Maude Furbee dumped the mail on the conference table. “Don’t forget, Congressman Dorn is due here at three.”
Josh looked up from his computer screen. The day was turning into a series of ambushes—just what he didn’t need. He had planned to devote time to sales for the River Days special edition. Deadline was approaching, as he was regularly reminded by the Main Street banner promoting the nightly pageants which portrayed Winston’s founding (loosely interpreted) by George Washington, and General Andrew Lewis’s 1774 victory over the great Shawnee chief Cornstalk, which the banner touted as “the bloodiest battle ever fought between the Indians and white settlers.”
But that was before he’d learned that he’d need to cover Harry Dorn’s speech in connection the plant’s tenth anniversary celebration. On top of that, he’d received a call from the congressman’s deputy saying that Dorn wanted to come by the newspaper office that afternoon and pay his respects.
It was little more than a media-stroking campaign visit, Josh knew, but of course he agreed. With Dorn widely considered to be a top senatorial contender, an hour spent on a Q &A for the Winston News certainly could be worthwhile. And by providing any resulting story to the Associated Press, he might even get some publicity for his little newspaper.
Plus, he had to admit, he felt flattered. The editor of any weekly would.
He turned to the mail. Furbee had sorted it into piles: bills, which he would not even open until the weekend; checks to be deposited that day; letters to the editor; and junk, often national press releases.
A postcard featuring the University of Georgia bulldog mascot sat apart from the rest. The caption read Kickin’ Ass and Takin’ Names. Josh flipped it over and smiled. “Saw this and thought of you,” it read. “When you coming back to the fight?” It was signed by one of his former Atlanta colleagues.
He was about to give Furbee the checks when he came across a manila envelope with a hand-written label and no return address. He tore off the end and shook it over his desk. A shower of one hundred dollar bills floated out, along with a standard Winston News contract for advertising in the River Days special section. The customer’s signature was illegible. Where the ad copy was supposed to be written, he saw the notation “TK,” newspaper shorthand for “to come,” meaning the ad itself would be provided later. He scanned for the name of the person who had sold the ad and saw his own. The top of the contract listed the name of the customer. He handed the paper to Furbee. “Who the heck are the Friends of Chief Cornstalk?”
Furbee studied it for a moment. “Probably a promotion for the pageant or an Indian rights group trying to place a protest ad.”
Josh scooped up the bills and counted. Two grand. The price of a full-page. “That’s all we need to reserve their space. Maybe we should start getting payment up front from all of our customers.”
“Good luck with that,” Furbee scoffed.
Josh handed the cash to Furbee and returned to his computer. Whoever the Friends of Chief Cornstalk were, he didn’t have time for them at the moment.
Dorn and aides arrived at the Winston News building just after 3 p.m. The obligatory tour of the newspaper, conducted by Furbee, usually took only fifteen minutes. But every staffer had wanted a photo of themselves with the candidate and even though it tied up the newspaper’s only photographer on an important news day, Josh didn’t mind because the delay had allowed him to shoehorn in a few more sales calls. So it was 4 p.m. when Dorn finally reached Josh’s office.
Josh directed the congressman to one of the armchairs that circled his coffee table and settled into a seat across from him. Dan Clendenin, Dorn’s chief political aide, sat to the congressman’s right, pushed back to the periphery—not physically part of the conversation but available should the congressman need clarification. Joel Richey, Dorn’s senior office staffer, sat at the conference table cooing into a cell phone until Dorn silenced him with a glare.
Josh pressed the “Record” button on a digital recorder and began with an open-ended question that allowed Dorn to talk about why he was running, which was essentially a version of his standard Liberty Agenda speech. Josh took notes in order to appear interested although, as a weekly newspaper editor, his own political focus and that of his readers was more on whether the state was giving the county its fair share of road money or whether voters would approve a bond issue to build a new middle school than it was on the philosophies of the Liberty Agenda. That was stuff for the New York Times and his old paper in Atlanta, material he might use if he gave part of the interview to the Associated Press.
He was preparing to inquire about Dorn’s future presidential ambitions, when another question popped into his head.
“Congressman Dorn, what would the Liberty Agenda mean for healthcare?”
“Healthcare should be a private matter between an individual and his or her physicians, period,” Dorn said. “The responsibility for providing healthcare in this country must be removed from the back of corporate America. Do we ask American business to provide your housing? We do not. Do we ask American business to provide your food? We do not. But we do ask American business to pick up the tab for your healthcare. Where is the logic in that? When did healthcare become a right, say, over food and housing? All that ought be asked is that business pay a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work and give the American people the liberty to do with their pay what they wish.”
“How will that help high healthcare costs?”
“It will be like everything else in our great country—a market economy. If not enough people will pay $50,000 for a heart bypass, believe me, the heart doctors will find a way to make it affordable. The free enterprise system will produce the best in healthcare. But not everyone will be entitled to it. I may want a Cadillac, but I may only be able to afford a Ford. I may want a house on a golf course but I may only be able to afford an apartment. I may want a brand name drug but I may only be able to afford a generic.”
Clendenin scooted his chair forward and whispered in the congressman’s ear.
“Plus, tort reform,” Dorn added. “A lot of these excessive healthcare costs come from ridiculous liability verdicts. Millions of dollars in pain and suffering because a waitress spilled coffee on your leg. Gotta stop.”
Josh’s body language must have betrayed him. “Mr. Gibbs, is healthcare a particular concern of yours?” Clendenin asked.
“You might say that,” Josh shot back bitterly. And having felt invited, he gave Dorn the broad strokes—Sharon’s death and Katie’s cancer.
Dorn clenched his jaw. His eyes managed to convey compassion, anger and determination at the same time. “Dammit,” he said in a way that suggested this was the strongest epithet he ever used. “That’s just terrible.” He patted Josh on the knee. “My heart’s with you.”
Josh understood why Dorn had been reelected so many times. The man had done nothing yet he felt oddly comforted in his presence.
Clendenin signaled that it was time to wrap it up. The men said their goodbyes. Josh watched the entourage make its way to Dorn’s SUV before he returned to work. A minute later he answered a knock.
Richey stepped inside and handed Josh the congressman’s card. “The congressman wants you to call him if there’s anything he can do to help,” he said.
Josh thanked the aide. A kind gesture, he thought. But none of his problems had political solutions. He was back at his desk only for a moment when Furbee interrupted. “Composing needs a photo for an inside early page. Pronto.”
He found a photo of a pageant actor dressed as George Washington talking on a cell phone during a break in rehearsals. Josh typed the caption, “Answering His Country’s Call.”
“Perfect!” Furbee pronounced.
Josh decided to forego sales and stick with content. He turned his attention to the Dorn interview. Lucky timing. The story could pass for news and its question and answer format made it a quick edit.
He finished the transcript and remembered the mail. He resumed sorting through the stack, this time looking specifically for something else—a postcard addressed to him in his own handwriting.
He knew it was crazy. Katie’d been gone from home—what?—a little more than forty-eight hours? Even if she’d mailed one of the pre-addressed postcards as soon as she’d arrived at camp, it could not have been picked up and delivered to him so soon. He tried not to be disappointed when he found nothing.