Main > Series > Chapters > Fame Book 2 > Chapter 16 '
Reardon had tried to call the newspaper that afternoon, but the numbers
given in the proprietorial information box on the inside front pages were
for subscriptions and advertising rates only. Ma Bell's information operator
could only give him the same story, and so after school he'd gone straight
to the City library and started checking through the business directories.
Calling in the evening had only got him in touch with a recorded answering
service, and at Bernie Rettig's home number there had been no reply at
all.
It had given him plenty of time to get his
anger stoked by the time that he finally got through from the teachers'
lounge on the Tuesday morning.
There was a long wait on hold with Mantovani
playing on a wowing cassette, but Reardon was ready to stay on the line
for as long as it took. He settled back on the squeaky vinyl couch, and
listened to the wires singing all the way down to Florida. Elizabeth Sherwood
crossed his line of vision as he waited, but he barely registered her.
Finally, he was put through to the news desk.
Bernie wasn't there.
'Okay, then,' Reardon said. 'You better get
out a pad and pencil, pal, because I want to leave a message.'
There was a short wait, and Elizabeth said,
'Good morning, David.' Reardon only grunted.
Pad and pencil had apparently been procured,
because he then launched in with his message. 'Okay,' he said. 'You tell
that cigar sucking hypocrite that if ethics were dynamite, he couldn't
blow his nose. You tell him that if I'm ever driving and see him in a crosswalk
looking the wrong way, it's all over. You tell him that if I ever catch
VD, I'll turn gay just so we'll have something to share. You tell him .
. . hello?'
The message-taker on the other end of the line
had apparently opted out of the conversation somewhere around crosswalk.
Reardon jiggled the phone cradle two or three times, but the line remained
dead.
'That only works in the movies,' Elizabeth
said. 'Tapping the button like that is just going to break the connection,
if it hasn't already been broken.'
Reardon replaced the receiver with some force.
'You're right,' he said. 'You know, I spent forty-five minutes yesterday
going to every bulletin board in the place and taking that picture down?'
'Waste of time,' Elizabeth said. 'They're back
up.'
Reardon groaned, sagging lower onto the couch.
Elizabeth went to sit on the chair alongside him.
She said, 'David, if you look at it with a
certain sense of humor -' There wasn't much hint of humor in the glower
that he gave her, but still she pressed on. 'I mean, a lot of people would
be . . . oh, flattered to have a picture like that in a national
newspaper.'
'Would you be flattered?'
Elizabeth knew for a fact that she wouldn't.
If she'd opened a newspaper and found a portrait of herself looking like
that, she'd have either gone up the wall or died of shame, or both.
'No,' she admitted, 'I suppose not. But that
doesn't mean that everyone is disapproving.' She was searching desperately
for something reassuring to say. 'Actually, I was talking to my mother
last night. I told her all about the pictures.'
'And what did your mother say?'
'She asked if I could get your autograph.'
It was a waste of time trying; she could see that Reardon wasn't about
to be consoled. 'I've got to get ready for first period,' she said quickly.
'See you later.'
On the way out, she passed Mrs. Berg.
Mrs. Berg stood in the doorway for a long moment,
until Reardon sensed her presence and turned around to look. She smiled
at him pleasantly, and crossed the room to where there was hot water on
the plate and a box of teabags alongside. She poured herself a cup of tea,
and moved across to the central table. Reardon watched her every inch of
the way, almost daring her to step out of line.
They faced each other across the room. Mrs.
Berg was still smiling.
'Still waters run deep,' she said knowingly.
With a strangled cry of frustration, Reardon
leapt to his feet and stalked out into the lobby.
There was no getting away from it; even using the back stairs, he felt
the eyes burning into him like lasers. Doris Schwartz saw him from a distance
and hurried to catch up; Reardon looked around for a way of escape, and
saw none. Whatever Doris was after, he didn't want to know. He'd already
told her that he knew nothing about twirling a lariat or cracking a bullwhip,
that he knew no country dances, that he couldn't play bottleneck guitar
to save his life.
But Doris wanted to talk about the newspaper
picture.
'I came to apologize, Mister Reardon,' she
said, walking down the stairs alongside him. 'I'm the one who brought the
picture into class. I just didn't think of the consequences. It's all my
fault.'
Reardon needed somewhere for his anger to go.
He couldn't pour it on the director of the stupid limbo play, because Reardon
himself had been the one who'd interfered to get hold of the rehearsal
shots from the session at which he'd been fired. He couldn't pour it on
Bernie Rettig, because Bernie Rettig wouldn't come to the phone in order
to be abused. Now, as they reached the bottom of the stairs, he found that
he couldn't pour it on Doris Schwartz, either.
She was looking pretty miserable about the
whole thing as it was. He put a hand on her shoulder, and said, 'It's okay,
Doris. If it hadn't been you, it would have been someone else. The damned
newspaper's everywhere.'
She wasn't much cheered. 'Besides,' she said,
'don't' take it so bad. I can think of a lot worse things.'
'The fact is, Doris. I'm not too comfortable
about getting whistled at in the halls.'
'It only means you're popular with the kids.
Now if you were in my position . . . '
'And what's your position?'
She smiled wanly. 'Don't ask,' she said. 'Typhoid
Mary was a social sensation compared to the Alumni Day administrator in
this place. My date can't make it, and everybody else seems to think I
should be in the same class as the guys who drove the gangs to build the
pyramids. And when everybody's had a good time, I'll be the last one they'll
think of.'
'Hey , Doris,' Reardon said with real concern.
'Give it time, okay?'
'Same to you, coach,' Doris said, walking away.
'Same to you.'
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