BOTH OF ELLISON’S HANDS HURT. HE HAD POUNDED THE DOOR AND punched the wall. He had brought his palms down on the desk so hard that it sounded like a thunderclap echoing through his office. It was after kicking the bookshelf that he finally gave up, not because he broke it but because he didn’t. Ellison expected a loud crack and a spray of hardcovers in all directions, chaotic destruction to reflect his stormy mood. It turned out to be an ineffectual blow. The shelf didn’t budge, and Ellison felt weak, even a little pathetic.
His anger was spent, and he simply sat among his half-packed effects, feeling for the first time in his life entirely irrelevant. The biggest news story of the year continued, and he had no role to play in it.
There was a timid knock at the door, and Tim Suskind eased his head into the office. It would almost be fun to throw something at him, Ellison mused cruelly, but even if he had wanted to, his whole body felt drained after the tantrum. “I guess you heard,” Suskind said.
“Yes, I did,” Ellison said gamely, feeling the moment was right to play the noble, defeated general rather than the crazy old Lear. Suskind was too fragile for Sturm und Drang. His former subordinate took a seat. Ellison noted approvingly that he was wearing a traditional blue suit, Brooks Brothers by the look of it. Perhaps it was Ellison’s impending departure, but at last he felt a welling of affection for the man. Suskind may have been anxious and indecisive, but he had put himself on the side of right when the big story broke.
“Hardly seems fair,” Suskind offered. “You’ve only had three months. No one could turn a paper around in that amount of time. But you’re taking it well.”
“Thanks. Our dear publisher said the experiment had failed. Circulation was down. The same man who wanted to reinvent his newspaper went yellow exactly when he needed the strength to ride it out. He said, ‘A tabloid needs to be a tabloid.’”
“You still deserved better,” Suskind said.
“It’s no time for tears,” Ellison said. “We fought the good fight and lost. Nature of the beast. I thought I might take my severance package and head upstate. Find a small paper that will let me train young reporters. Terrorize a corrupt city council. Get back to what the business really ought to be about.” The very thought of some upstate cow town turned his stomach, but he had to find something. He knew the Times wouldn’t take him back. He had swallowed his pride and asked.
“That sounds like a great idea,” Suskind agreed. “After this mess.”
“I’ll tell you what I feel pretty good about,” Ellison said, picking up three folders full of clips and dropping them in front of Suskind. He flipped through Jimmy’s clips from the war. “He wrote something pretty incredible today about those boys that died,” Ellison said. “I’m glad he wrote it. That was worth forty years of his old job’s ‘who fucked who and guess who’s wearing Versace to the party.’”
“I found it deeply moving,” Suskind said admiringly.
“What about you?” Ellison asked. “Back to Arts & Lifestyle, I presume.”
“No,” Suskind said hesitantly, his eyes cast downward. Ellison felt his temper flaring again, this time nobly, in defense of his loyal second.
“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten mixed up in this? Christ. That chicken-shit bastard said I had to go, not that he was going to purge every decent man in the newsroom. Tim—”
“That’s not exactly—” Suskind broke off. He tried again. “I still have a job at the Herald.”
“Where have they stuck you? The copy desk? Made you a deputy in your own department?” Ellison was pleased to find that he still had a little spirit when he saw that a wrong had been committed. One last fight before he bowed out.
“Actually, right here,” Suskind said.
“Where here?” Ellison asked.
“Here, here,” Suskind said, pointing down with both forefingers. Ellison’s brain resisted computing the gesture.
“My office?” he asked in disbelief.
“Well, my office.” Suskind laughed awkwardly. “But take as much time as you need. I feel terrible about this, everything that’s happened.”
“Your office?” Ellison said.
“They wanted an internal candidate, someone with experience all over the paper.”
“Metro, Arts,” Ellison said. “War.”
“I guess.” Suskind shrugged innocently. He was just the obsequious sort that got behind you with the knife, Ellison realized.
“You should go,” Ellison said.
“I just wanted you to know that—”
“You should go right now,” Ellison said, picking up a glass award statuette from the Press Club off his desk. He felt the strength coming back to his throwing arm.
“Just have Cheryl give me a call when you’re out,” Suskind said as he headed for the door. Ellison looked at the award in his hand. It said, “Outstanding Beat Reporting, 1982,” and he realized it was more than twenty years old, and he was turning sixty himself in a year. Ellison slumped down in his chair. Where the hell was he going to go? Then he looked at Jimmy Stephens’s clips spread out on the desk and took heart. If he could make a reporter out of that lightweight, Ellison thought, he ought to be able to make something of himself again, whatever that turned out to be.