AIDEN pulled his truck in front of the Valley Courant, where he expected his enthusiasm for delivering his article, after much time and effort, to resurface. But it failed to. Daniel continued to occupy his mind.
Since spying him a week ago driving into Kalispell, Aiden noticed Daniel undergo a strange change. He was acting more sober than usual. He treated Conrad worse each subsequent day and refused eye contact with Aiden most of the time. Then out of the blue last night he volunteered to drive Conrad to his radiation treatment after Conrad announced he had an appointment for the following day, and Aiden was left baffled.
Despite Aiden’s pledge to give Conrad more space, he was driving into Kalispell anyway and figured it would be silly for both of them to drive separate cars. He ventured to convey this common sense to Daniel. “But I have an appointment with the editor of the Valley Courant to deliver my article on Monday,” Aiden said. “I can take him easily.”
Conrad appeared embarrassed, desperate. “Let Aiden take me, Daniel. There’s no reason why you should.”
“I don’t mind.”
“But, Daniel, it makes no sense if I’m—”
“I said, I’ll take him. No worries.” And Daniel rose from the table, deposited his empty plate in the kitchen sink, and strolled to the bedroom.
If Daniel wanted to assist Aiden more, why not when Aiden had no plans to go into the Valley? Daniel had made his decision. Rolling an eighteen-wheeler would have proven an easier task than getting Daniel to change his mind.
The newspaper’s headquarters was located in a tiny shopping center shared by Dearest Donut and a Laundromat. Aiden collected his messenger bag and headed inside. The front desk was empty. He saw down the narrow corridor several cubicles and a few offices. He cleared his throat, and a thin man popped his head out from behind the closest cubicle.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m Aiden Cermak to see Norman Schooner.”
“Hold on a sec.”
The thin man walked farther down the row of cubicles and spoke into a separate office. A second later he gestured for Aiden to step his way.
Norman Schooner greeted Aiden and offered him coffee and a seat inside his office. Aiden declined the coffee, but he sat facing the editor with growing anticipation. Norman Schooner looked as Aiden had imagined. Balding, wire-framed glasses, pink face, and by his girth, he most likely took advantage of the close proximity of Dearest Donut.
Excitement at last pumped through Aiden’s veins. He laid his messenger bag on his lap, anxious to show the editor the contents. Two months of sweat and even a bit of peril emanated from his labor. About twenty-five hundred dollars’ worth, based on what Norman had originally offered per word. His smile muscles ached. Like a straight-A student, he yearned for praise.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Norman said. “Didn’t we talk only yesterday?”
Confused, Aiden kept his grin intact. “We set up an appointment for this morning so you could read my article. You said you’d rather have a hard copy and agreed to let me bring it in.”
“You’re the one who wanted to write about Glacier National Park from a few months back?”
“Yes, about the strip mining across the border.” Aiden tapped his messenger bag. “My completed article is right here, including a disc of photos of the mining site.”
“Ah, of course.”
Aiden breathed lighter, realizing the newspaperman juggled multiple tasks in a small daily and probably had difficulty keeping one straight from the other. Years ago, Aiden, after having met Daniel and never wanting to leave his side, took a salary cut to work for the small town newspaper The Henry Blade. Even a humble weekly in the heart of Illinois Amish Country had its share of frenzied and hectic days.
He took out the hard copy with the compact disc clipped to it. “I figure that there’re about four articles worth here. Rather than divide it myself, I thought maybe you can choose how to break it up. You know what’ll work best.”
Norman took the article from Aiden, unclipped the CD, and read to himself through the first couple of pages. His heart beating, Aiden waited. He clutched the armrests, barely able to contain his excitement. Norman perused the rest of the article, flipping past every other page or two. About five minutes in, he set the article on his desk and slid it toward Aiden. “I can’t accept it.”
Aiden’s smile collapsed and his insides deflated faster than if Norman Schooner had punched him in the gut. “What?”
“I can’t print it.”
Certainly the editor had misspoken. “What’s that again?”
“It’s impossible.”
Air in the tiny windowless office grew stagnant. Aiden shook his head, trying to work blood into his brain so that he might comprehend what Norman was telling him. “What do you mean, it’s impossible?”
“I can’t publish your story.”
“You mean it’s poorly written, badly researched?”
Norman shook his head. “On the contrary. You have a very nice style. More professional than what I normally see, to be honest. And your list of citations is impressive. It’s the subject matter that I have a problem with.”
“But you told me months ago you were interested in an article about strip mining near Glacier Park.”
“I’m interested in many stories. That doesn’t mean I’m going to publish them.” He shook his head pointedly. “I cannot publish what you wrote, it’s that simple.”
Aiden leaned into Norman’s desk, flanked by stacks of files and papers and one lonely twenty-four ounce Dearest Donut cup. “But I don’t understand. I have hours of work invested in this.”
Sighing with a heavy stench of coffee on his breath, Norman reclined in his chair and adjusted his eyeglasses over his nose. “You freelancers don’t see what we see every day on dailies like the Courant. Don’t think you’re experts on everything. I know what to print and what not to print. That’s my job as the editor.”
Bewildered more than ever, Aiden sharpened his stare. “I never said I know your job, Mr. Schooner. I simply would like to know why you’re rejecting my story without fully reading it. You haven’t explained.”
“Our readers would hate it.”
Again Aiden shook his head, wanting to make sense of Norman’s words. “Why would your readers hate my article? It’s informative and shows concern for the community’s main attraction, Glacier National Park.”
Norman glanced at the fifty-two pages sitting on his cluttered desk and curled his upper lip. “I know about the strip mining and the risks it poses for Glacier Park and the community.” He shrugged. “But they are just risks. No one can guarantee anything horrible might happen. You stated yourself on page seven that Dr. Vernal, from the University of Montana, has no certainty that strip mining conducted in British Columbia might negatively affect the park.”
“I went on to mention that similar companies have destroyed entire communities and leveled mountains in places like the Philippines and Mexico,” Aiden said. “I have cited those incidents in my article. I’ve interviewed eyewitnesses. I’m warning locals that might happen right here in Flathead County.”
“Mr. Cermak, I’m not going to engage you in an ecological or political debate. We’re supposed to be journalists, not activists.”
Suddenly Aiden wondered if Norman Schooner might be one of those on the take, like Pete Campbell mentioned during their interview at Lion Burger. Another journalist seeking a kickback from a corrupt corporation in exchange for silence. Or perhaps he was afraid for his personal safety if he were to print Aiden’s discoveries. “But that’s the purpose for compiling research,” Aiden said despite his suspicions. “I have two sources who insist Senator Klamsa is being paid by the company to—”
Norman raised his hand and waved Aiden to stop. “Whoa, young man. I didn’t read your entire article, but we can’t make accusations of that magnitude without verification.”
Aiden sat upright, growing more determined. “Please, read my article from beginning to end and tell me what more you need. I’m open to revisions. You’ve dismissed me without giving me a fair chance.”
“Let me get to the point since I don’t have all day.” Norman clasped the edge of his desk and peered at Aiden with an odd sardonic grin. “The main reason why I don’t want to publish your article is because of how you accuse the Canadians of something that, well, is rather appalling.”
“I’m not accusing Canadians. I’m accusing Canadian corporations.”
“It’s the same thing,” Norman said, “at least to our readers.”
“You’re still not registering. What does that mean? The company is headquartered in Alberta and they are preparing to strip mine in British Columbia in direct line of Glacier National Park.”
“Mr. Cermak, I know this might be difficult to understand, but our readers don’t like to read anything that disparages our northern neighbors.” Norman blew out a chuckle and leaned closer into his desk. “They like their Canadians nice and sweet. Let me give you an example of what I’m talking about. Ten years ago in Alberta a group of overexcited parents tried to overturn a school bus loaded with American boys playing in a peewee hockey tournament. The AP picked up the story, and with a little rewording I ran it in the Valley Courant. I received dozens of hate messages, e-mails, and phone calls. What do you think they were angry about, Mr. Cermak? Parents overturning a bus filled with small boys? No, they were pissed because we were reporting on Canadians negatively. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, but that story was the last I published of its kind.”
Aiden flashed back to when he worked for The Henry Blade. After many months of investigative reporting on unsolved crimes in the area, Aiden’s former boss, Kevin Hassler, sat Aiden down and uttered the exact same statement about the Amish. This time, in place of the Amish, Norman Schooner exalted an entire nationality.
Aiden stared at the editor. “But if the national park goes,” he said in a whisper, as if he were unable to believe the nature of their conversation, “the Flathead Valley economy might go with it. Isn’t that more pressing than maintaining some puerile view of a group of people?”
Norman pointed a chubby finger out the door, toward the front entrance, and perhaps beyond where the Flathead Valley beat with its full morning vigor. Where the ranchers and cowboys and service workers and business people embarking on software start-ups breathed and worked. “Those people out there,” he said. “Everyday people. Americans. People all over the world. They are in charge. We do what they tell us. We give them what they want, whether it’s in their best interests or not.”
“If you give them more choices, maybe they’d want something different—”
Norman shook his head. “In my younger naïve days, I would have wanted to hoist the torch too, Aiden. In the end, we must provide the public what they demand. We’d be out of business if we didn’t. I’ve learned the hard way what sells and what doesn’t.”
Both men fell silent. They gazed into each other’s eyes, as if looking for something resembling wisdom. Glares from the fluorescent lights reflecting off Norman’s eyeglasses blinded Aiden a moment. Aiden slackened, and despite the pain poking his heart from what Norman told him, for the first time he felt a kinship with his fellow journalist. They both battled a world outside of their control. He sat back in his chair, rested his hands loosely in his lap.
“It’s the way of the world, Aiden.” Norman lowered his baritone. “People want what makes them feel good. And what makes them feel good is to uphold certain images.” He glanced around his small office. “Some of those images are ugly, some resemble Disneyland. Have you ever seen British tabloids? They’re full of nothing but US news of the most heinous kind. Some of it must be made up. But that’s what the British want to read about the United States. If an American newspaper dedicated itself to publishing negative stories about Britain, there’d be hell to pay. We’d rather read nice stories about our cousins across the pond.”
Aiden tried to focus his blurry eyes. “Even if it means giving up to find the truth?”
Norman nodded. “Some people do it for religion, some for political ideals. Of course those images and ideals change over time. But what my readers want right now is not to read about corrupt Canadian corporations threatening the United States or any other part of the world. They don’t understand it, they don’t want it, and we don’t give it to them. That simple.”
“But who’s selling those images that people cling to?”
“It’s a vicious circle, I suppose. Which came first? The chicken or the egg?”
Aiden chuckled in defeat. “I don’t get any of this.”
The office hummed in silence. Then Norman said, “Tell me, Aiden, in all your research, how many articles, blogs, and papers did you find about the strip mining? How many environmental groups are voicing outcry? Celebrity campaigns to stop it? You might as well ask yourself where are all the protests over the three hundred thousand baby seals slaughtered each year in Newfoundland.”
Where are the bleeding hearts when Guatemalan natives are torched alive in their own homes? Pete Campbell’s words hit Aiden anew. Pete had uttered them aloud over his basket of hamburger and fries. And then he had said to Aiden with words that were now as sharp and crystal clear as the craggy peaks of the Swan Range that had pointed into the brilliant blue sky above the Lion Burger, You know the answer.
Aiden dropped his head and mumbled, “I just wasted two months researching and writing.”
Norman snickered under his breath. “There was never a guarantee I’d publish your article.” He waited, as if allowing Aiden time to sulk. “Don’t let this discourage you. You’re a fine writer.”
Eager to resurrect his article from the trash heap of social trends, Aiden lifted his eyes to Norman and said, “Perhaps if I tailored the article to fit what you’re talking about.”
“Like how?”
“I could mention the environmental issue without pointing fingers. Write about strip mining in general and leave the Canadian companies and Senator Klamsa out of it. I could write about how all of mankind is responsible for threats against the park. I could even mention global warming if you want.” Aiden hated what he heard spewing from his mouth. Two months of work, with nothing to show for it, not even a measly twenty-five hundred dollars, dragged him down a despicable and desperate path.
Norman shrugged. “The problem with that is people around here are aware of the strip mining across the border. They already know the truth. They just don’t want to face it. If it were happening directly inside Flathead County, there might be a larger outcry.” He pointed his nose toward Aiden’s article, forlorn and ridiculous looking on his messy desk. “You’re probably as much an expert as anyone now. Perhaps you can take your research and expand it into a book. Book publishers are more broadminded. They accept a larger array of ideas. We’re just one daily newspaper with a circulation of twenty-five thousand.”
“Maybe I could submit it to another newspaper?” Aiden said. “Maybe one in Missoula, Billings, or even Spokane?”
“You might, but you’ll get the same results. They haven’t published anything about the strip mining yet.”
Aiden twiddled his fingers. “Why is it me who feels so dirty?”
“You’ll learn,” Norman said, chuckling. “Took me a few years to realize that my intentions as a newspaperman to shed light on the world’s troubles were too idealistic. It’s about selling newspapers, and selling newspapers means selling fantasy. The readers have decided, Mr. Cermak, and we answer to none other but them.”
Aiden’s stomach rumbled. Food was the last thing on his mind. He wanted to get up and leave, yet his legs felt like lead weights. He refused to meet Norman’s eyes. “I suppose I’m in the wrong business,” he whispered toward his lap.
“This is nothing new,” Norman said. “People have been choosing fantasy over fact for thousands of years. It’s nothing to do with the moral decay of our society.” He snorted. “For chrissakes, the Athenians poisoned Socrates for telling the truth.”