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Authors: Jacob M. Appel
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me—that I only grant interviews to anarchists.”
Arnold grinned. The girl looked up at him puzzled, biting the knuckle of her index finger, as though trying to figure out whether he was joking. She appeared so vulnerable, so close to tears, that the botanist instantly regretted his sarcasm. He wished he had some profound statement about patriotism to offer her—but he couldn’t even remember the stock platitudes that Gilbert Card had shared over dinner. He had absolutely nothing useful to say. He resisted the instinct to let her cry against his chest. Then the girl’s jaw stiffened and her hands balled into fists. “You’re screwing with me, Arnold,” she snapped. “I can tell.”
“Excuse me?”
How quickly she’d gone from
Mr. Brinkman
and
pretty please
to
Arnold
and
screwing
…
“I’m not a moron,” she seethed. “I know you’rethinking I’m just some dumb girl reporter from some second-rate paper, but at least have the guts to say it. You’re pathetic, Mr. There Is No Story. You don’t think I can tell you’re holding out for one of the big-time magazines.”
“I had to go to the bathroom,” Arnold insisted.
“
Bullshit
!” The girl rummaged through her bag and slid a business card onto Arnold’s desk. “If you feel guilty for treating me like shit, here’s how to find me. I doubt you will—but deep down you’ll have to live with knowing it was
my
interview. It
is
my interview, goddammit, whether I get it or not.”
She was gone before Arnold could stop her. He picked up the card.
CASANDRA BROWARD
The phrase “Reporter,
Daily Vanguard
” had been scrawled in red ink beneath her name. There were also a handwritten address and phone number.
Arnold pocketed the card. He was feeling mildly pleased with himself—as though he’d withstood a brutal cross-examination—when he remembered that nothing outside his office had changed. His home was still surrounded by journalists; his wife still had him in the dog house. And to the Spotty Spitfords of the world, he was still Public Enemy Number One.
Once Arnold was certain that the girl wasn’t going to return—that her departure wasn’t part of some complex ploy to catch him by surprise—he tried to phoneJudith. He wasn’t particularly ready to talk to her—usually, if they fought in the morning, they both stewed through the workday and then made up in the evening—but these weren’t ordinary circumstances. Besides, he realized that he owed
her
an apology. Not for his antics at the baseball game, or his refusal to prostrate himself before the mob, but because he hadn’t explained to her
why
he couldn’t do what she wanted. Not adequately. In the heat of the moment, he’d probably just sounded obstinate. Besides, until now, he hadn’t even fully understood himself. The girl’s questions had helped him see things better: He wasn’t merely protesting for the right to protest or for some abstract principles. In a way, as peculiar as it sounded, he
was
protesting against all of the injustices he’d enumerated to Cassandra. Scottsboro. The Chicago Seven. Matthew Shepard. Bonnie Card had a bumper-sticker pasted to her office door that read: “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.” If he could only find a way to communicate these feelings to Judith, he thought it might resonate with her too. He hoped it would. But Judith didn’t answer the phone. Neither did the machine. After twenty rings, he had to accept that she’d unplugged the console or pulled the wire out of the jack. It was possible she didn’t even realize he was gone, that she thought he was still blowing off steam in the garden. He slammed down the phone and stormed out into the corridor.
Guillermo had gone up front to supervise themorning deliveries, but the manager had left open the door to his office. Arnold stepped inside. The Venezuelan relied on the skylight for illumination, and preferred an oscillating fan to air-conditioning, so the
Arnold grinned. The girl looked up at him puzzled, biting the knuckle of her index finger, as though trying to figure out whether he was joking. She appeared so vulnerable, so close to tears, that the botanist instantly regretted his sarcasm. He wished he had some profound statement about patriotism to offer her—but he couldn’t even remember the stock platitudes that Gilbert Card had shared over dinner. He had absolutely nothing useful to say. He resisted the instinct to let her cry against his chest. Then the girl’s jaw stiffened and her hands balled into fists. “You’re screwing with me, Arnold,” she snapped. “I can tell.”
“Excuse me?”
How quickly she’d gone from
Mr. Brinkman
and
pretty please
to
Arnold
and
screwing
…
“I’m not a moron,” she seethed. “I know you’rethinking I’m just some dumb girl reporter from some second-rate paper, but at least have the guts to say it. You’re pathetic, Mr. There Is No Story. You don’t think I can tell you’re holding out for one of the big-time magazines.”
“I had to go to the bathroom,” Arnold insisted.
“
Bullshit
!” The girl rummaged through her bag and slid a business card onto Arnold’s desk. “If you feel guilty for treating me like shit, here’s how to find me. I doubt you will—but deep down you’ll have to live with knowing it was
my
interview. It
is
my interview, goddammit, whether I get it or not.”
She was gone before Arnold could stop her. He picked up the card.
CASANDRA BROWARD
The phrase “Reporter,
Daily Vanguard
” had been scrawled in red ink beneath her name. There were also a handwritten address and phone number.
Arnold pocketed the card. He was feeling mildly pleased with himself—as though he’d withstood a brutal cross-examination—when he remembered that nothing outside his office had changed. His home was still surrounded by journalists; his wife still had him in the dog house. And to the Spotty Spitfords of the world, he was still Public Enemy Number One.
Once Arnold was certain that the girl wasn’t going to return—that her departure wasn’t part of some complex ploy to catch him by surprise—he tried to phoneJudith. He wasn’t particularly ready to talk to her—usually, if they fought in the morning, they both stewed through the workday and then made up in the evening—but these weren’t ordinary circumstances. Besides, he realized that he owed
her
an apology. Not for his antics at the baseball game, or his refusal to prostrate himself before the mob, but because he hadn’t explained to her
why
he couldn’t do what she wanted. Not adequately. In the heat of the moment, he’d probably just sounded obstinate. Besides, until now, he hadn’t even fully understood himself. The girl’s questions had helped him see things better: He wasn’t merely protesting for the right to protest or for some abstract principles. In a way, as peculiar as it sounded, he
was
protesting against all of the injustices he’d enumerated to Cassandra. Scottsboro. The Chicago Seven. Matthew Shepard. Bonnie Card had a bumper-sticker pasted to her office door that read: “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.” If he could only find a way to communicate these feelings to Judith, he thought it might resonate with her too. He hoped it would. But Judith didn’t answer the phone. Neither did the machine. After twenty rings, he had to accept that she’d unplugged the console or pulled the wire out of the jack. It was possible she didn’t even realize he was gone, that she thought he was still blowing off steam in the garden. He slammed down the phone and stormed out into the corridor.
Guillermo had gone up front to supervise themorning deliveries, but the manager had left open the door to his office. Arnold stepped inside. The Venezuelan relied on the skylight for illumination, and preferred an oscillating fan to air-conditioning, so the
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