Rubout (29 page)

“Okay, people, let’s sing it from the top, one more time,” Jason said, looking smug and pleased.

I waited for the publisher or Charlie to say that this display was in poor taste. Surely, after all the lectures I’d had on what was tasteless and what wasn’t, what was suitable for a family newspaper and what wasn’t, they knew when something was over the top. Even someone like me, who had most of her taste in her mouth, knew that comparing the
Gazette
to the Almighty was definitely tasteless, not to mention inaccurate. But the publisher was smiling benevolently, and Charlie looked impressed. I realized why they weren’t shocked. Most newspaper editors thought they were God, so a hymn to them was in order.

Everyone but me dutifully picked up their ring binders as if they were hymnals and sang the first verse again. The group had strong voices and they all stayed on key. I noticed that Jason had skipped the verse beginning, “‘Twas Grace that taught my heart
to fear . . .” probably because if he substituted the word
Gazette
for Grace, he’d get something a little too close to God’s honest truth. Instead, the group launched into a verse where he had to change only one word—“God’s praise” became “your praise.” I hung my head in shame for the whole newspaper when I heard the committee sing:

When they finished, they applauded themselves. I waited for lightning bolts to blast the room. Nothing happened, except that almost everyone looked pleased with themselves. The publisher was so happy, he vibrated like a tuning fork. Only Georgia wouldn’t look at me. I think only she had the saving grace to be ashamed. Even for a penthouse overlooking Forest Park, I wouldn’t sing that wretched song in praise of the
Gazette.
But I had promised her—and myself—that I’d keep my mouth shut. That’s all I had to do. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. I repeated it to myself over and over like a mantra.

When the applause died down, Jason took a little bow, then gave two sharp claps. The six undertakers appeared again and opened the coffin. It was lined with white satin. Inside was a wreath with black silk flowers and a big black satin bow. I wondered if the thrifty Jason used silk flowers so he could reuse the wreath at other papers’ mock funerals. I wondered if
“Amazing
Gazette”
ever became “Amazing
Times”
or “Amazing
Tribune.”

“Thanks, people,” our captain said modestly. “Now, to complete the ceremony, I’d like us to once and for all bury our regrets about the old
Gazette,
so we can sail off into the future. Please read your regrets aloud before you put them in the coffin. The publisher will of course go first.”

The publisher took out his card, put on his reading glasses, and said, “I greatly regret that I occasionally have not shown more firmness of leadership.”

Amen, brother, I thought. The publisher tucked his regret gently under a black silk rose. He had publicly admitted a fault. An admirable fault, perhaps, the fault of compassion, but still it was a fault. After he said that, everyone piled more faults upon themselves, and some of those sounded oddly like praise for themselves. Of course, all the leaders admitted that they too lacked firmness of leadership, to identify with the boss. Charlie also regretted his impatience with readers and “their stupid phone calls.” The publisher smiled down on Charlie. This was just the right thing to say. The publisher, too, suffered from the outrageous stupidity of readers. Absolute nobodies called him because someone had misspelled their name or the paper dropped a comic they liked. But now the publisher would manage the paper more forcefully. He would tell his secretary he was too busy to take calls from those halfwits who read the paper. That’s why he paid editors. Let them talk to the idiot readers.

“Georgia?” Jason said, raising one eyebrow.

Georgia was sly. “I regret any time I spent at the
Gazette
that wasn’t spent working” she said. I knew she meant regretting any time she spent in meetings like these.

But the publisher graciously said he couldn’t imagine any time when she didn’t have her nose to the grindstone, and everyone laughed because he was the publisher. Then Tolbart said she had such a small nose she must have spent a lot of time grinding it down to that size, and everyone laughed but Vonnie, because she didn’t like to see any other woman get attention.

Roberto couldn’t wait to list all his faults. He said he too lacked leadership, and also regretted his impatience with the morons who complained that the newspaper ink came off on their hands—that got a big laugh—and then he added a new fault. He regretted he sometimes got angry at his underlings, although he felt forceful leadership called for anger at times, and therefore he managed sneakily to erase his fault, although I don’t think anyone but me noticed. Tolbart also regretted his lack of leadership, although he felt he had enough to lead us into fiscal stability. But now he wanted to make oceans of profit—that sentiment was thoroughly applauded—and he regretted being too lenient with the office supply distribution to the various departments. These supplies needed to be monitored. I regretted his regrets, because it meant we’d have to account for every paper clip.

After Tucker Gravois regretted his lack of leadership he also said he regretted he was too lenient with the papers’ unions, and if he was indeed a leader then the
Gazette
should not have another set of man
agers boring from within, and he would be firmer with them in the future. This sentiment was cheered by everyone but Georgia and me. I thought the
Gazette
was pretty boring inside and out. But that’s not what Tucker meant. He wanted to destroy the unions, and after our last limp contract, he was well on the way. After the cheers, someone made a joke about being totally at sea, and we all had a good laugh. It was turning into a jolly party. Brittany, Courtney, Scott, and Jeremy didn’t have any leadership to regret, but they said they were sorry for the times when they weren’t team players. I couldn’t imagine when that was, but the publisher smiled on them like a doting grandfather.

They were the last of the group, except for me. I was hidden behind the open coffin lid and hoped Voyage Captain Jason wouldn’t notice me. I even hummed the tune while everyone put their regrets in the coffin, hoping I could blend in. But this was not my lucky day. Jason singled me out. “Do you have any regrets to bury, Francesca?” he asked.

I looked at the coffin. All I had to do was say something, anything. I didn’t even have to write it down. No one would know my regrets cards were blank. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t join the ranks of slimy sucks like Charlie and Roberto. Then I had a flash of brilliance and saw a way out of this tunnel.

“I haven’t any regrets that I can say,” I said. I thought that was remarkably tactful and truthful at the same time. Shows what I know. As they say, the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlight of the oncoming train. The publisher did not look pleased by my statement. He looked angry.
Very
angry. Then
I realized what I did wrong. He’d confessed to a public fault, and I wasn’t admitting one. I wasn’t playing the game. I wasn’t abasing myself properly like the rest of the committee.

“Young woman, our captain asked you a question,” he said in his first attempt at firmer management. “You owe him the courtesy of a serious reply.”

Charlie took the helm with his own effort at new, firm management. “Francesca, you must name a regret. That is a direct order. Under the Guild contract, you cannot refuse a direct order.” He smiled his weasely smile, and I felt his trap closing on me. Time seemed to stop. The room grew silent. The laughter died. Everyone watched the showdown. I could see Georgia, pleading with me with her big brown eyes. I could almost hear her thoughts, unless they were my thoughts: “Tell him something, anything. Tell him you regret not being a team player.” Except I didn’t. I didn’t want to be on this team. “Tell him you regret your anger at your editors.” But I didn’t. They deserved it. “Tell him you regret impatience with your stupid readers.” But I didn’t think my readers were stupid. I thought they were smarter and funnier than the editors who sneered at them.

“I’m waiting,” Charlie said.

“We’re all waiting,” the publisher said impatiently.

“Please, Francesca, we need your contribution so we can continue our voyage into the future,” said Jason, in a pleading tone. “Please help set the
Gazette
on course.”

But that was the problem. The
Gazette
was so far off course, it would never get back. We were playing silly games when we should have been running the
paper. My job was to interview people and dig up stories, not play office politics. But I could go back to doing what I was good at, if I could just say something.

I tried, I really tried to open my mouth and come up with a regret. But the words stuck in my throat. Maybe I’d been chanting “shut up, shut up” too often. Now I couldn’t talk. And if I didn’t, I would be fired on the spot. This was strike three, and I was out. I couldn’t refuse a direct order. I must be crazy. I made good money. I had a good job. I had readers I loved. I was respected in this community. Was I going to throw it all away for false pride? I’d lied before. Why couldn’t I lie now?

“Now, Francesca, or you’re fired,” Charlie said. “You have two warnings in your file. This is the third. Everyone in the room is a witness to your recalcitrance. Tell me your regret or you are fired.”

Then I felt the paralysis loosening in my throat. Thank God. I could say something. I said, “I regret . . .”

The whole room was literally waiting on my next words. I looked at them all, except Georgia. I couldn’t bear to look at her. But I saw the publisher, and Charlie, Roberto, Tolbart, Tucker, Vonnie, and the quads. Why was I kowtowing to these soulless creatures, who were destroying a once-great newspaper? These people couldn’t save the
Gazette.
They couldn’t save string. I couldn’t save the
Gazette
by myself, either. My career at this mediocre paper wasn’t worth saving. All I could do was save the few shreds of dignity I had left.

So I took a deep breath and put a nail in my own coffin.

“I deeply regret that I ever got involved in this foolishness,” I said.

“T
hat’s it, Francesca. You’re fired,” Charlie screamed. “You’re out of here!” I figured I was, too, but I kept that to myself.

“She refused a direct order,” Charlie snarled to the Voyage Committee. “She’s insubordinate. She’s fired.” He couldn’t quite keep the satisfaction out of his voice. He’d waited a long time to say those last two words.

Everyone else sat there stunned and silent, except Georgia. “Francesca didn’t refuse,” she said. “You asked for her regret and she told you.”

“It wasn’t a proper answer,” Charlie snapped, glaring at me. He was so angry his bald spot glowed red through his carefully combed hair.

“Legally, her answer satisfied your request,” Tolbart answered levelly. Charlie took a deep breath but didn’t reply. He recognized that word “legally” for what it was, a warning. Tolbart had touched on the
Gazettes
unspeakable little secret. The paper had
a slew of EEOC suits filed against it by angry employees. The paper settled the suits out of court. It couldn’t risk being judged by a jury of disgruntled readers, who had been insulted when they called the
Gazette
with a complaint or had their paper thrown in the bushes that morning.

Voyage Captain Jason, now that he knew which way the wind was blowing, weighed in with his opinion. “I fear Georgia is correct,” he said. “Francesca was perhaps not in tune with the spirit of this voyage, but she did comply with her editor’s command.”

At this, the publisher managed a weak smile, the first one since my outburst. He’d reacted to my anger as if he’d been singed. The publisher hated any strong emotion. He loathed disagreement. He had an intense dislike for loud voices. He spent his days in a museumlike hush, as if he were one of the art treasures he collected. That’s why he had surrounded himself with soft-spoken flunkies, toadies, and attorneys. They were supposed to protect him from anything unpleasant. He did not appreciate this mutiny during his Voyage of Discovery. The whole table waited for his pronouncement. As if to compensate for my noise, the publisher spoke in almost a whisper. “Charlie has handled the situation with commendable firmness and has elicited a proper response,” he said.

Charlie relaxed, and his angry red bald spot faded to a soothing rose pink. Charlie knew he was not going to take the blame for my scene. The rest of the table gazed expectantly at the publisher, waiting for him to say more. Instead, he fumbled with his four-hundred-dollar
pen. He seemed totally at sea on this voyage.

But Voyage Captain Jason knew exactly what to do—throw me overboard. “There is a difference between discussion and dissension,” he said. “I think perhaps Francesca would be happier if we found someone else to take her place on our voyage.”