I confessed, “Closer to four.”
“That’s a hefty commute.” There was no humor in his understatement. Nor in his afterthought: “And I doubt if there’s much need for high-powered architectural talent in central Wisconsin.” Eyeing me, he asked, “Where would that leave ‘us’?”
I strolled him toward a park bench anchored in the sand, telling him, “I’ve struggled with this all afternoon. I do want the
Register,
but I want you more, and I won’t push for anything that would jeopardize ‘us.’”
We both sat down, legs touching. Neil gazed out at the water. I peered at him, saying, “So I’d like to propose an arrangement.”
He grinned. “Yes?”
“I would buy back the house on Prairie Street, but I’d also keep the loft here in Chicago. I’d take over the
Register
and work up there, and you’d stay here at your job.
But
—and here’s the crucial part—we’d spend every weekend together, alternating locales. We’d try this for a solid year. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be a commitment to buy some time. After a year, we’d reevaluate the arrangement. By then it should be obvious what we need to do. Maybe circumstances would allow us both to settle happily in either Dumont or Chicago. Maybe we’d extend the arrangement. Maybe we’d explore other options we haven’t thought of yet.”
I stopped talking, as there was nothing else to add. All that mattered now was Neil’s reaction. I waited.
He turned to me and rested an arm across my shoulder. “Some ‘arrangement.’ You don’t ask much, do you?”
“Neil, I could flop big-time up there, but I have to find out if …”
“Shhh,” he stopped me, pressing a finger to my lips. “I know you need to do this. You’re working your way through some sort of midlife guy-thing, and the last thing I want is for our relationship to be a casualty of this crisis. I don’t much like the ‘arrangement,’ but I’m willing to go along with it. Like you said, we’re buying time. I can deal with inconvenience for a year. What I can’t deal with is the thought of not spending my life with you.”
How could I react other than to pull him into my arms? I nuzzled his neck and told the back of his head, “I love you so much. I really don’t deserve you.”
“No, you don’t,” he agreed. “You’re the luckiest man in the world.”
News spread fast that I was leaving the
Journal
for—of all places—Dumont, Wisconsin. Roxanne Exner was first to get wind of it, hearing it directly from Neil, and she wanted more details. So she suggested that we meet for dinner at Bistro Zaza, a loud, trendy, but good Near North restaurant that had of late become our favorite haunt.
Parking at the door, giving my car keys to the valet, I entered Zaza’s with Neil, asking him, “Will Carl be here, too?”
I was asking about Carl Creighton, a recently appointed Illinois deputy attorney general, formerly a senior partner at Roxanne’s law firm. When Carl entered political life, he left the firm and promoted Roxanne. As of that Saturday evening last October, they had been romantically involved for about a year. Neil and I often wondered aloud whether they would take the plunge into “the
m
-word.” Roxanne had never struck either of us as the marrying type, so we rarely breathed the actual word, referring to it in code.
Neil answered me, “Rox didn’t mention Carl, but I assume he’ll be here tonight. It seems they’re always together now.”
The man at the host’s podium, black-garbed and sunken-cheeked, greeted us like old friends. (I couldn’t recall having ever met him, but then, I was forever confused by the help at Zaza’s, who all looked like cloned models from some depraved perfume ad.) He escorted us through the noisy metal-raftered room toward the booth where Roxanne and Carl awaited us. We leaned to kiss Roxanne; Carl rose to shake our hands. We all got situated around the table, ordering drinks from the man in black.
“You look fabulous tonight, Rox,” said Neil. And indeed she did. At thirty-seven, she was successful, smart, stylish—and sober. She’d sworn off drinking nearly three years ago, not long after introducing Neil and me. The new challenges she had recently undertaken at Kendall Yoshihara Exner obviously agreed with her, and she sat there radiating a confident smile that, worn by anyone else, might appear smug.
She nodded a wordless thank-you for Neil’s compliment, then returned it. “Again, it seems, I’ve stumbled into the good fortune of being surrounded by three devastatingly attractive men.”
Her statement had the ring of hyperbole, but I realized as she said it that she was sincere—we
did
look good that night. At thirty-four, Neil was the youngest of us, and the advantage of his years was augmented by his designer’s eye; he always seemed to dress with an instinctive appropriateness to the occasion, as evidenced by the combination of the casual but expensive slacks and sweater he wore that night. The eldest at the table was Carl, forty-nine, whose prematurely white hair was countered by his lanky frame and the aggressive energy that flashed from his eyes; his breeding and bearing were Brooks Brothers all the way, a correct but laid-back dressiness perfectly attuned to his role in the world. And between them sat I, forty-two, wearing my favorite gabardine suit, a nattier wool version of the khakis and blazer that I habitually wore to the office.
Carl got to the point. “There must be something in the air to account for this epidemic of career-tweaking—my move into politics, Roxanne’s name on the door at the firm, and now word of your rather stunning intentions, Mark.” He laughed, slapping my shoulder. “Is it true? Are you really folding your tent at the
Journal
and heading north to …
Wisconsin
?” He, Roxanne, and Neil leaned toward me, waiting to hear it from my lips.
Our drinks arrived—bourbon for Carl, the usual vodka for Neil and me, mineral water for Roxanne. We exchanged a quick toast; then the group fell instantly silent, still waiting to hear my story.
I confirmed the whole plan, detailing the arrangement that Neil had agreed to. “So, probably sometime after the first of the year, I’ll take over as publisher of the
Dumont Daily Register
—assuming I can pull the finances together.”
“A
desk
job?” scoffed Roxanne. “That doesn’t sound like you, Mark.”
“I’ll be the boss,” I reminded her, “so I can take on any duties that suit me. As publisher, I’ll be responsible not only for the
business
of the paper, but also for its thrust, direction, and stature—that’s the whole point of this move. I confess I don’t know much about the day-to-day logistics of running a paper, so I’ll need a good number two. Barret Logan’s managing editor is nearing retirement age, so I’m sure they’ll leave together, and that’s just fine. I’ll need to build my own team anyway, so I’ll start with the managing editor.”
“But what about investigative reporting?” asked Neil. “That’s what you’ve always done, what you’ve always loved. Won’t you miss it?”
“The paper
has
a reporting staff,” I assured him, “and it’s known to be a good one. If a particularly juicy story should come along, though, I can always don my old hat and do a bit of sleuthing.”
“In sleepy little Dumont?” asked Roxanne, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Somehow, Sherlock, I think your whodunit days are over.”
We all laughed. “You’re probably right,” I conceded.
Little could I imagine how wrong we were. Though I have never placed the least credence in superstition, I can only conclude that our flippant humor that night must have nettled some fractious gremlin of fate.
By the next week, word of my intentions had spread further, and I began to receive queries, by letter and phone, regarding the managing editor’s position in Dumont. I was surprised—both pleased and humbled—to discover that so many of my journalism colleagues, some of whom I had never met, had such unswerving faith in my new undertaking that they were willing to uproot their own lives and follow me to a smallish town they had never seen.
At first I just stuffed the résumés into my briefcase, but the collection thickened to the point where I had to dump it on the kitchen counter at home one evening. Neil and I had no plans that night, so we spent a couple of hours together sorting through the applications, commenting on likely candidates while sipping a cocktail or two.
“Wow,” he said. “Guess who wants to move to Dumont with you.”
I looked up from the cover letter I was reading. “Who?”
He passed the papers across the kitchen island. “Lucille Haring.”
Sure enough, the letter, the resume, the supporting documents—all crisply laser printed on heavy white Strathmore—were hers. Lucille Haring worked upstairs at the
Journal
in the publisher’s office, a computer specialist with a military background and a stiff, efficient manner to match. While I was immersed in my investigation of the festival conspiracy last summer, she provided me with key information that helped crack the story. I also learned that she was a lesbian, a guarded aspect of her private life that she had kept well removed from the job.
“Lucy?” I mused aloud. “Gordon says he finds her indispensable, which surprises me—he’s such an affable sort of backslapper, and she, well … isn’t. But I have to admit that she’s smart, dedicated, and no-nonsense. If she feels she could handle the Dumont job, she’d probably make a hell of an editor.” I fell silent.
Neil prompted me, “But …”
“But I’d hate to raid Gordon’s staff. I mean, he’s already losing
me.
”
“He’ll live,” Neil reminded me, smirking.
I laughed, putting Lucy’s application aside, tucking it back in my briefcase for future consideration. I swirled the ice in my empty glass, asking Neil, “Another?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll get it.” He rose from the stool where he sat, picked up both glasses, and crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator, saying over his shoulder, “We’d better plan to eat soon, or we’ll be smashed—on a weeknight, no less.”
“God forbid.” Absentmindedly, I opened the next envelope and skimmed the cover letter. Intrigued, I read it again in detail, then flipped to the résumé and studied it. “Hmm.”
“Who is it?” asked Neil, setting down my glass, snooping over my shoulder.
“Someone named Parker Trent.”
Neil shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
“Me neither, but he has nearly thirty years’ experience with credentials as a hardworking editor at lots of papers, large and small.”
“Sounds kind of old,” Neil said under his breath. With curiosity slaked, he returned to the far side of the island, preparing to dig deeper into the slushpile of applications.
“He’s fifty-one,” I admonished Neil, reminding him, “only nine years older than yours truly.”
“Whatever. If this guy’s so hot, why has he moved around so much?”
A reasonable question. “He says he’s been in search of the perfect position. He wants to ‘make a difference.’ And get this: he’s currently managing editor of the
Milwaukee Triangle.
”
Neil’s brows rose reflexively. “The gay paper?”
“Yeah.” I passed Parker Trent’s material across the counter, and Neil began perusing it. I continued. “The
Triangle
is one of the best gay weeklies around, known for its solid reporting as well as its tough stance on gay issues. This guy’s at least partly responsible for that reputation.”
Impressed, Neil acknowledged, “He writes a good letter. Listen: ‘I can think of no more rewarding career move than to work at the side of Mark Manning, helping to shape the
Register
into a top-notch daily.’ Pretty smooth. Does he jump to the top of your interview list?”
“With any luck, he’ll be the
only
interview. He’s qualified, he’s nearby, he wants to work with me—and he’s gay.”
Neil beaded me with a stare. “Remember now. No casting-couch antics.”
“Hardly,” I assured him. “Even if the thought crossed my mind, I wouldn’t get far with you in the room.”
“
Me?
” Neil looked up from sipping his vodka. “Why would I be in the room?”
“Because I insist. Whoever ends up as my managing editor will be working with me on a daily basis, sometimes day and night. It’s bad enough that you and I will be spending our weeks apart—I certainly don’t want to burden you with ‘casting-couch’ suspicions. So I won’t hire anyone without your approval.”
Neil sucked an ice cube into his mouth and rolled his tongue around it. Dropping it back into the glass, he grinned, telling me, “This interview process may take longer than you think.”
The process began that Saturday. I had phoned Parker Trent the day after reading his application, and he was eager to meet with me. Milwaukee is an easy two-hour drive from Chicago, and he offered to make the trip that weekend. So I suggested that we meet at the loft late on Saturday afternoon. Neil would be there, as I wanted, and if the meeting went well, I could suggest that we all go to dinner together.
That day the city basked in perfect autumn weather. The loft’s eastern wall of windows framed a spectacular lakescape under cumulus clouds like mountains of froth in some trompe l’oeil fantasy. Overhead, the room’s skylights admitted brilliant shafts of light that played against the interior surfaces, heightening the sculptural quality of Neil’s design of the space. Within these great oblique beams, motes of dust silently danced.
“This place is a mess,” Neil fretted while spritzing a table with Endust.
In fact, the place was immaculate, and I couldn’t help laughing. “He’s supposed to impress
us
, remember.”
Neil glanced about. “Well, we don’t want him to think we live like pigs.”
Dryly, I told Neil, “I doubt that he’ll draw that conclusion.” While setting my notepad on a table near the sofa, I checked my watch. Nearly four—Parker Trent should arrive soon.
Stowing his cleaning paraphernalia in a cupboard, Neil asked, “When you talked to him, what did he sound like? I mean, cute?”
We both knew that his question was ridiculous, but I had to admit that I, too, had been wondering what Parker Trent would look like. He had enclosed no photo with his résumé, forcing me to ponder whether this signaled political correctness, true professionalism—or a wizened old mug. I answered Neil, “He sounded … nice enough. You’ll have to judge for yourself whether he’s ‘cute.’ But remember, he’s fifty-one.”