any trouble, say I said so."
He takes the opportunity to propose a few more stories to Kathleen--not obits but general features. She doesn't object, so he pursues them in his own time. Maintaining precedent, he files directly to her, not ostensibly for her to edit but because, as he puts it,
"I'd really appreciate your opinion, if you have a second." Once she has read each and enthused, he forwards it to Clint with a note stating, "KS edited." With that, Clint cannot touch a word.
Gradually,
Arthur
converts
Pickle's old room into his study. That is, he calls it his study. Visantha won't.
One night, he looks up from his notes. "Hi. What's up?"
"You busy?" she asks.
"Fairly. What's going on?"
"I'll come back later. I don't want to interrupt."
"What's
up?"
"Nothing. I just wanted to talk."
"About?" He turns off the desk light. He sits in darkness. She is silhouetted in the doorway. He says, "I can't talk about that."
"I haven't said what."
"I'm done here for the night."
"Age-wise," she says, "it's a rush. If we want to."
"I got a fair amount done tonight, I think."
"Because of my age. I'm just saying."
"No, no," he says, rising. "Not for me. No. Couldn't bear that. I'm done in here.
Done for the night." He approaches and touches her shoulders. She responds, expecting an embrace. Instead, he shifts her gently aside and passes.
The next day, a Cuban man who claimed to be 126 years old dies. Nobody believes the claim, but the paper needs to fill out page nine. So Arthur is assigned to write eight hundred words. He steals the basics from the wires and adds a few clever flourishes.
He reads it over a dozen times, emails it to Clint. "You have the fake Cuban," Arthur informs him, and does a last check of his email in-box before heading to the door. He finds a message from Erzberger's niece: Gerda has died.
Arthur checks the time to see if he can still make deadline. He calls the niece, offers his condolences, inquires about a few compulsory details: when exactly Gerda died, what the official cause was, when the funeral will be. He types these updates into the obit and walks into Clint's office. "We need to knock something off page nine."
"Not at this hour."
"An Austrian writer, Gerda Erzberger, just died. I have preparedness ready to go."
"Are you insane? We've got the fucking Cuban on nine."
"You need to kill him and put in Erzberger."
"I
need to? Kathleen didn't say I need to do nothing."
"Kathleen wanted it in."
Each man cites Kathleen's name as if hoisting a club.
"Nuh-uh. Kathleen wanted the 126-year-old Cuban. She said so at the afternoon meeting."
"Well,
I want Erzberger in. At full length."
"Who heard of this dumb-ass Austrian, anyway? Look, man, I think we can safely hold your masterpiece till tomorrow."
"Kathleen specifically said she wanted something in the paper as soon as Erzberger died. Obviously, we could tack a brief onto the bottom of the world's oldest liar and that might satisfy her. But I don't want to do that. This is my personal request, nothing to do with Kathleen: dump the Cuban and run Erzberger. And don't hack my piece. I don't want to open the paper tomorrow and read it as a brief at the end of the Cuban. Is that clear?"
Clint smiles. "I'll do whatever I got to do, man."
Arthur sleeps poorly that night--he's too impatient. When the paper arrives, he flips immediately to page nine. "Yes!" he declares. "Oh, Clint, dear, dear Clint!" Just as Arthur had hoped, Clint has destroyed the Erzberger article, condensing her life into one hundred words and making it a brief at the bottom of the dead Cuban. "Perfect," Arthur says.
He composes himself and phones Kathleen from his study. "Sorry to bug you this early at home, but did you see our obits today?"
"Obits plural?" He hears her flipping pages. Her voice turns metallic. "Why did we run this as a brief?"
"I know--I don't see why we couldn't have just held it for a day."
"You didn't know it was
He takes the opportunity to propose a few more stories to Kathleen--not obits but general features. She doesn't object, so he pursues them in his own time. Maintaining precedent, he files directly to her, not ostensibly for her to edit but because, as he puts it,
"I'd really appreciate your opinion, if you have a second." Once she has read each and enthused, he forwards it to Clint with a note stating, "KS edited." With that, Clint cannot touch a word.
Gradually,
Arthur
converts
Pickle's old room into his study. That is, he calls it his study. Visantha won't.
One night, he looks up from his notes. "Hi. What's up?"
"You busy?" she asks.
"Fairly. What's going on?"
"I'll come back later. I don't want to interrupt."
"What's
up?"
"Nothing. I just wanted to talk."
"About?" He turns off the desk light. He sits in darkness. She is silhouetted in the doorway. He says, "I can't talk about that."
"I haven't said what."
"I'm done here for the night."
"Age-wise," she says, "it's a rush. If we want to."
"I got a fair amount done tonight, I think."
"Because of my age. I'm just saying."
"No, no," he says, rising. "Not for me. No. Couldn't bear that. I'm done in here.
Done for the night." He approaches and touches her shoulders. She responds, expecting an embrace. Instead, he shifts her gently aside and passes.
The next day, a Cuban man who claimed to be 126 years old dies. Nobody believes the claim, but the paper needs to fill out page nine. So Arthur is assigned to write eight hundred words. He steals the basics from the wires and adds a few clever flourishes.
He reads it over a dozen times, emails it to Clint. "You have the fake Cuban," Arthur informs him, and does a last check of his email in-box before heading to the door. He finds a message from Erzberger's niece: Gerda has died.
Arthur checks the time to see if he can still make deadline. He calls the niece, offers his condolences, inquires about a few compulsory details: when exactly Gerda died, what the official cause was, when the funeral will be. He types these updates into the obit and walks into Clint's office. "We need to knock something off page nine."
"Not at this hour."
"An Austrian writer, Gerda Erzberger, just died. I have preparedness ready to go."
"Are you insane? We've got the fucking Cuban on nine."
"You need to kill him and put in Erzberger."
"I
need to? Kathleen didn't say I need to do nothing."
"Kathleen wanted it in."
Each man cites Kathleen's name as if hoisting a club.
"Nuh-uh. Kathleen wanted the 126-year-old Cuban. She said so at the afternoon meeting."
"Well,
I want Erzberger in. At full length."
"Who heard of this dumb-ass Austrian, anyway? Look, man, I think we can safely hold your masterpiece till tomorrow."
"Kathleen specifically said she wanted something in the paper as soon as Erzberger died. Obviously, we could tack a brief onto the bottom of the world's oldest liar and that might satisfy her. But I don't want to do that. This is my personal request, nothing to do with Kathleen: dump the Cuban and run Erzberger. And don't hack my piece. I don't want to open the paper tomorrow and read it as a brief at the end of the Cuban. Is that clear?"
Clint smiles. "I'll do whatever I got to do, man."
Arthur sleeps poorly that night--he's too impatient. When the paper arrives, he flips immediately to page nine. "Yes!" he declares. "Oh, Clint, dear, dear Clint!" Just as Arthur had hoped, Clint has destroyed the Erzberger article, condensing her life into one hundred words and making it a brief at the bottom of the dead Cuban. "Perfect," Arthur says.
He composes himself and phones Kathleen from his study. "Sorry to bug you this early at home, but did you see our obits today?"
"Obits plural?" He hears her flipping pages. Her voice turns metallic. "Why did we run this as a brief?"
"I know--I don't see why we couldn't have just held it for a day."
"You didn't know it was
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