St. John

The news about Isobel Gitlin and The Center for Consumer Concerns began to spread after the joint press conference for Alliance Industries and Stein, Gelb, Hector & Wills. Alliance announced their plan to absorb SHI Inc. using a stock switch plan effectuated by Stein, Gelb. Then they shocked the attending press, almost all of whom covered the business or financial beat, when they admitted to culpability in the E. coli disaster more than three years earlier and announced their intention to contribute close to six billion dollars to a new foundation, The Center for Consumer Concerns. They were confident the money would be approved by their directors and shareholders. No specific schedule had been worked out with The Center, but Alliance and Stein, Gelb promised to fully fund their pledge within four years. No one in the room, except for a hulking mass of a man standing in the back, known to a few people there as the Moose, had ever heard of The Center for Consumer Concerns. Questions came furiously. A silence, a pause punctuated by an audible gasp, greeted the news that The Center’s executive director was Isobel Gitlin. A murmur that could not be stifled followed the announcement that Nicholas Stevenson and Harvey Daniels served as the foundation’s trustees. Before the press conference restored order, Mel Gold left to return to the Times. In a heated editorial meeting later that afternoon, he succeeded in having the morning edition of the Times refer to Isobel only as “a former obituary writer for the New York Times.” He knew she’d be happy with that.

The normal news cycle—especially for the television networks and cable channels—is twenty-four hours. In a day, Isobel Gitlin was old news. Two days after the press conference no one was talking about her or The Center. Alliance Industries, and to a lesser extent Stein, Gelb, had become the darlings of the left. “Corporate Conscience—At Last!” cried The Nation. Even the libertarian Cato Institute praised the move proclaiming self-awareness and self-examination the best path toward curbing corporate abuse. Then, of course, they questioned whether such abuse existed or not. The stir in Atlanta lasted a little longer. It was a good local story. Still, by the weekend few were talking about it anymore. Isobel went about her daily life in pleasurable obscurity. In stores, supermarkets, and in the malls, the only stares she got were those always waiting for attractive young women.

Back home, Walter’s mood improved slowly, if at all. The walls had fallen, the doors were cracked open. His vulnerability had been an open sore. He called upon more than a half century of resources to repair the damage. He went back to eating breakfast in Billy’s. The company of his friends was a gift not to be taken lightly, but he’d been hurt and they knew it.

“Walter, you know that song—you know, that one—it goes,” and Ike loosed his tortured falsetto on Billy’s sparse morning crowd. “I found
lo-ove on a two-way-y street and lost it on a lon-le-y high-i-way.”

“Very nice,” Billy said from behind the bar. “You want them all to leave?”

“Yeah, I know it,” Walter said. “I can even recognize it when you sing it.”

“Well, that’s what I mean,” Ike said, the smoke from whatever it was hanging from his lower lip blanketing his face.

“So what?” Walter said.

“The thing is, you found love on a lonely highway and lost it on a two-way street. That’s ass-backward, ain’t it?”

Walter said nothing. He drank his usual drink and frowned at Ike.

“Forget about it,” said Billy, turning away from Ike, mumbling something else.

“No, no,” Ike said. “Don’t you never forgetaboutit.” His attempt to imitate Billy was laughable. Billy and Walter smiled at each other. Ike continued, “Keep going, Walter. You’ll find it. Damn if you don’t find everything else.”

Walter offered no reply. He had nothing to say. The song in his mind was “Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places.” God, I hate country music, he thought.

Isobel flipped off the cell phone. She dropped the instrument on her kitchen table, right into the pile of real estate brochures. She covered her smiling face with both hands, almost laughing out loud. She should have known. Of course, she should have known. The bank had just called. They said a bank representing an anonymous donor called requesting wire instructions for a contribution to the Center. A few minutes later a bank in Cyprus made The Center for Consumer Concerns richer by thirty million dollars. “Oh, m-my,” she said. “Walter, Walter, Walter.”