Gone to Green Page 2

  I realized I hadn't given him an answer. I picked up my pencil and doodled on my ever-present reporter's notebook. The ambition in me fought with the fatigue and uncertainty these past weeks had unleashed. Ambition won.

  "Thanks, Zach. That sounds great. Thanks. Sure. I'd love to be the M.E." I tried to sound enthusiastic.

  "Fantastic!" He leaned over my desk to shake my hand. "I look forward to working more closely with you. I'll iron out the details with HR, and we'll tell the staff within the next week or so."

  "Sounds good to me. Thanks again. I guess I'll head on home. I'm pretty tired." A great need to escape engulfed me.

  My neat little condo with one puny pink geranium on the patio was about all I could handle at that moment. I walked straight to the bedroom and flopped down on my dark green comforter. I was too beat to think about how my life was about to change.

  I briefly considered setting my alarm for church the next day, a habit I had long ago given up. I needed the inspiration, but I could not bring myself to do it.

  2

  We need your help! The Green News-Item is happy to tell you we are bringing back our "News-Item Community Items," those nuggets of neighborly news that help us keep up with our friends and family. If you have a tidbit, please give your community correspondent a call. Names and phone numbers are listed on page 2A.

  -The Green News-Item

  On Monday morning I slid in barely in time to touch base with my reporters. After a flat news meeting-they had all seemed flat these past few weeks-Zach stopped by my desk, told me he needed to talk to me, and motioned me to his office.

  Before I could stand up, my phone rang. I groaned inwardly. Good customer service-"service with excellence! "-was more important to Zach than the newsroom management structure. I had better take the call, even though I didn't want to talk to anyone. I wanted to hide under my desk and suck my thumb.

  A polite woman asked if I was Lois Barker. "Yes, ma'am, may I help you?" I asked. She had the sound of the women from the monthly clubs who call in their notices instead of mailing them. I opened a computer file and prepared to take the dreaded dictation.

  "Good morning, Ms. Barker. I'm the administrative assistant to Attorney Frank Owens. He asked me to call you and make an appointment with him right away to discuss a business matter."

  As a journalist, I'm what some might call naturally suspicious. I prefer to think of it as skeptical. No way did I want to chase a news tip or sit through another meeting where a mover-and-shaker complained about one of my reporters. I had met Frank Owens a few years ago at a Rotary Club meeting, and he was a force to be reckoned with in Dayton. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm tied up this week. Could someone else assist Mr. Owens?"

  "No, Ms. Barker. Mr. Owens needs to meet with you either today or tomorrow if possible."

  I sighed inwardly, set the meeting for first thing the next morning, and headed into Zach's office. But our session was interrupted before we got started by an emergency Executive Committee meeting.

  "Sorry, Lois. The E.C. has called a meeting to discuss budget cuts. Before long, you'll be solving these problems for us," Zach said, as he headed off with a legal pad and calculator.

  "Ha. Ha," I said out loud to the empty room, wondering what in the world I was getting myself into. I was excited about the promotion-and a little smug that I had passed over the other editors. But I felt like an impostor stepping into someone else's life.

  Zach surfaced a couple of times during the day and apologized for canceling on me. I was kind of relieved. In fact, I was so exhausted that if it weren't for the special project I needed to finish, I'd duck out early. "I promise we'll talk first thing in the morning," he said. "The ball is rolling, so you should give some thought as to what will be on your agenda for your first one hundred days as M.E."

  Not likely. My brain had already shut down for the day.

  The next morning I put on one of my nice doing-businessdowntown outfits, feeling remarkably stylish with the way it looked with my long dark hair and brown eyes. I drove to the attorney's office, having found no graceful way to put off the meeting.

  I'm not grouchy by nature, but too many people want a piece of me on most days, ranging from the mayor to the school superintendent to lawyers, doctors, and shop owners. I was not looking forward to this encounter.

  When I walked into the law firm, Frank stood in the outer office, chatting with his secretary. He shook my hand, offered me a cup of coffee that I turned down, and directed me to his executive conference room lined with law books. He pulled out a chair for me.

  "Thanks for coming, Lois. I'm sorry for pushing you on this meeting, but there's a deadline involved, and I need to talk with you face-to-face."

  Oh, great, a deadline. He had waited until the last minute to do a news release on something and wanted me to get it in. Give me a break. How did I let myself get roped into this? Why don't people just fax me stuff? Annoyed, I almost missed the reason for the meeting.

  "This involves your friend Ed. I'm so sorry for your loss," he said, handing me a manila folder. Taking the file, I immediately skimmed the first sheet as he talked.

  I'm not quite sure what Frank said after that because I was staring at a copy of Ed's will. Make that Ed's last will and testament, dated about two months ago, on one of the days Ed had taken off work to handle some business.

  I glanced up at Frank with what I hoped was a polite, curious smile and looked him in the eye. He smiled back at me.

  "As I was saying, Lois, Ed came in here a few months ago to get his business in order. He didn't know he was sick, but he wanted all the loose ends tied up as he closed the deal on the newspaper in Louisiana. He told me he had informed you about his purchase."

  "Yes, he was so excited, Frank, but I don't know what this has to do with me. I need to get back to the newsroom. I don't mean to be crass or anything, but did Ed want me to help with his estate or something?"

  "Well, I suppose you could say that, Lois. Ed designated you as the beneficiary of one of his most prized possessions-"

  I interrupted him with a big smile. "His Camaro? He left me his 1966 Camaro?"

  "I'm afraid not. That went to his next-door neighbor."

  "Mr. Hamilton? He's eighty years old-what does he need with a vintage Camaro?" Suddenly, I felt idiotic and shut up. My stomach was churning. . .had been since Saturday.

  "Again, Lois, I apologize for rushing you on this meeting. As you might say in the news business, this is a pretty big story. Ed has made you the owner of his newspaper in Green, Louisiana, The Green News-Item."

  I stood up and then sat back down before I stood up again. I think I asked for a bottle of water, but I'm not sure.

  "Please, Lois, have a seat. I know this must be a shock."

  "Frank, you can't be serious. I mean Ed and I were friends and all, but . . . a newspaper!" And then I cried-for that moment when I thought, "I'm rich," and then, "Or am I?" and for my deep sorrow that Ed was gone and for my total confusion.

  I took the Kleenex the attorney offered.

  Frank sat quietly. The Chamber of Commerce Outstanding Business Leader clock on the conference room wall ticked loudly. Slowly, I picked through my scattered thoughts and found my wits.

  "Let me try to understand. Can you walk me through this? What about Ed's brother?"

  For a moment Frank looked like he was going to pat me on the head as though I were a small child.

  "You may know that Ed and his ex-wife had no surviving children. Their only child died in a car accident twenty years ago. Ed's brother is a missionary in Chile, and I don't think I'm violating Ed's confidence when I say he didn't think the newspaper would be a good fit for a pastor."

  I had met Ed's "brother the Father" a handful of times over the years. He was as far from being a journalist as I was from being a missionary.

  "But won't he be upset?" I quickly scanned the document in my hand again.

  "His brother has been taken care of, Lois. Let's talk about you
and your newspaper. The owners want to meet with you as soon as possible. They're a little nervous about this deal and want to wrap it up quickly. Ed agreed that any owner he transferred the paper to would hold onto it for at least a year, allowing for continuity. The owners want to make sure it doesn't revert back to their family."

  By the time I left Frank's office two hours later, I knew three things: Ed was even more of a stand-up guy than I realized, I needed to make the second trip I'd ever taken to Louisiana, and my life had been turned upside down.

  I was supposed to keep the paper one year.

  Walking slowly to my car, I longed to take the afternoon off so I could think this through. Maybe I could plead a terrible headache and head home. City editors have a weird, overblown sense of duty, though, and I felt bad even considering it. With Ed gone, we were shorthanded and short-tempered as it was. But if I couldn't even take the afternoon off, how could I possibly visit Green and deal with this new drama in my life?

  That's when I remembered I'd accepted the managing editor's job, and then the worst headache I've had in ten years hit me-the kind you get when your old boyfriend joins the Peace Corps without you or when the central air unit breaks down on the hottest day of the year. This is the kind of headache that inheriting a newspaper can bring on quickly-a small-town newspaper in the Deep South. Could I handle it for a year?

  The headache pounded the words "you took the managing editor's job" over and over in my head. I dug in my purse for my cell phone and called Zach's office with a twinge of desperation.

  "He's in a meeting, Lois. Is there something I can help you with?" His secretary was entirely too cheerful.

  "Actually, I'm not feeling well and need to go home. Will you give him that message please?"

  A million thoughts fought for my attention. "Handle a newspaper in Green, Louisiana, for a year?" "No problem." "Yes, Zach, I'll be your M.E." "Ed, what have you done?" "Thank you, Ed." "I can do this." "I can't do this." I was stunned, excited, queasy, thrilled, and just a little on the edge of insanity.

  Driving too fast, I cut through a side street near a local college and, at the last minute, whipped into a parking space. I slipped into the school's charming chapel, one of my favorite local buildings, and took a seat on a back pew. Fall light streaming through the stained glass windows momentarily calmed my fears. Big decisions had to be made in a short amount of time. Where to start?

  My mother, who died when I was twenty-five, always said to pray when I needed guidance. In the past few years I had been too busy, too tired, and ... well ... too frustrated with the whole God thing to pray. My mother was a deeply spiritual woman, and her death shook me to the core. She would have known how to handle this situation. Tears formed at the corners of my eyes as I thought of how much I missed her.

  Each of the chapel's stained glass windows pictured Christ in a Bible story. I focused on one where he was holding a lamb and said, "Help!" My head pounded, and I couldn't sit still.

  I sped home, grabbed a can of Diet Dr Pepper, sank down into my overstuffed armchair, and put my feet up on the scratched coffee table I had bought at a flea market. With notebook and pencil in hand, I listed every possible scenario to help me make a decision.

  Three hours, four sodas, two bags of hundred-calorie popcorn, and two Tylenol later, I was as confused as ever. My head still pounded.

  "Help," I whispered again.

  3

  What would you buy if you hit the jackpot? Arlen Wilkes of Route 2 is going to buy an iPod and load it up with Shania Twain and Toby Keith songs, after winning $12,000 on a gambling trip to Shreveport. He wants everyone to know he has already deposited the money in the bank to discourage any breaking and entering. "It ain't in the house," he stressed.

  -The Green News-Item

  Not quite a week after Ed's death, I walked into Zach's office prepared to tell him again how excited I was about the M.E. job and that I needed a few days off to head to Green, Louisiana, to cancel the purchase of the paper Ed had been so excited about.

  Since Zach was still in a meeting, I sat at the small table in his office and thumbed through a copy of a management book he had assigned us to read. I was supposed to lead the discussion at next Wednesday's editors' meeting-had already placed the order for our box lunches.

  Somewhere between skimming chapter three and noticing the towering, white clouds outside, the word "go" popped into my mind, as though someone had spoken to me, and then said, "I'll help you."

  My head whipped around, wondering if anyone else might have heard this. Zach's assistant seemed engrossed in typing calendar listings. No one else was nearby. Maybe I had misheard the police radio, squawking a few feet away near the cop reporter's desk.

  I looked outside again and saw a rainbow. I am not making this up. All my doubts and misgivings about letting Ed down and taking the safe way out came rushing back.

  "I have some unexpected news," I said to Zach, when he walked in a few minutes later. "I'm giving my notice."

  "Real funny," Zach said with a laugh.

  "I'm serious. I'm moving down to Louisiana and will see what happens."

  "As in run that newspaper?" Zach asked. "You must be pulling my leg. Running a newspaper is hard work and requires intense commitment." He grew more heated with every passing moment.

  "Have you forgotten I help run this newspaper twelve to fourteen hours every day? I'm fully aware of what's involved." I was bluffing. My resignation surprised me as much as Zach.

  "You're committing career suicide, Lois. Leaving now would be a huge mistake."

  I took a deep breath, noticing it sounded shaky when I exhaled. "I might be ..." My voice weakened. Then I sat up straighter. "But I have to give this a try."

  "Go, then," Zach said, standing up. "But I expect you to stay through the holidays. You know how tough it'll be to find a good city editor, especially one who wants to move this time of year."

  "Are you saying you want thirty days notice?"

  "Thirty days with a few stipulations, Lois," he said in his manager's voice. "Your departure will put us in a bind. I insist you pick up the slack over the holidays, and that means no extra time off." He glanced at a folder on his desk. "You'll be due a year-end bonus, and I'll help you get it, but only if you agree to my terms. No time off."

  He was clearly annoyed I had backed out on the new job. Feeling a bit guilty about it, I agreed.

  It was that simple. The course of my life changed in twenty minutes, without writing one word in a notebook or bouncing it off Marti or talking to my CPA. I thought I had heard the word "go," and I was going to Green to figure out how to run a little newspaper and change my life.

  My plans to move to Green, a place I had never set foot in, took shape via FedEx and long distance calls. I put off the McCuller family until after the New Year, but not without some strain. My contact with them was limited mostly to Iris Jo, a distant cousin who was the bookkeeper and apparently not part of the rich side of the family. She sent me financial statements, a market profile, and copies of the newspaper.

  "They want you to know this is all highly irregular," she said, sounding a bit apologetic. "The paperwork has been redone for you to take ownership on January 1. They would have preferred you to come down for a face-to-face and sign the documents." She hesitated. "The McCullers asked me to tell you they're ready to get on with the deal. Call me anytime. I'll be glad to help you anyway I can. Chuck and Dub McCuller will meet with you at four o'clock on the first day of the New Year, January I," Iris Jo said. "They wanted me to tell you to please be prompt."

  "Am I crazy?" I asked Marti at lunch that day.

  "I don't think so," she said, not quite the reassurance I had hoped for.

  "Gone to Green," I wrote on a sheet of paper with a black marker, giving my cell phone number and e-mail address. "Stay in touch." I taped it to the newsroom mailboxes and walked out of the Dayton newspaper, wanting to laugh and cry.

  I pulled out of my garage at 10:45 a.m. on New
Year's Eve, my car loaded down with everything I hadn't entrusted to the movers. My belongings had been put into a big load with two other families' precious things, to be dropped off at some undetermined time. I hoped I would see my stuff again and that my green pottery collection wouldn't be unloaded at the Smith family home in Peoria. I also hoped I wasn't making the worst mistake of my life.

  An odd, fast-motion account of my adult life unwound in my mind as I drove out of Dayton. I wondered yet again what Ed had been thinking when he wrote my name in his will on the same line as the The Green News-Item.

  Pulling into Green in the middle of the next afternoon, with the official newspaper meeting fast approaching, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

  "The quaint lakeside town I had pictured does not exist," I said to Marti, during an SOS call from the car. "Obviously, whoever did the Chamber's Web site is a master at good lighting and interesting angles and hyperbole."

  "Maybe you can hire them for the paper," she said, trying to sound supportive. I could hear the sounds of a football game in the background and remembered she had invited a few of our friends over.

  "The outskirts of town look like an ad for fast-food franchises and stores where everything costs a dollar. It's horrible. What have I done? I want to go home."

  "Lois Barker, you'll be fine. You always are. Now, pull yourself together. Call me back later when you know more. I'm having a terrible time hearing you."

  Desperate to find a real neighborhood, I turned down a small side street with potholes big enough to suck up my car. Several overturned garbage cans spilled out a week's worth of trash on the sidewalks, and candy wrappers and soft drink cans littered the front yards of the small, shabby houses.

  I had imagined driving into a sweet town with children dressed in colorful sweaters riding their bikes. Instead, junk cars rusted in front yards, and upholstered furniture decorated more than one porch. The area looked like something out of a Third-World country. Only a few houses were halfway neat and adorned with old tires, cut and painted white to make flowerbeds.