which he begins to unfold.
“Arthur?” Dad says, obviously confused. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve got some papers for you to sign, Duncan.”
Dad squints at him, the malevolence in his eyes burning right through the drugs. “You get out of here. I already signed away my life’s work. I’ve got nothing left for a vulture like you.”
Pine steps closer to the bed. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. This agreement formalizes the full return of the Bienville Watchman to you and your family. Also your home. Blythe owns it free and clear now.”
Dad blinks in confusion, as if this is some cruel prank.
“Marshall, this is upsetting him,” Mom says.
“Dad, it’s true,” I say quickly. “You’re getting the paper back. And the house. Mom owns it now.”
“But—” He blinks like someone coming out of anesthesia. “I don’t understand.”
“The Watchman is coming back to our family,” I tell him. “Debt-free. I’m going to go downtown and open up the doors today. Bring the whole staff back on. And as soon as you can walk, I’m taking you down there to sit in your office.”
He’s shaking his head as though worried he’s having another hallucination. “But . . . how?”
“Turns out your son here is a hell of a businessman,” Pine says. He holds out the contract and a Montblanc pen.
“Don’t worry about it now,” I tell Dad. “Just sign your name, and the Watchman’s yours again.”
“Not if you bought us out of the hole,” he says, shaking his head on the pillow. “I won’t stand for that.”
“Marshall hasn’t paid a cent,” Arthur says with ironic bonhomie. “I can assure you of that.”
I grab an Architectural Digest that my mom was reading and slip it beneath the contracts so that Dad has something to press against when he signs. Still bewildered, he looks over at Mom, who nods and says, “Sign it, Duncan. Take your paper back. For old Angus McEwan.”
“Well then . . . all right.” He takes the pen with his trembling hand and, after some struggle, signs a semblance of his name.
Arthur flips some pages and has him go through this struggle twice more. “That’s it,” says the attorney, handing me a copy. “You’re back in business, Duncan, and close to two million dollars better off than you were yesterday afternoon. I’d stay to help you celebrate, but considering the circumstances—”
“You’ll get the hell out,” I finish.
Before he leaves, Arthur gives me what I can only describe as a smile of grudging respect. He’s screwed enough people to appreciate a good fucking when he’s on the receiving end.
After he’s gone, my father says, “What the hell just happened?”
“Poetic justice,” Mom says with satisfaction.
His jaundiced eyes seek me out, then settle on my face. “How the hell did you do this, son?”
“The Charles Colson method. I got them by the balls, and their hearts and minds followed.”
Dad closes his eyes and mumbles something I can’t make out. Then in a stronger voice, he says, “You gave up something. You had to. They wouldn’t have given it back to us. Not free and clear.”
“I gave up nothing.”
“Did you hurt your career?”
“No,” I lie.
“Did you bury something for them?”
Jesus . . . “Do you remember your Greek proverbs, Dad? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“We’re not Greek. I always look gift horses in the mouth. That’s what journalists do. If something sounds too good to be true, it is.”
“Dad, you could ruin a—hell, I don’t know.”
“I know it. There’s only one way this is worth it to me.”
Oh, boy. Here it comes. “How’s that?”
“You stay here and run the paper. I’m too old now. Too damn sick. You make it what it should be. If what your mother told me about this morning’s issue is true, then you’ve already made a good start. You don’t answer to me anymore. The Watchman’s yours. I’ll sign it over right now.”
My mother walks to the edge of the bed and lays her right hand on my father’s arm. “Let’s stop talking about the paper. There’ll be plenty of time for that later on.”
Will there? I wonder. Looking at Dad’s waxy yellow skin, I feel like I’m seeing a preview of what he’ll look like in death. We stand in silence for a few minutes, and his eyelids slowly fall closed. His breathing sounds shallow and irregular.
“I’m going to see if they’ll let us bring two chairs in here,” Mom says. “Jack said he’d speak to the nurses.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You stay with him. I don’t want him to