He was not gone; he was right here; and it was thrilling. Once or twice, as the afternoon lengthened, Laura slipped out of bed and stood silent in the doorway. She watched as, with a hunter's taut smile, Harry searched his notes for this quote, that date, letting out a sharp “Ha!” when he found what he'd wanted; and Laura's heart sped, and she had to wipe her eyes because they'd suddenly gone misty.
So Laura made Harry coffee, and sipped her own, and stayed out of his way. And if she did not precisely smear ink on her own shoulder patting herself on the back, still she was certain that if an exiled afternoon was the price of getting that Harry Randall back, it was a hell of a terrific deal.
And when he'd stopped, hit the keys for the printer, brought her the pages, and wandered off to find his gin, she shoved to the floor all the newspapers floating around her, read his copy through, and told him it was brilliant, because it was.
“Ummm.” Standing the gin bottle on the side table, holding on to the glass, he flapped the sheet up and slipped into bed. With his empty hand he tugged the covers up again.
Laura rolled onto her hip to look at him. “You're still not sure?”
“That it's great? No, that brilliant young reporter, the up-and-coming Laura Stone, says it's great. It must be true.”
Harry nestled closer to her. She giggled. “I'm not the only thing around here that's up-and-coming, am I?”
“Behave yourself, Stone. I'm an old man.”
“I know.” Laura traced a slow finger on the rim of Harry's ear, continued down the side of his neck. “And the one and only thing that interests you at this point—in the twilight of your life—is the pitiful and corrupted state of American journalism.”
“You're right.”
“You're lying.”
He had been, and it was some time before they returned to story, coffee, and gin.
By then the sun had gone, striping the sky across the river with the colors of fire. Harry picked up his drink, Laura the pages he'd given her. It was too dark to read, but she did not reach for the light. She offered the pages to Harry, almost as though for the first time, almost as though they weren't his. “This is great, Harry.”
He shrugged: yes, okay, maybe.
She said, “But you don't think it should run.”
Harry, looking at the pages in Laura's hand but not touching them, said, “What's the point?”
“That's not really what you mean.” He didn't answer, just sipped at his gin, so she went on. “You mean, ‘What good will it do New York's suffering citizens?' You mean, ‘Does a shell-shocked city really need more pain?' You mean, ‘Does a grieving country, trying to heal, to reach closure, to find some answers in these troubled times—'” That was all there was of that; Harry was stuffing a pillow over her face.
“Finished?”
The pillow nodded. Harry removed it, and Laura charged on. “You mean, ‘It's time to get back to normal'—wait,
“I thought you were finished,” Harry complained, settling his pillow weapon behind his head.
“You mean”—the anchorman tone dropped from Laura's voice, she was Laura again—“for everyone's good, some truths are better off buried. Come on, Harry. You're not serious.”
“I'm beyond serious, Stone. I'm maudlin.”
“This is a great piece. This is tremendous. This is
“There were firemen from forty-six states at his funeral.”
“So?”
“And the Mayor, the Fire Commissioner—”
“Since when does Harry Randall give a damn?”
“You have it backwards.” He inspected his gin as though for something missing. “Harry Randall used to give a damn, but he wised up.”
Laura looked at Harry as he had at his gin. The skin around his eyes was loose and lined, old and dry, but the pale gray eyes were clear.
“You've been working on this for two weeks,” she reminded him. “Night and day. You don't eat. You don't sleep. You don't screw.”
“Wait—what was that just now?” Harry said, with mild surprise.
“You're lucky I recognized it, it's been so long.” She squiggled around, settling with her cheek on his shoulder, the hand holding his copy draped across him. “If you weren't going to run it, then why write it?”
He shrugged. “I thought,” he said, stopping as though surprised to hear his own voice, then going on, “I thought it might be important to find the truth.”
“Of course it is.” Impatience crept into her tone, and she could have kicked herself for it.
She said nothing else, just moved closer, held Harry tighter. His glass was empty; as he groped for the bottle, he said, “Maybe people need their illusions.” He was talking to her, she thought, about the story; and to himself, about something else, too.
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “People need the truth.”
