Gone to Green (20 page)

The pastor's talk was inspiring. The hydrangea analogy was more poetic than Jean's usual matter-of-fact speech. Aunt Helen's hydrangeas awed me. When I arrived they were basically only sticks, but by early summer they were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. They did require time and attention every day.

“I’d like to think there is a grand plan for my life,” I said, “that I was meant to do something special. I sure hope I have not been put on earth to flounder. But what am I supposed to do about Asheville? If God has this great purpose for me, what is it?”

“Well, I usually tell people their purpose in life is to love God and to love others, wherever they are and whatever they’re doing and to make sure they’re enjoying life along the way.” She paused. “But something tells me that isn’t going to be specific enough for you.”

“I’m going to need more than that, Pastor.”

“Take a tiny step and ask God for help. Listen for an answer. See what happens.”

Her response wasn’t an easy how-to list, but over the next few days, I did just that. I suddenly remembered asking for “help” in Dayton, not praying exactly but knowing I could not make the big decisions about the managing editor's job and moving to Green on my own. I recalled the rainbow and the voice telling me to “go.” Had that been God trying to nudge me along or my own subconscious, knowing my life needed a change?

The weather had turned cooler, and fall was definitely coming. The light had shifted in the sky. I would get up early and sit in my porch swing and return there at the end of the day. I began each of these sessions, as I thought of them, by saying, “Help.” And I sat and waited and listened.

Before long everything that happened was subject to scrutiny. Was this God talking? Was that? Or was this evil trying to lead me away? Was I on the right track? Who should I sell the paper to? Nothing was clear. I was confused and feeling a little crazy.

“Help,” I said a hundred times a day. “Help, help, help.”

Somewhat embarrassed, I called Pastor Jean and asked her if I could stop by on my way home from work. “I need help,” I said. “This listening thing isn’t working out for me, and I’m going nuts.”

When I arrived late that afternoon, Jean was at the church, straightening hymnals in the sanctuary and picking up old bulletins.

“It's so much easier than writing a sermon,” she said. “And it keeps me from getting too stuffy.”

The sun looked different than it had the other times I had been in this building. It came in from another angle and was dimmer, a glow that softened everything. We sat on the front-row pew, each on one end. I started to say something, but Jean held up her hand and smiled.

“Listen,” she said.

We sat there for fifteen minutes in silence. It was so quiet that I could hear the big old clock in the back of the church ticking. I heard a bug flying up to the light, making an odd buzzing noise. I heard Jean when she took a deep breath, as though she was cleansing her lungs. It was strange at first, and I fidgeted. Slowly I relaxed.

I took a deep breath and felt it flow throughout my body. I calmly looked at everything in front of me, as though I observed it through another person's eyes—the beautiful spider lilies on the altar, still fresh although they had been there several days, the handmade doily they sat on, a homemade banner that said, “My peace I leave with you.”

Peace. I took another breath.

Jean saw me looking at the banner and spoke softly.

“That was made by the Hope Small Group for Iris Jo when Matt died. They wanted to do something more than just cook, and they came up with that idea. They did it in three days and gave it to her for the memorial service. It's been hanging here ever since. We all get a lot of comfort from it, and Iris Jo said it belongs here.”

She read from the banner. “‘My peace I leave with you.’ That's what you can call upon, Lois. Peace not as the world gives. Listen for God's peace. Watch for those red flags that tell you something isn’t right, that you’re going in the wrong direction. You’re smart enough to see them. Notice when things feel right. Take things a step at a time, the best next step and the best next step and the next. When you’re in doubt about something, don’t do it. Wait for the peace.”

She stopped. “‘My peace I leave with you. Peace not as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid.’“

I took another deep breath and said, “Thanks.”

“I just want to say one more thing. This peace goes beyond what we can understand. You can try all you want to fit it into some neat little package, but it won’t go. God's greater than you are, understands more, loves more. God wants more for you than you have even begun to imagine.” She stood up. “You ready for some supper?”

Jean and I had a great visit that night. She showed me pictures of her family and told me more about her move to Green. We ate a meal she had in the freezer. “It's one of the great perks of my job,” she said. “I am fed incredibly well. In cities, people don’t cook much anymore. You know, they bring Kentucky Fried Chicken or store-bought cookies. But here—all homemade. I’ve put on twenty pounds in just over a year, and I don’t even care.”

The next morning I went out and sat in my swing and said, “Help.” Almost immediately I postponed my interview in Asheville.

“The time is not right for me to leave town again,” I told the publisher. “Plus, I’m not ready to commit to another newspaper job just yet. I have many details to take care of with the paper I own.”

Following the phone call, an immense sense of relief washed over me. I knew I had done the right thing. If they wouldn’t wait to talk to me, I would have other opportunities, after
The News-Item
sold.

It was a good thing I hadn’t gone. The week I would have left, Alex's story on the housing development finally came through. He had several great stories that implicated Major in a series of potentially illegal moves and had big-time scandal written all over it.

“Alex, you know we’re just a little newspaper, and we are about to take on one of the most well-known men in North Louisiana,” I said to the young reporter, both proud and scared. “You know that, right?”

“Lois, have a little faith in me,” he said. “I’ve been working on this for months. I’m not going into it willy-nilly.”

Demanding to know his sources and to see data, I regularly grilled Alex. Excited about what he had come up with, he was remarkably unflappable, only losing his cool a couple of times. “Basically, Lois,” he said, clearly delighting in his news, “Major hired a friend's firm to do the environmental study on the first development, Mossy Bend. His friend conveniently overlooked key problems, such as septic tanks emptying into the lake. The same firm was lined up to do the study on Cypress Point.”

“And there's more?” I tapped my pencil on his desk, feeling a knot in my stomach.

“A memo from the state environmental office was ignored. It said plainly the Mossy Bend development was too close to the lake, opened up flooding and pollution issues. Gave it a no-go to be built.” He fished around in a pile of papers on his desk. “The memo says, and I quote, ‘It would be a travesty to build in the wetlands area and would do irreparable harm to the lake.’”

In addition, Major had been getting federal money to redo his rental houses in Lakeside, with the government paying exorbitant subsidies for shoddy work. The tenants were caught in the middle. Alex had taken pictures of the work, including electrical outlets with huge gaps around them, roofs that were patched, and basic carpentry that was clearly substandard. He had copies of invoices for the work, outrageous bills for small jobs. “The tenants told me they got government checks for the work and gave the money to one of Major's employees, getting to keep twenty dollars as a handling fee.”

The man's greed and gall astounded me. The facts were so explosive I became extraordinarily cautious, reminding Alex not to talk with anyone except Tom and me and to lock up his notes. He used the telephone in my office to interview sources, so no one could overhear.

“This is extremely sensitive,” I said to Tammy and Iris Jo, “and we must not let it leak out until we are ready.” I knew Major would not roll over when the stories appeared, that he would attack the paper and try to discredit us. My journalistic experience warred with my responsibilities as owner of the paper. I had visions of us being sued and losing everything, of Major sitting in my office, crowing that he had beaten me and taking over
The News-Item.
As a reporter, I had been annoyed when an editor or publisher wanted to lawyer my story, as they called it, but I wasn’t about to let these go without letting a lawyer take a look at them.

Before I got that far, however, I got a call from Chuck McCuller, asking if he and Dub could come by and see me. I had heard occasionally from the Big Boys in the past six months or so, running into them at chamber meetings or getting a call when they didn’t like something in the paper. This would only be their second visit.

Although the McCuller name had not come up in any of Alex's research, Marcus Taylor had mentioned them as partners in Major's real estate developments. I thought of Pastor Jean and her “red flags” and figured the call was not a social one.

They arrived early, and when I walked in, Chuck sat at my desk. Dub wandered around, flipping through a couple of files that lay on the little coffee table. They acted like they owned the place, and I realized how much had changed in less than a year. I shepherded them into the conference room, eager to get them out of my office.

“Miss Lois,” Dub opened, “we appreciate all you’ve done with
The News-Item.
You’ve made some good changes, and we like the efforts you’ve made to revitalize downtown.”

“But,” Chuck continued, “we have heard some rather distressing news, and we think you should know about it. Folks are saying the newspaper is asking questions around town that it has no business asking.”

I tried to look shocked. “Really? What kind of questions?”

Dub took up his part again. “People are saying that sloppy young reporter Alex is trying to dig up dirt on Major Wilson and some of the other business leaders in town, that he's out to get them and throwing around all sorts of allegations. False allegations, might I add? It's slanderous, and it's not good for the town. You’d better keep an eye on him because you might find yourself getting sued.”

“Plus,” Chuck said, “there's lots of advertisers involved, and you sure don’t want them to cancel their advertising.”

“You need to kill this story, this investigation, whatever it is,” he continued. “You don’t want this kid to tear down all the goodwill you’ve built up, and it's just not good for Green, dragging good people's names through the mud. Newspapers always have to be looking for the bad. Why can’t you just leave well enough alone?”

Major must be about to have a stroke if he had sent Chuck and Dub over for this discussion.

“Are you referring to the stories Alex is working on about the developments on the lake?” I asked in a calm voice.

They nodded.

“And you’re familiar with those developments? Partners, I believe, in those developments? So you know all about Major Wilson's business deals and what he's doing out there?”

Suddenly it dawned on them that I was turning the tables.

“Now wait just a minute,” Chuck said, standing up so quickly that I thought he was going to turn over the chair. He leaned over the table with both hands spread out, holding him up. “We’re partners with Major, sure. Everyone knows that. But we aren’t involved in the daily workings of the business. Dub and I haven’t done anything wrong, and you better watch what you say.”

Watching the two men try to decide whether to cover their own hide or defend Major was one of the more interesting interactions I’d ever had in the news business. It was clear they were trying to size me up, to figure out how much I knew and what the paper was going to do.

Chuck was still standing, and slowly Dub stood up too.

“Kill the story or you’ll regret it,” Chuck said, and they stormed out.

We hired an attorney in Shreveport to look over the package. He had First Amendment experience, and I did not want anyone in Green to have an early look. My banker recommended “the young Walt King.” He and his father had done work for the paper before, and Walt turned out to be exactly the lawyer we needed.

“You know, Alex,” I said on our drive to Walt's office, “the thing about good newspaper lawyers is they never try to talk you out of running a story. They just try to let you know your likelihood of getting sued and of winning the case if you do get sued. Wonder what this one will say?”