change, too. Between getting home after work and watching
Dragnet
, it will be close to 1:00 a.m., at the earliest, before I get to sleep.
My 10:00 a.m. Tuesday appointments with Dr. Buckley are safe. We will have much to talk about in just a few days.
And the grocery store can be visited whenever I need to. My new job won’t affect that.
I saw in the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
yesterday that Barack Obama, the new president, says “change is coming.” I wonder how he knew.
– • –
At home, I’m retrieving the mail—all advertisements—when I spot the envelope taped to my door. It says “Edward,” but it’s not the precise block writing of my father. Instead, it’s a pretty cursive. Whoever wrote this probably got good penmanship marks in school.
I set the mail on the stoop and tear open the envelope. Lined notebook paper, the kind I had to write on in school, is inside.
Dear Edward,
This is a letter of complaint. The difference between your letters of complaint and mine is that mine get delivered.
You have not been a good friend to me lately, and I want you to know that. You walked away from me when I was telling you how sorry I was about your father, and you yelled at me and Kyle when all we wanted was for you to come outside and be our friend.
Friends don’t do that, Edward. Friends talk to each other, and friends try not to be rude, even if they don’t want to come outside. If you’re going to be my friend, you can tell me that you don’t want to do something, and I will understand. That’s what friends do. If I’m going to be your friend, I will tell you if I don’t want to do something.
I have wrestled with myself over whether to write this letter. Our life has been hard lately, and I don’t need to waste time with someone who isn’t going to be a good friend to me. Your track record as my friend is unclear. I’m trying to figure out if you’re the Edward who argues with a little boy or if you’re the Edward who stood by me in court that day and brought me back here and made me feel
good about myself again. Sometimes, I think you could be a really good friend for us. Sometimes, I don’t.