Page 44 of We Could Be So Good
“I’m paid for my taste in books,” Bailey says easily. “And I don’t mind dismal things. I’m trying to be your friend, aren’t I?”
Nick leaves before the conversation can get any weirder.
***
When Andy comes back from the afternoon editorial meeting, his face is drawn, his jaw clenched. That’s how he always looks when he’s been in a meeting, and these days he’s spending less and less time in the newsroom, and more and more time in meetings.
“What happened?” Nick asks.
“The usual.” Andy passes his own desk and comes to sit onthe edge of Nick’s. “Circulation’s down and department stores don’t want to pay enough to advertise girdles.” It’s a truism in the news business that the entire fourth estate is propped up by dry goods manufacturers advertising underwear. “The fact is that fewer and fewer people get news from the newspaper, and every news editor in the room thinks the solution is to print more news and everyone in the marketing department thinks the solution is to decrease the news hole and run more ads. Every meeting we go over the same ground.”
Nick tips back in his seat to look Andy in the eye. “What does your father say?”
“He wants to keep doing things more or less the way we have been. Not because he’s particularly committed to it, but because he thinks everyone else is wrong.”
“What about Epstein?” Nick asks. The managing editor might know more about this business than anyone alive.
“He wants more features. Expand the women’s section. Expand the sports section. More columns of the throwing-spaghetti-at-the-wall variety. More series like what you’re writing.”
“More what now?”
Andy rolls his eyes. “I keep telling you. One, people talk about it. Two, they keep buying papers to find out what happens next. God knows what we need is people to keep buying papers.”
Andy seems almost... interested as he says this. Tired, yes. Frustrated, definitely. But this might be the first time Nick has heard him sound like he cares about running the paper and also like he knows what he’s talking about. But just as suddenly, his expression reverts back to a sort of hopeless exhaustion. “I can’t believe my father expects me to sort it out. You should see them all during the meetings. The editors, the head of marketing, all of them—they keep looking at me out of the corners of theireyes, like they don’t know why I’m there and would prefer that I go away. I mean, I would prefer that I’d go away, too, so really I sympathize.”
Nick makes a scoffing sound. “They’re probably just embarrassed that their future boss is hearing them sound ignorant.”
Andy looks at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Andy. Seriously. Do you really think that you could do any worse than what the publishers of most newspapers are doing? Have youseennewspapers lately?”
“You haven’t seen the circulation numbers,” Andy grumbles. “I don’t want it to be my fault when the paper goes out of business.”
Nick knows there really isn’t anything he can say that will persuade Andy that he’ll be able to run theChronicle. He isn’t sure if he even wants to say anything, when it’s so obvious that Andy would be happier doing anything else. Instead he settles for a different kind of truth. “You should give yourself some credit for once.”
To punctuate the point, he gives Andy’s knee a flick—just the sort of borderline-friendly, borderline-annoying gesture he’s done probably a thousand times, but today he somehow miscalculates and his hand collides with Andy’s, their fingers winding up tangled together.
Andy’s gaze meets Nick’s and his expression is somewhere between embarrassed and horrified—no, it’s the expression of someone who’s been caught out, guilty and shocked, and Nick knows it because that’s exactly what his own face does when he looks at the wrong man.
What thehell.
Chapter Ten
During the seventh inning, Nick decides that he’ll attend as many Red Sox games as Andy likes, God help him. Even at Yankee Stadium.
The Yankees score two runs in the first inning, and then nothing happens at all for the following six innings. Well, nothing happens except Andy sitting at the edge of his seat, biting his nails, gasping every time a bat connects with the ball, actually covering his eyes a couple of times, and Nick wishing he could store all these antics on film so he could make fun of Andy later. And also because Andy is adorable like this, but Nick’s trying not to think about that.
Nick used to take his nephew to see the Dodgers a couple times a year. They sat in the bleachers and Sal earnestly filled in his scorecard in his horrible handwriting, managed to drop at least one hot dog per game, and had all the dignity of a puppy. It was about as much fun as a person ought to be allowed to have.
Watching a ball game with Andy is a little bit like that, even though it’s different for all the obvious reasons, and also because Nick has nothing invested in the outcome of this game. He wants the Yankees to lose, just on principle, but he can’t go so far aswanting the Red Sox to win. He’s in a state of pure impartiality, which lets him enjoy the beer and the sunshine, the crack of the bat against the ball, and the company.
In the seventh inning, the Red Sox even the score with two runs and the amount of pure joy radiating off Andy could have powered the electrical grid of all five boroughs.
Andy shamelessly cheers for the Red Sox, ignoring the dirty looks and pointed boos from the people in the surrounding stands. Maybe the folks in pricey seats will behave better than the crowd in the bleachers and they’ll manage not to get murdered this afternoon. Andy cheers like he’s never heard of a jinx, like he doesn’t know what kind of a sorry deal optimism buys you.
But then in the bottom of the eighth inning, the Yankees score again, and the Red Sox aren’t able to get on the board in the ninth inning, so that’s that.
“That’s baseball,” Andy says cheerfully. “It’s going to be a good season.” They’re lingering in their seats, not wanting to get crushed by the opening-day crowd pouring out of the stadium.
