Gathering String (68 page)

Jack looked up at him, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. “Yeah, I think we’re there. You want to take a look?” He stood and let Sam sit in his place. “There’re only three more small tweaks. I marked them. But read through again. Make sure.” He flipped the kitchen counter television onto ESPN softly while Sam reread the whole thing one last time.

At last, he heard Sam sigh, “OK then.” Jack looked over at him. “I’m satisfied. You?” Jack nodded and walked over. As he watched, Sam attached the revised story to an email, the message reading simply, “Done. Waterman and Westphal.” For a second, they both just stared into the screen, then Sam leaned forward with a tired smile and made one more change, deleting the names and replacing them with “WaterPhal.” Jack snorted.

“Well,” Sam glanced at his watch, “it’s after two.” He turned, and the two men’s eyes met. Sam said gruffly, “Deep down, you always knew you’d have to write this story. You know that, don’t you, Hoss?”

If Jack was surprised by the abrupt comment, he didn’t show it. But his eyes broke away, looking upward toward the room above them where Tess was working. When he looked back at Sam, all he said was, “They’re waiting.”

Sam nodded, but held his forefinger suspended over the keypad that would click the send icon. “Fuck,” he laughed shortly. “This must be how a suicide feels right before he steps off the ledge.”

“I imagine so.” Jack reached out and hit the key himself.

By late afternoon the next day, Annie Fowler stood peeking carefully from her upstairs window, trying to keep in the shadow of the curtains. At the edge of her tidy front lawn were news crews, television, print, radio and web, clogging the street, staring at her house.
Her
house.

She’d told Jack Westphal she deserved to know what happened that night. Now she did. Everyone did. And she realized what she’d expected to be an ending was actually just a start. She bowed her head, the netting of the crisp white curtains touching her face and she cried.

While writing this book, I was constantly surprised and humbled by those who invested their time and effort to help. I give my heartfelt thanks to: My friends, Christine De Butts, Mary Beth Bestenlehner and Christine Billings, who read the early, rough drafts and found something there to like; My daughter-in-law, Susan Burke, whose gentle, honest opinions helped me to see where more work was needed; My sons, Michael, Joseph and Thomas Buttry, who always offered ideas, advice and words of encouragement; Chuck Offenburger, the extraordinary writer and fellow Southwest Iowan, from whom I stole the memorable “Doberman and a blonde named Bambi” line.

Thank you to Jim Head, for taking the time to connect me with Rawley King who designed a fabulous book cover.

And a special thanks goes to the Poynter Institute’s Donald Fry, who generously and painstakingly edited my manuscript. He is a gentleman who cares about writing and writers, and this book is better because of it.

Most importantly, I acknowledge Steve Buttry, who told me once that no one would ever care about my writing more than he, and then went on to prove it every single day. Even when I gave up, he never did.

If this book never sells a single copy, I have been given a treasure because of it.

Mimi Johnson grew up on an Iowa farm and in the nearby town of Essex. She is a former columnist for the Journal Herald in Shawnee, Kan., and the Minot (N.D.) Daily News. Her freelance writing has appeared in the Washington Post, Omaha World-Herald and other newspapers. She was an English major at Creighton University, where she won the Creative Writing Award in 1996. This is her first novel.