Chapter 13 The Press Conference
It was Sunday afternoon and the cousins were in the breakfast nook off Grace House’s kitchen. Dignity was in his best suit. He looked at his watch again.
“This press conference is our last shot,” he said.
“It appears so,” said Reason, “since we agreed you wouldn’t do Pastor Hypocrisy’s show, and since we still haven’t had any response from the flyers.”
“Small wonder, since Obscurity called the printers and gave them the wrong phone number to print on them. Where is she?”
“Oh, probably in one of the kids rooms. Practically everyone is sick except us.”
Reason sighed so that even Dignity noticed.
“What’s the matter, Reas’?”
“I’m just wondering where Bits is. He was supposed to be here for this. Not that I miss him really. He was all right for a while, but lately he’s been hanging on like a sprained ankle.”
Dignity saw Reason look up and her face redden.
“Oh, Bits, hello!” she said.
“Hi ho! I arrive just ahead of the Fourth Estate,” said Bits, seating himself. He showed no sign of having heard Reason’s last remark. “They’re unloading some equipment out front, so the authors had better get ready to meet them in the front hall.”
“How many are there?” Dignity said eagerly as he adjusted his already straight tie. “Will the hall be big enough? We can always use the front yard.”
Bits did not answer. He turned to Reason. “And sweetheart, your hubby just came in with me. He asked me to tell you that he’ll be up in your room.”
“He wants to see me there? Right now?”
“He didn’t say that. Anyway, not at this moment, not with the press on the very doorstep. I’m sure he can—”
“I’ll just be a few minutes.” Reason headed for the nearest staircase.
“Uh oh,” Dignity said. “I was counting on her to keep an eye out for Obscurity. Bits, will you go see if the reporters are OK and make sure Obscurity is not around? Tell them I’ll be along in just a minute.”
As Bits trotted off, Dignity slipped into the ground floor bathroom to check his appearance. And there was Obscurity. She was putting a jar of Vaseline in the medicine cabinet. She closed the mirrored cabinet door.
“Don’t you ever take a day off?” Dignity said heatedly. “No, you told me you don’t, didn’t you? How about an hour? A minute?” She remained with her back to him, looking at him in the mirror. “You cover this house like a dirty blanket that won’t blow away. Well, give it a rest! Just this once. I suppose you’ve been in the front hall, bothering the reporters?”
She leaned on the sink and dropped her eyes. “They were out at their cars. They had just left some of their cameras and equipment inside.”
“Well, you stick to doctoring children,” Dignity said fiercely. He added more softly, “Just, just leave me alone this once, OK? Just half an hour, that’s all I ask.”
She half turned to him, looking up into his face with a sad and weary expression. “Don’t you think I wish I could? I’ve never had a job that was so hard on me, always knowing what you think of me. Everything I do makes you hate me, and I....”
“And you what? What? I mean, have you been popular someplace else? People welcome you? Look, I don’t have time, I have to go.”
He turned but she caught his arm. “Here, you need one of these,” she said, and she offered him what appeared to be a breath mint. Dignity was a little offended, but he popped it in his mouth and hurried toward the front hall.
Halfway there, in the middle of the laundry room, he came to a standstill. For one thing, the mint tasted funny and was making his eyes water. But that was nothing. Something worse was coming upon him, a desperate and overwhelming feeling that he had not felt in over a year. The previous year he had chased after Miss Fame Vainglory, had becrudded himself with selfish efforts to have her for his wife, and in the process had again and again pandered favor with Mammonette, with Pastor Hypocrisy, Mr. Influence, Mr. Power and many others. He had humiliated himself before them in every way imaginable, always currying favor, fawning upon them, saying the right things. And this harassed and desperate feeling had been constantly with him. Now it was back, and if honest with himself, he had to admit that it had been growing upon him ever since he started promoting the book.
Something told him that the wisest thing to do would be to turn and walk away from the press conference. Let it go poof! Yes. If he had any respect for himself, that is what he would do. With feet that seemed weighted, he began to move again. He forced a grin onto his face. He walked into the front hall to meet the press.
After a slow ascent of two flights, Reason waited in the hallway until her breath was recovered and then entered her room. Truth was there, just taking off his shirt. The handsome black man smiled.
“Just stopped in to take a shower,” he said. “I was hoping you’d want to come up and talk to me.”
“Always,” she said and hugged him.
He met her eyes. “You’ve been missing me?”
“Just totally. How’s it going, I mean your work?”
“Oh fine, fine. I could use your help.”
“I don’t have time....” Reason stopped herself. “Actually, this Pride Story thing is still bombing. Maybe I should just give it up. What do you need?”
He went to his suit jacket, took a piece of paper from one of the pockets, and handed it to her. “That’s a rough draft for a flyer the Embassy wants to circulate in this neighborhood just before New Year’s. The choir’s gonna do some street singing on New Year’s Eve, see? Could you sort of fix up the wording? Type up something with some clarity and pep?”
She looked closely at the draft. “You got it. But what’s this about a party here afterward? I hope everyone’s well by then.”
“They will be.”
She put the paper in her dress pocket. “Let’s hope so. Of course, I might have the baby by then, but probably not. And I guess I don’t anticipate being too busy with book promotion that day. That seems about over, as I said. So it’s back to normal for little me. Your wife is not going to be the great author. I mean, unless this press conference works the way we hope.”
“You don’t think it will?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? God seems to be against it. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He came to her. “Tell you what?”
“You know. That the King doesn’t want me writing books.”
“Because—” he drawled “—He never said that. You write fine. I liked your book when I read it.”
“Oh, OK,” she said smiling, “then He doesn’t want me published, to be exact. Right?”
“Sure looks that way.”
“You know I can’t ever forgive Him.”
Truth kissed her. “No? Not ever?”
“All right, maybe tomorrow.”
“That long?”
She clung to him. “So give me five minutes.”
Dignity strode into the front hall to meet some dark looks from the photographer, the TV cameraman, and the two reporters assembled there. They had been kept waiting. Bits was nowhere to be seen.
“Over here,” said a lady reporter and led him firmly to a well lighted spot. “We’re on a tight schedule and have to be going soon. Where’s the book?”
Dignity looked down at his empty hands. He had forgotten to bring a copy. The reporter winced. “We’re on a schedule, I tell you. Just tell us about it. We’re videotaping, got it?”
The bright light of the TV camera now came on. She turned to it and spoke into a microphone. “Cynthia Shallow here for WHIP. We’re at the home of a local resident whose personal story is both fascinating and thought provoking. Mr. Dignity may look familiar to you. Only last year he was the focus of much public attention. Today he has an announcement to make concerning a recent publication. Dignity?”
&nb
sp; She thrust the microphone in front of him, but before he could say a word, the cameraman interrupted. “Cut. No good. My lens is blurred. Can’t see a thing.”
“Geez, mine too,” said the photographer. “It looks like grease or a gel or something. Somebody smeared the lens!”
“Just clean it off,” said the other reporter, a young and vacant looking fellow. He looked at his watch. “We should have been done here by now.”
“It’s almost impossible to clean off stuff like this,” the cameraman said. “It’ll take a long time. I’ll have to get my back-up camera from the studio.”
“No way,” said Cynthia. “We’ll go with sound only. We can dredge up some stock footage of Dignity from last year to go with it.”
She put the microphone back in front of Dignity. “We’ll edit this to include the intro I already did, OK? Just take up where we left off. What’s your story? Three, two, one, go!”
Dignity’s lips parted and he made small, gaspy sounds. As his eyes grew wide with belated understanding, he ascended to a croak. “Gohut dricked,” he said. “Brekth mitt.” He paused to cough and gurgle.
Miss Shallow turned off the microphone and swore. “Get him some water!” she yelled. The three men who had arrived with her looked around the room helplessly as no glass of water miraculously appeared.
“Opskirdee!” Dignity said. “Zhe dit id!” He exploded into more coughing.
Cynthia looked at her watch. “We just don’t have time. If we don’t hustle, we’ll miss the Cutest Christmas Kitten Contest. Dignity, get yourself some cough drops and get back to us later.” She motioned to her cameraman to pack up.
As she turned to go, Dignity could just hear her muttering, “This is the last time I do a favor for Bits Bitterly.”