Read Providence Online

Authors: Chris Coppernoll

Tags: #Fiction, #Christian, #General, #Christmas, #Small Town, #second chance

Providence (6 page)

BOOK: Providence
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At first I thought the magazine cover story was a gag, that someone was playing a trick on me. But it wasn’t. The story focused on “the seismic cultural-paradigm shift” that had occurred in the United States since the release of
Laborers.
It had been written by a freelance journalist named Thom McCay. Included were sidebars and charts and graphs. It also gave statistics on the rising number of Americans involved in some kind of “goodwill work” and evidence that charitable donations were at an all-time high. And a story specifically on the Norwood program, featuring before-and-after photographs of houses students had rebuilt through CMO. There were even profiles of Norwood residents, including Beverly Williams and her two kids, Derrick and Nicole.

McCay’s article reported that as many as fifty other charter programs inspired by the Norwood model were sprouting up on college campuses and through faith-based initiatives. He traced it all back to
Laborers of the Orchard
. The article was refreshingly positive, but I took issue with this claim. I hadn’t started a movement to care for the poor; God had. Nor did I inspire people to suddenly have an interest in the suffering of others; God did. McCay’s efforts to give me credit for the “seismic shift” made me squeamish.

I dug my cell phone out of my hooded sweatshirt and called Arthur. Shirley Dawson put me through.

“Jack, where have you been? I’ve left twenty messages on your home phone.”

“I shut the ringer off when I’m writing, Art. Sorry. I must have forgotten to turn it back on.”

“You’re sorry? I’ve been going crazy here! Do you know what’s happening this morning?” Arthur spoke as if he might at any second explode from overheating.

“I’m looking at
Time
magazine
,
” I said. What’s going on?”

“Everything is going on, Jack. It’s a madhouse here. The phones haven’t stopped ringing. We’ve been getting congratulations from the governor’s office, the mayor. I’ve been giving out quotes to the press. You wouldn’t believe it!”

“Did you know this was about to happen?”

“We had
no idea
this was about to happen. They don’t tell you when you’re going to be named Person of the Year. The media tosses a few names around, but no one really knows for sure until the issue hits the newsstand. You weren’t even on their short list.”

“So no one knew?”

“Do you think I could have kept a lid on something like this?” Arthur said, reclaiming instant credibility. “I’ve been on the phone with
Time,
thanking them for their story. I spoke with their editor, Jeff Tinorin. He said they respected your stance on not giving interviews. It’s the first time we’ve heard that one from the media. That’s partly why they gave you the cover. It’s more authentic, real. Something like that.”

I covered my closed eyes with my hand.

“It’s nice that they’ve highlighted CMO’s work, but I’m not behind all this, Arthur. It isn’t right giving me credit.”

“Then who, Jack? Who wrote your book? Who worked all those years in Norwood, pounding nails, recruiting kids? Who did all that, Jack?”

“Arthur, giving to others isn’t the highest pinnacle of human goodwill; it’s the ground floor. As far as who’s responsible, that would be God. He’s the One who calls us to do good, and when we obey, everyone gets blessed. Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

I could hear Arthur’s ADD spinning his mind in a new direction. Around the half-vacant restaurant, diners were beginning to stare. I lowered my voice.

“Thom McCay, the author, did a pretty good job with this. He picked up the Holy Spirit part, inviting people to serve others, but he’s missing the point when he aims this all back to me. It’s God’s doing, not anyone else. Can we get him to print that?”

“The magazine is already on newsstands. How do you think we found out about it in the first place?”

“I don’t mean this issue, Art. What about a reprint or something? A correction?”

“Jack,
Time
magazine just named you their Person of the Year. I don’t think the best way to say thank you is by telling them they got the story wrong. They may not understand what you’re saying anyway. I’m your friend and publisher, and I’m not sure
I
do. If you want that story told, you’ll have to tell it yourself.”

“Would you give me the number for that editor at
Time
?”

“You’re not going to give them an interview, are you?” Arthur said, strutting his brand of dry irony.

“No, I just want to track down the author.”

Arthur gave me the number. “Listen, Jack. If you talk to McCay or anyone over at
Time,
you might want to get a plug in for the new book. Perfect follow-up to the story. Don’t say anything that leaves an unfavorable impression. We want to keep them in our corner.”

“Arthur, just when did we become the center of the universe? Do we need to constantly put our shoulders to the grindstone of self-promotion, inflating egos and bank accounts? Is this the highest thing to which we can aspire?”

There was silence on Arthur’s end of the line. I’d lost him.

“Jeff Tinorin.”

“Hi, Jeff. This is Jack Clayton. I wanted to call and say thanks for the cover story and the Man of the Year thing.”

“You’re welcome, of course. It’s great hearing from you, Jack. You’re sort of an enigma to most of us in the news business. But after all that’s happened with your book, I can’t think of a better cover for our Person of the Year issue.”

I could feel my interview phobia rising. “I’m actually calling because I want to speak with Thom McCay. Does he work out of the office there?”

“No, Jack, he doesn’t,” he said. “But listen, while I’ve got you on the phone … what’s the likelihood of you consenting to do an interview? I think you can see we’d be fair.”

“I don’t decline interviews because of fairness,” I said, hoping to get this conversation back on point. “That’s what I want to talk with Thom about.”

This got his attention. I didn’t intend for it to sound as though I was calling to arrange an interview, but judging by Jeff’s reaction, he clearly took it that way.

“Thom lives in Boston. If you’d like to leave me your number, I’ll make sure he gets in touch with you.”

“Actually, I was hoping to speak with him this morning. Would he mind if you gave me a number where I could reach him?”

Evidently he didn’t mind, and a moment later I was listening to Thom’s phone ringing in the Beacon Hill area of Boston.

“Hello.”

“Hi … Is this Thom?”

“Yes …”

“This is Jack Clayton. I wanted to talk to you about the
Time
magazine article.”

“I hope you aren’t calling to tell me you didn’t like it.” He laughed.

“Oh no, I liked it. Thanks, by the way. You wrote some very encouraging things. I did have a clarification though …”

“Hey, no problem. It gave me an opportunity to research your program in Norwood, and frankly, I was very impressed. Of course, I’d have loved to have had the chance to talk to you in person.” He sounded honestly disappointed, not hinting. “What sort of clarification?”

“Well, the attention surrounding
Laborers of the Orchard,
and all the things you wrote in your article aren’t my doing, Thom. It’s nothing I take credit for.”

“Who would you credit … God?” Thom asked, his voice amplified by a God-given understanding.

“To give credit where it’s due, yes.”

“I thought you might say that. I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t. I consider myself a devout Catholic. What’s happening up here in Boston is exciting, Jack. Both Harvard and Boston College are chartering volunteer programs based on your Norwood model. They’ve worked on a dozen houses or more in Roxbury and South Boston. We’ve seen significant changes up here.”

“That is exciting,” I said, pushing away a plate of cold eggs, “but there’s more to it than repairing houses, as important as that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember 1 Corinthians 13:2?” I asked. I didn’t ask these sorts of questions often because I didn’t like putting people on the spot.

“Ah … something, something, if I have the tongues of angels but speak … er … what’s the verse?”

“You’ve got it. ‘If I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.’”

“Right. So you’re saying you’d like these college students to serve and love the poor.”

“God draws us nearer to Him, Thom, when we see Jesus in those who suffer or who are in need. We’re saved by His act, not our own good deeds. I get a little uncomfortable when service to others is connected to a fad, or seen as just another chance to name one of the ordinary among us Person of the Year. The roof repairs and trash pickups are all good things, but the spiritual reward is learning to love.”

“Okay, I’m sold. Will you allow me to put some of this conversation in print? I’m certain
Time
will run it.”

“I did call you hoping you’d be able to get this message out. Yes. You have my permission.”

I thanked him again, and we said our good-byes.

My world had felt disjointed the past few days, and even the grease from Liberty Deli couldn’t ease all the pieces back where they belonged. I’m not big on changes, and my least favorite are the
sudden
kind. However, the conversation was a turning point. From that moment forward, I approached the writing with less groaning and more intent. I knew it would be painful at times, tearing open those strongboxes and not knowing if the contents would be bitter or sweet, or would jump out and cut me at the end of a taunt spring. But I clearly felt God’s hand in this. I would step where He blew leaves from my path, even if the path He cleared pointed me into a haunted wood. Something good would come of it all.

“Hi, Jack. It’s Howard Cameron once more. If you’re in, please pick up.… Oh, all right. I guess we’re two for two [laughter]. Hey, I hope you got our earlier message … we still haven’t heard back from you. It looks like we’ll roll into Providence on Friday. Wanted to see if you might be available for lunch on Saturday. When you get a chance, will you call us? Angela and I are up in Bean Town at the moment, staying with very good friends, Pat and Terry Oslander … But leave us a message …”

There were four messages from Arthur in addition to the one from the Camerons. Hearing Howard’s voice for a second time that week wasn’t any less surreal than the first time. Yes, Saturday would be fine. I dialed the number Howard had left for the Oslanders, a nervousness fluttering underneath my skin. I’d never met the Oslanders, and when their answering machine clicked on, I realized I wouldn’t be meeting them today either. I waited for the beep.

“Hello, this is Jack Clayton,” I said, getting it on record that I was, in fact, alive. “Howard Cameron said I could reach him here. Howard, I’m sorry I haven’t gotten in touch with you sooner; it’s been quite a week. I’m available Saturday for lunch and recall your fondness for the Schneider Haus in Germantown. Unless you have another place in mind, I’ll meet you and Angela there around twelve.”

The weekend promised to be eventful. As I sat the phone down, it rang. I picked up with a rush of nervous glee. It wasn’t Howard but Arthur’s top-notch editor, Judith Raines.

“Hi, Jack; it’s Judith. I wanted to give you a call and see how things are coming with the new book.”

“It’s coming along fine,” I said, switching gears between two worlds.

“I also wanted to congratulate you on being named
Time
’s Person of the Year. That’s extraordinary. Are you pinching yourself yet?”

“Only when I fall asleep writing,” I said.

She laughed. Judith is an extremely intelligent thirty-something woman, six years married, no children. Professionally, there’s no literary problem Judith can’t solve. It was no wonder Arthur relied on her the way he did. She could have gone off to work at Simon and Schuster if she’d wanted to live in New York. She didn’t, and Arthur was able to keep his all-star on the ARP team.

“Are you getting my faxes?” I asked.

“Yes. That’s why I called. I like what I’m seeing, Jack. This is excellent. You’re lifting up the veil and letting us peer inside. It makes for a compelling read.”

BOOK: Providence
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