Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-08-18 11:39 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2007-08-18 11:39 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: Expecting, Chapter 16
Title: Expecting, Chapter 16: In Jon We Trust
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: More of the offscreen tumbling; real wife action
Words: ~3200
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: Okay, so it wasn't actually Jon's wife in that first clip on TDS; it was production assistant Gina Brown. But let's pretend.
Clips referenced: Jon and his wife watch TV; Pellicano voicemails (NFZ has transcripts).
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 16
In Jon We Trust
Today
Jon's heart stopped.
"'Sorry'? What's wrong? Is — is—"
"Let me finish," said the nurse. "The patient is in surgery. His condition is not critical. Most of Dr. Moreau's team is currently working with him. He is unconscious under a general anesthetic and not in pain."
Every sentence felt like it was lifting a brick off of Jon's chest.
"The doctor sends her apologies that you were not informed sooner. When the patient's condition is sufficiently stable, she will come and meet with you herself."
"What do you mean, 'sufficiently stable'? Is he unstable now?"
"He is as stable as can be expected for someone undergoing organ removal. No need to get alarmed."
"But I've been practicing all night," quipped Jon. The nurse looked puzzled. "Never mind. Bad joke, forget it. What about the baby?"
"The infant was delivered eight minutes ago."
"Can I see him?"
"No. Not yet."
"Where is he?"
"You have to understand, Mr. Stewart, that this is our standard procedure for infants born by Cesarean, and is not indicative of any more pressing problem...."
"I got it, I got it, where is he?"
"The intensive care unit."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
May 17, 2007
32 Weeks
When her husband called in the middle of the day and asked if she wanted to help with a bit on the show, Tracey said she would love to, as long as she could get someone to watch the dog for the evening. The kids were easy to deal with; any of their regular sitters could take care of them. The dog, though, was one that she had brought home from work, and needed eyedrops and careful monitoring of its food and the occasional tranquilizer.
Luckily, one of the other vet techs had the evening free; so Tracey left him the dog, called the girl from the next building over to watch the kids, and arrived at the studio shortly before rehearsal.
She met Jon in makeup, a drape over his shoulders while the artist brushed up his complexion into something the camera would love, even if it looked a bit orange in person.
He waited for the artist to switch brushes before turning to greet her. "Hey, hon! Oh good, you're wearing black! Forgot to mention that, and wardrobe would have had my head otherwise."
"I figured it would bleed least on the screen," said Tracey, and smiled when Jon looked surprised. "I do listen to your TV technobabble once in a while, you know."
"Hey, I listen to your explanations about why the cat has half a uterus. Doesn't mean I understand them." To the artist, he added, "Mandy, when you're done, can you make up Tracey? She hasn't been on before, but take your best shot, and you can touch it up after you see what she looks like during rehearsal."
"Certainly, Mr. Stewart," said the makeup artist. "Sit down, ma'am. I'll be with you in a moment."
Tracey took a seat in the chair next to Jon and met his eyes in the mirror. They were amused.
She gave him a helpless look. I'm a "ma'am" now?
The corners of his mouth quirked in a silent laugh. Sounds like it.
Fully made up, they walked arm-in-arm onto the new set, which Tracey had only seen a few times and never really explored. The rehearsal was delayed for ten minutes when the Giant Head of Ted Koppel announced that it was hungry, and a small army of interns had to go fetch a giant hoagie; in the meantime, Jon gave her the full tour.
"One of your cameramen keeps staring at me," she murmured when they were on the other side of the stage. "The guy at camera three."
Her husband glanced in that direction, then shrugged. "Can you blame him? I could stare at you all night."
"Oh, you." She slapped him playfully on the arm. "That's not what I mean, anyway. He's looking at me like I'm the Loch Ness Monster. You do have women on your crew, right?"
"Oh, sure! Just last night, we had on our senior...by which I mean only...female correspondent."
They laughed, and moved on to the green screen that was used in place of on-location reports to save costs, and rehearsal went well and the show even more so. Still, Tracey kept feeling eyes on her.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
When they returned to Jon's office afterwards, she had to ask. "Is there an unofficial rule against PDAs here? Every time I get too close to you, I catch someone looking surprised."
Jon looked suddenly uncomfortable, and got up to lock the door.
"I'm going to ask you a question," he said as he returned to the couch, "and I want you to answer without thinking too hard about the implications, okay?"
"All right."
"Have you ever suspected me of having an affair?"
That was easy. "No. I trust you."
He looked, if not quite relieved, less worried.
"Besides," she added lightly, "you would have told me."
He smiled a little at that, in spite of himself. "Yeah, I probably would."
And he laid out, briefly, the facts of the thing: the inadvertent favoritism in his friendship with Stephen, the way people had perceived it, the way it had come to a head the week before.
"I've confronted the rumor the best I can since then," he finished, "but I think some of my staff — especially the newer ones — are still a little surprised to see, well, you with me."
Tracey, who had paid careful attention to the whole thing, nodded thoughtfully.
Then she said, "I finally get why you have a shower in your office. Those stage lights get hot."
"Oh! Sorry!" exclaimed Jon. "Go ahead in — I'll wait...."
"Oh, no, I couldn't do that. And let you sit out here being hot and sweaty on your own? No, that wouldn't be fun."
"Well, I certainly can't do that to you. You're a guest here; you can't go in second."
"Exactly." Tracey gave him a significant look.
A second later, it clicked. "Oh. Ooh."
Still, his approval was tempered by whatever instinct made him search for things to worry about. "It's, uh, awfully small," he said apologetically.
"So much the better."
"And the walls are pretty thin...."
"Well, if people are going to talk about you anyway," said Tracey, raising her eyebrows.
"Trace, no. I'm not going to have sex with you in the shower just to prove to my staff that I do."
"Oh. No problem, then." Of course Jon was too honorable to pull a stunt like that. She just hoped she didn't sound too disappointed.
And then he leaned over, slipped a hand under her shirt, and whispered, "So we'll just have to be very quiet."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
May 24, 2007
33 Weeks
Jon hadn't caught Wednesday's Report, so when DJ approached him after the Thursday morning meeting with a tape, he didn't know what to expect. His first guess was that Stephen had reacted badly at not being allowed to use "Back In Black" for a celebratory bit. (Jon had been about to greenlight that when the new little voice in his head, the one that sounded oddly like Lewis, had cried favoritism.)
But the tape started to play at the beginning of the second act, when Stephen was trying unsuccessfully to prompt the crowd into a chant.
"You remember Anthony Pellicano?" asked DJ as the host began talking about the ThreatDown.
"Vaguely. Hollywood racketeer, indicted last year, case files just got sent to the Times...what does that have to do with us? We're alternative news, not exactly big-name entertainment...."
"Threat number three," said the Stephen on the screen, "Anthony Pellicano!"
Jon watched.
Fifteen minutes later he was striding into the old studio. There was a big loud flag waving around outside, presumably in preparation for Memorial Day; Jon glared at him, and he scurried out of the way.
What ever happened to "he would trust me with his life"?
The Report staff were in the middle of their own initial planning meeting, and when Jon finally decided to interrupt he found that Stephen wasn't with them; Bobby directed Jon to Stephen's office. "Sometimes he forgets to come to these," he explained. "It doesn't matter if we choose a topic he doesn't like, because he'll just ad-lib something else."
"Thanks," said Jon shortly, and headed for the stairs.
The delays gave him time to cool down, and, more importantly, to remember how well his last couple of angry outbursts had gone. And if Stephen had been in one of his tired-and-helpless-mother-to-be moods, the sort where he ended up lying on the couch and looking pitiful, Jon might have been defused altogether.
But no, Stephen was up and in motion, apparently having decided that the portraits on his wall were in desperate need of rearranging. He looked up when he heard the door shut behind his visitor.
"Oh! Hi, Jon! Didn't see you there. Aren't you early?"
"I'm not here for lunch. I just saw last night's show."
"Is this about the song? Because we got by without it, and I think we did just fine, but if you want to reconsider, I'll accept."
"No, it's about the ThreatDown."
"Ah." Stephen was suddenly very absorbed in adjusting one of the portraits. "It was '99, and I was young, and things were different then...."
"That isn't what I'm worried about." Jon crossed half of the room, stopping at a cool distance from Stephen. "It's what you have today — what you showed your audience last night."
"It's not a big deal, Jon."
"Why should I believe you?"
Now Stephen turned to face him. "You don't trust me."
"No," said Jon quietly. "No, I guess I don't."
"You've never trusted me, have you?"
For someone who never been a fan of facts, his tone was surprisingly matter-of-fact.
"You gave me all your best people because you didn't trust me to handle a show on my own. You got mad at the Christmas party last year because you didn't trust me not to get drunk while pregnant. You're probably only helping me with the baby shopping because you don't trust me to know what to do."
The question that had popped up in Jon's mind several times over recent weeks surfaced again, and he asked it: "Since when did you get so perceptive?"
"Since you got mad at me for not noticing things."
Jon was very nearly floored. He had been prepared for many a reaction, but not this quiet, calm sensibility. It was completely uncharacteristic. It was also, despite his lack of preparation, completely welcome.
And there was no telling how long it would last, so he took a chance.
"I'm very impressed that you've started noticing how other people feel," he said carefully. "But you can't pick and choose. You can't only see the things that are advantageous to you. There's more going on than what you've noticed, and it's not flattering to you, but it's true. Do you think you're ready to hear it?"
He was gratified to see that Stephen appeared to be thinking, really thinking, about his answer.
And then — looking somehow more vulnerable than he ever had, even during his most violent tearful outbursts — he said, "Tell me."
Jon nodded.
"I made sure the Report had a talented staff," he began, speaking slowly to make sure his thoughts would come out organized, "because it did not have a nine-year track record on which to lean if things went wrong in the short term. I knew you could carry the show as far as opinion and personality were concerned, but that alone is not enough to make it work. No matter what you may think, your presence alone does not guarantee an audience, a profit, or any kind of success.
"I was suspicious at the party, and, yes, I jumped to conclusions, partly because I worry all the time anyway and partly because you have always showed poor judgment about alcohol. This drunk call you made to Pellicano eight years ago is a perfect demonstration.
"And I have helped you with your shopping for several reasons. First," and here he took a step closer, "because you asked me to. Second," and he took another step, "because six months ago you didn't know how to identify water damage to a basement, wouldn't have thought about checking the dimensions of a bed to make sure you got the right size mattress, and had no idea how quickly babies go through diapers. You could never have gotten this far without a lot of fast research or somebody's help or both. Third," and with this step he was directly in front of Stephen, "I enjoy your company. The shopping allows me to spend time with you. And fourth," and here he rested his hands on Stephen's stomach, "I care about this one, and would like to help make his life easier. Even if it's by doing something that you could have done too."
There was a bump under his left hand: an elbow, a knee? Or, if the baby wasn't that big yet, maybe his head. A doctor would know; Jon couldn't tell the difference.
"And yesterday," he finished, eyes locked on Stephen's, "you denied that you had blackmailed me, and then said, 'But in the event of my untimely death, open this envelope.' That sounds to an observer like you have a contingency plan in case I secretly have you killed. It sounds to me like you have a contingency plan in case I secretly have you killed. And even if I don't trust you to get everything right, I certainly trust you not to resort to murder — so the question is, Stephen, why don't you trust me?"
Typically, when Stephen cried, there were two stages. In the first he fought to hold it back, lip wobbling and voice shaking as he clung to his slipping control; in the second he lost the fight and succumbed to violent sobbing, though he usually managed to flee public spaces before reaching that point. Right now he was in neither stage.
His eyes were simply filling with water, unchecked, unfought.
Somehow this was more gut-wrenching than any of his outbursts, and Jon held back the urge to be comforting. Not until I get an answer.
Then, very nearly reverting to his familiar pattern, the pundit gulped it all back and said, in a close approximation of his normal voice, "Of course I trust you, Jon! Don't be stupid! Here, I'll show you."
He pulled away, made his way over to a filing cabinet encrusted with yellow ribbon magnets, and retrieved from the top drawer an orange folder marked PRIVATE DO NOT OPEN. "No one's seen most of this," he said, holding it out to Jon. "Go on. Open it."
The page on top was a piece of Report letterhead, with Stephen's blocky print beginning under the logo:
Jon stopped reading there and flipped through the rest. There were provisions for setting up five trust funds; photos and descriptions of items to be given to various family members; a sealed envelope addressed to Charlene; another with no address but a series of names, all crossed off, ending with simply My son; and more. All of it looked surprisingly official: typed, signed, dated, and filled with legalese.
At last he said, "You did all this yourself?"
"Well, me and the lawyer I talked to. A couple of weeks ago I had this sudden urge to be prepared...Dr. Moreau had a word for it, something to do with eagles...."
This puzzled Jon until he thought about Stephen's obsessive arrangement of the portraits. A need to put everything in its proper place, to be ready.... "Nesting instinct?"
"Yeah, that's the one! And then when these transcripts got sent to the Times, I thought, what if someone digs up something else that I did, something that didn't involve you but someone who isn't sweet and patient, so I'd better make sure people know about this folder...."
Now his voice was quavering in typical first-stage fashion. "It wasn't about you, Jon, it was never about you, because I do trust you, I do, and I keep meaning to ask you to be godfather, because I thought I could trust Papa Bear but he went and told everyone about what I did with him and so now you're at the top of the list because I know you wouldn't do that and I — and I—"
Jon dropped the folder and hugged him. Stephen hiccuped into his shoulder; the baby, perhaps picking up on the distress, began to kick into his stomach.
If there had been a full-fledged outburst building, though, Stephen regained control before the storm broke. "I'm okay, I'm okay," he said at last, gently pushing Jon away. "You can stop hugging me now, Jon, 'cause that's really kinda gay."
"If that's gay," said Jon lightly, "then I don't want to be straight."
Stephen gave him a sharp look.
"Like you said during that one toss," he added quickly. "Remember?"
"Oh! No, of course." Stephen became suddenly busy adjusting his tie.
There was a moment of silence, then Jon asked hesitantly, "That bit about me being godfather. Did you mean it?"
"Technically, no. You're not Catholic, so it won't count. But in an unofficial secular sort of way...if that's okay. Is that okay?"
Only a well-tuned ear would have caught the faint slips in control: the way his voice sped up a fraction on the question, the way his tone went just slightly too high.
"Yes, Stephen. It's okay."
Jon suppressed the urge to hug his friend again, and settled for a reassuring smile.
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: More of the offscreen tumbling; real wife action
Words: ~3200
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: Okay, so it wasn't actually Jon's wife in that first clip on TDS; it was production assistant Gina Brown. But let's pretend.
Clips referenced: Jon and his wife watch TV; Pellicano voicemails (NFZ has transcripts).
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 16
In Jon We Trust
Today
Jon's heart stopped.
"'Sorry'? What's wrong? Is — is—"
"Let me finish," said the nurse. "The patient is in surgery. His condition is not critical. Most of Dr. Moreau's team is currently working with him. He is unconscious under a general anesthetic and not in pain."
Every sentence felt like it was lifting a brick off of Jon's chest.
"The doctor sends her apologies that you were not informed sooner. When the patient's condition is sufficiently stable, she will come and meet with you herself."
"What do you mean, 'sufficiently stable'? Is he unstable now?"
"He is as stable as can be expected for someone undergoing organ removal. No need to get alarmed."
"But I've been practicing all night," quipped Jon. The nurse looked puzzled. "Never mind. Bad joke, forget it. What about the baby?"
"The infant was delivered eight minutes ago."
"Can I see him?"
"No. Not yet."
"Where is he?"
"You have to understand, Mr. Stewart, that this is our standard procedure for infants born by Cesarean, and is not indicative of any more pressing problem...."
"I got it, I got it, where is he?"
"The intensive care unit."
May 17, 2007
32 Weeks
When her husband called in the middle of the day and asked if she wanted to help with a bit on the show, Tracey said she would love to, as long as she could get someone to watch the dog for the evening. The kids were easy to deal with; any of their regular sitters could take care of them. The dog, though, was one that she had brought home from work, and needed eyedrops and careful monitoring of its food and the occasional tranquilizer.
Luckily, one of the other vet techs had the evening free; so Tracey left him the dog, called the girl from the next building over to watch the kids, and arrived at the studio shortly before rehearsal.
She met Jon in makeup, a drape over his shoulders while the artist brushed up his complexion into something the camera would love, even if it looked a bit orange in person.
He waited for the artist to switch brushes before turning to greet her. "Hey, hon! Oh good, you're wearing black! Forgot to mention that, and wardrobe would have had my head otherwise."
"I figured it would bleed least on the screen," said Tracey, and smiled when Jon looked surprised. "I do listen to your TV technobabble once in a while, you know."
"Hey, I listen to your explanations about why the cat has half a uterus. Doesn't mean I understand them." To the artist, he added, "Mandy, when you're done, can you make up Tracey? She hasn't been on before, but take your best shot, and you can touch it up after you see what she looks like during rehearsal."
"Certainly, Mr. Stewart," said the makeup artist. "Sit down, ma'am. I'll be with you in a moment."
Tracey took a seat in the chair next to Jon and met his eyes in the mirror. They were amused.
She gave him a helpless look. I'm a "ma'am" now?
The corners of his mouth quirked in a silent laugh. Sounds like it.
Fully made up, they walked arm-in-arm onto the new set, which Tracey had only seen a few times and never really explored. The rehearsal was delayed for ten minutes when the Giant Head of Ted Koppel announced that it was hungry, and a small army of interns had to go fetch a giant hoagie; in the meantime, Jon gave her the full tour.
"One of your cameramen keeps staring at me," she murmured when they were on the other side of the stage. "The guy at camera three."
Her husband glanced in that direction, then shrugged. "Can you blame him? I could stare at you all night."
"Oh, you." She slapped him playfully on the arm. "That's not what I mean, anyway. He's looking at me like I'm the Loch Ness Monster. You do have women on your crew, right?"
"Oh, sure! Just last night, we had on our senior...by which I mean only...female correspondent."
They laughed, and moved on to the green screen that was used in place of on-location reports to save costs, and rehearsal went well and the show even more so. Still, Tracey kept feeling eyes on her.
When they returned to Jon's office afterwards, she had to ask. "Is there an unofficial rule against PDAs here? Every time I get too close to you, I catch someone looking surprised."
Jon looked suddenly uncomfortable, and got up to lock the door.
"I'm going to ask you a question," he said as he returned to the couch, "and I want you to answer without thinking too hard about the implications, okay?"
"All right."
"Have you ever suspected me of having an affair?"
That was easy. "No. I trust you."
He looked, if not quite relieved, less worried.
"Besides," she added lightly, "you would have told me."
He smiled a little at that, in spite of himself. "Yeah, I probably would."
And he laid out, briefly, the facts of the thing: the inadvertent favoritism in his friendship with Stephen, the way people had perceived it, the way it had come to a head the week before.
"I've confronted the rumor the best I can since then," he finished, "but I think some of my staff — especially the newer ones — are still a little surprised to see, well, you with me."
Tracey, who had paid careful attention to the whole thing, nodded thoughtfully.
Then she said, "I finally get why you have a shower in your office. Those stage lights get hot."
"Oh! Sorry!" exclaimed Jon. "Go ahead in — I'll wait...."
"Oh, no, I couldn't do that. And let you sit out here being hot and sweaty on your own? No, that wouldn't be fun."
"Well, I certainly can't do that to you. You're a guest here; you can't go in second."
"Exactly." Tracey gave him a significant look.
A second later, it clicked. "Oh. Ooh."
Still, his approval was tempered by whatever instinct made him search for things to worry about. "It's, uh, awfully small," he said apologetically.
"So much the better."
"And the walls are pretty thin...."
"Well, if people are going to talk about you anyway," said Tracey, raising her eyebrows.
"Trace, no. I'm not going to have sex with you in the shower just to prove to my staff that I do."
"Oh. No problem, then." Of course Jon was too honorable to pull a stunt like that. She just hoped she didn't sound too disappointed.
And then he leaned over, slipped a hand under her shirt, and whispered, "So we'll just have to be very quiet."
May 24, 2007
33 Weeks
Jon hadn't caught Wednesday's Report, so when DJ approached him after the Thursday morning meeting with a tape, he didn't know what to expect. His first guess was that Stephen had reacted badly at not being allowed to use "Back In Black" for a celebratory bit. (Jon had been about to greenlight that when the new little voice in his head, the one that sounded oddly like Lewis, had cried favoritism.)
But the tape started to play at the beginning of the second act, when Stephen was trying unsuccessfully to prompt the crowd into a chant.
"You remember Anthony Pellicano?" asked DJ as the host began talking about the ThreatDown.
"Vaguely. Hollywood racketeer, indicted last year, case files just got sent to the Times...what does that have to do with us? We're alternative news, not exactly big-name entertainment...."
"Threat number three," said the Stephen on the screen, "Anthony Pellicano!"
Jon watched.
Fifteen minutes later he was striding into the old studio. There was a big loud flag waving around outside, presumably in preparation for Memorial Day; Jon glared at him, and he scurried out of the way.
What ever happened to "he would trust me with his life"?
The Report staff were in the middle of their own initial planning meeting, and when Jon finally decided to interrupt he found that Stephen wasn't with them; Bobby directed Jon to Stephen's office. "Sometimes he forgets to come to these," he explained. "It doesn't matter if we choose a topic he doesn't like, because he'll just ad-lib something else."
"Thanks," said Jon shortly, and headed for the stairs.
The delays gave him time to cool down, and, more importantly, to remember how well his last couple of angry outbursts had gone. And if Stephen had been in one of his tired-and-helpless-mother-to-be moods, the sort where he ended up lying on the couch and looking pitiful, Jon might have been defused altogether.
But no, Stephen was up and in motion, apparently having decided that the portraits on his wall were in desperate need of rearranging. He looked up when he heard the door shut behind his visitor.
"Oh! Hi, Jon! Didn't see you there. Aren't you early?"
"I'm not here for lunch. I just saw last night's show."
"Is this about the song? Because we got by without it, and I think we did just fine, but if you want to reconsider, I'll accept."
"No, it's about the ThreatDown."
"Ah." Stephen was suddenly very absorbed in adjusting one of the portraits. "It was '99, and I was young, and things were different then...."
"That isn't what I'm worried about." Jon crossed half of the room, stopping at a cool distance from Stephen. "It's what you have today — what you showed your audience last night."
"It's not a big deal, Jon."
"Why should I believe you?"
Now Stephen turned to face him. "You don't trust me."
"No," said Jon quietly. "No, I guess I don't."
"You've never trusted me, have you?"
For someone who never been a fan of facts, his tone was surprisingly matter-of-fact.
"You gave me all your best people because you didn't trust me to handle a show on my own. You got mad at the Christmas party last year because you didn't trust me not to get drunk while pregnant. You're probably only helping me with the baby shopping because you don't trust me to know what to do."
The question that had popped up in Jon's mind several times over recent weeks surfaced again, and he asked it: "Since when did you get so perceptive?"
"Since you got mad at me for not noticing things."
Jon was very nearly floored. He had been prepared for many a reaction, but not this quiet, calm sensibility. It was completely uncharacteristic. It was also, despite his lack of preparation, completely welcome.
And there was no telling how long it would last, so he took a chance.
"I'm very impressed that you've started noticing how other people feel," he said carefully. "But you can't pick and choose. You can't only see the things that are advantageous to you. There's more going on than what you've noticed, and it's not flattering to you, but it's true. Do you think you're ready to hear it?"
He was gratified to see that Stephen appeared to be thinking, really thinking, about his answer.
And then — looking somehow more vulnerable than he ever had, even during his most violent tearful outbursts — he said, "Tell me."
Jon nodded.
"I made sure the Report had a talented staff," he began, speaking slowly to make sure his thoughts would come out organized, "because it did not have a nine-year track record on which to lean if things went wrong in the short term. I knew you could carry the show as far as opinion and personality were concerned, but that alone is not enough to make it work. No matter what you may think, your presence alone does not guarantee an audience, a profit, or any kind of success.
"I was suspicious at the party, and, yes, I jumped to conclusions, partly because I worry all the time anyway and partly because you have always showed poor judgment about alcohol. This drunk call you made to Pellicano eight years ago is a perfect demonstration.
"And I have helped you with your shopping for several reasons. First," and here he took a step closer, "because you asked me to. Second," and he took another step, "because six months ago you didn't know how to identify water damage to a basement, wouldn't have thought about checking the dimensions of a bed to make sure you got the right size mattress, and had no idea how quickly babies go through diapers. You could never have gotten this far without a lot of fast research or somebody's help or both. Third," and with this step he was directly in front of Stephen, "I enjoy your company. The shopping allows me to spend time with you. And fourth," and here he rested his hands on Stephen's stomach, "I care about this one, and would like to help make his life easier. Even if it's by doing something that you could have done too."
There was a bump under his left hand: an elbow, a knee? Or, if the baby wasn't that big yet, maybe his head. A doctor would know; Jon couldn't tell the difference.
"And yesterday," he finished, eyes locked on Stephen's, "you denied that you had blackmailed me, and then said, 'But in the event of my untimely death, open this envelope.' That sounds to an observer like you have a contingency plan in case I secretly have you killed. It sounds to me like you have a contingency plan in case I secretly have you killed. And even if I don't trust you to get everything right, I certainly trust you not to resort to murder — so the question is, Stephen, why don't you trust me?"
Typically, when Stephen cried, there were two stages. In the first he fought to hold it back, lip wobbling and voice shaking as he clung to his slipping control; in the second he lost the fight and succumbed to violent sobbing, though he usually managed to flee public spaces before reaching that point. Right now he was in neither stage.
His eyes were simply filling with water, unchecked, unfought.
Somehow this was more gut-wrenching than any of his outbursts, and Jon held back the urge to be comforting. Not until I get an answer.
Then, very nearly reverting to his familiar pattern, the pundit gulped it all back and said, in a close approximation of his normal voice, "Of course I trust you, Jon! Don't be stupid! Here, I'll show you."
He pulled away, made his way over to a filing cabinet encrusted with yellow ribbon magnets, and retrieved from the top drawer an orange folder marked PRIVATE DO NOT OPEN. "No one's seen most of this," he said, holding it out to Jon. "Go on. Open it."
The page on top was a piece of Report letterhead, with Stephen's blocky print beginning under the logo:
Dear Reader,
I'm not a fan of reading, but I guess in this case it can't be helped.
If you're opening this, it means I'm dead. Don't worry about me; I was Catholic, so I'm in Heaven chilling with the saints. If you aren't Catholic, it's not too late to convert!
If my death was suspicious — and really, at my age, how could it be natural? — I want you to find whoever did it and punish them to the fullest extent of the law. Use torture to get the facts if necessary. Then go for lethal injection.
If you haven't found him yet, let me make your job easier. First, somebody's probably put Jon on the suspects list, because he has opportunity (he's alone with me a lot), method (he's clever, he could think of something), and motive (my show has been overshadowing his, and on top of that I've probably done something in the past week to make him mad). Well, you can take him off. Jon wouldn't do that even if I did deserve it. I would stake my life on it — although I guess that doesn't have the same weight that it used to.
I do have some people you can add to the list, though. Have you checked out Manilow's alibi?
Jon stopped reading there and flipped through the rest. There were provisions for setting up five trust funds; photos and descriptions of items to be given to various family members; a sealed envelope addressed to Charlene; another with no address but a series of names, all crossed off, ending with simply My son; and more. All of it looked surprisingly official: typed, signed, dated, and filled with legalese.
At last he said, "You did all this yourself?"
"Well, me and the lawyer I talked to. A couple of weeks ago I had this sudden urge to be prepared...Dr. Moreau had a word for it, something to do with eagles...."
This puzzled Jon until he thought about Stephen's obsessive arrangement of the portraits. A need to put everything in its proper place, to be ready.... "Nesting instinct?"
"Yeah, that's the one! And then when these transcripts got sent to the Times, I thought, what if someone digs up something else that I did, something that didn't involve you but someone who isn't sweet and patient, so I'd better make sure people know about this folder...."
Now his voice was quavering in typical first-stage fashion. "It wasn't about you, Jon, it was never about you, because I do trust you, I do, and I keep meaning to ask you to be godfather, because I thought I could trust Papa Bear but he went and told everyone about what I did with him and so now you're at the top of the list because I know you wouldn't do that and I — and I—"
Jon dropped the folder and hugged him. Stephen hiccuped into his shoulder; the baby, perhaps picking up on the distress, began to kick into his stomach.
If there had been a full-fledged outburst building, though, Stephen regained control before the storm broke. "I'm okay, I'm okay," he said at last, gently pushing Jon away. "You can stop hugging me now, Jon, 'cause that's really kinda gay."
"If that's gay," said Jon lightly, "then I don't want to be straight."
Stephen gave him a sharp look.
"Like you said during that one toss," he added quickly. "Remember?"
"Oh! No, of course." Stephen became suddenly busy adjusting his tie.
There was a moment of silence, then Jon asked hesitantly, "That bit about me being godfather. Did you mean it?"
"Technically, no. You're not Catholic, so it won't count. But in an unofficial secular sort of way...if that's okay. Is that okay?"
Only a well-tuned ear would have caught the faint slips in control: the way his voice sped up a fraction on the question, the way his tone went just slightly too high.
"Yes, Stephen. It's okay."
Jon suppressed the urge to hug his friend again, and settled for a reassuring smile.