“He sounded a little uptight.”
“He is a little uptight.”
“He also wasn’t particularly happy,” he said. “He said something about giving up on trying your cell phone now that you live in the boondocks. I wanted to say, Dude, this is western Massachusetts, not the foothills of Tennessee. But he’d probably have been like, There’s a difference? So it’s probably good I kept quiet.”
“Probably.”
“Either way,” he said, “I hate to be the messenger on this one, but in case you aren’t in the mood for any other surprises today, he did say you have to call him back as soon as possible. Those were his exact words. Apparently he has some bad news to report.”
I pulled my coat tighter around me, unable to feel the hearts anymore, unable to let myself feel another bad thing.
“Of course he does,” I said.
15
In the entirety of my time writing “Checking Out,” I had been to Peter’s midtown Manhattan office only a handful of times. I couldn’t begin to count the number of phone calls between us—Peter becoming a free-floating voice of calm, his sweet face largely one I’d drawn onto him in my mind. This was only one of the reasons it was so disconcerting sitting across from him—his sleek, modern desk between us—a black-and-white photograph of his beloved Steinbeck gracing the wall above his head. He looked like an alternative version of himself—less sweet, more reserved—with a rather large mole on the tip of his nose. I couldn’t stop asking myself, how had I not noticed it before? And why was it all I could see now?
It had been five days since his phone call had come in. Five days since Peter had said that we needed to talk in person. So there I was in my black sheath dress and black blazer, my hair in a severe bun—looking more than a little like I was going to a funeral. Waiting for him to have at it, whatever it was.
“My love, you know that joke where the doctor tells his patient that he has good news and bad news?”
Apparently it was a punch line.
“I don’t think so. . . .”
“Well,” Peter said, “the joke goes that a doctor walks into an exam room and tells the patient he has good news and bad news and asks the patient which he wants to hear first. The patient picks the bad news. The doctor grimly tells him he has only a few months to live and needs to get his affairs in order. At which point, the saddened patient looks up and questions the doctor, ‘What is the good news?’ The doctor smiles and says, ‘This morning, I had my best golf game in years.’”
I offered a small, conciliatory smile. “That’s funny, Peter.”
Peter shook his head, laughing. “Isn’t it?” he said. Then he got serious. “So which would you like to hear first, my love, the good news or the bad news? It’s your choice.”
“Am I supposed to say the bad news?” I asked.
“That sounds right,” he said. “And the bad news is that I’m being forced out of my position on the paper by the new editor in chief, Caleb Beckett the Second, who, in addition to having no journalism experience whatsoever, also happens to be quite an impressive postadolescent prick.”
“I’m not following,” I said, remembering our conversation from a few months ago, when the paper first changed hands. “Didn’t you say that you liked the new publisher? That he was a gentleman of the oldest order?”
“I did. He is. But that’s Caleb Beckett the First. This is Caleb Beckett Number Two. His son. And it’s his son who he just made the editor in chief, and who he has given the latitude to do whatever he wants here in order to turn the paper into his darling. Except maybe . . . rent a car.”
I tilted my head, trying to understand.
“The boy is twenty-four,” he said.
I nodded. “Got it.”
“Fine, he’s closer to your age, but he may as well be a child, the way he is trying to do things. Australians . . .”
“Peter, what am I missing here?”
“Caleb’s bringing in all these bloody television people to run the enterprise. Former classmates of his from Yale, who don’t even read newspapers. They read the Internet. On their silly, electronic phones.”
“I’m so sorry, Peter. I’m so sorry. You are an incredible editor. They are beyond lucky to have you,” I said. “And believe me when I tell you, I am less than excited to work for someone like that.”
“Well, that’s when we get to the bad of the bad news,” he said. “It’s not going to be your option.”
“What do you mean?”
“When your contract’s up next month, they have decided they’re not going to renew.”