The Note Page #5

Yeah, if I can stay ahead

of that rat Harris.

Na, you'll find a way.

Curtis pargrave...

Came down

to the newsroom today.

How come?

To say that your column

was hitting a nerve.

Pargrave said that?

We're selling out

every issue you're in.

The online subscriptions

are way up.

People all over

the country

are reading you

on the net.

Wow.

Well, your enthusiasm

is underwhelming.

Sorry.

What?

On the plane today,

it occurred to me...

You know,

there was some turbulence

and I thought what if...

What if this plane

were going down,

who would I write to?

Jeez, you are so macabre.

What I realized is

there isn't anyone.

Macgruder...

There isn't.

There isn't a single soul

that I would have

to say goodbye to.

We could change that.

Anyway...

Look,

I'm worried about you.

Just be careful

you don't let your story

make you another victim

of this plane crash.

King?

Thanks.

For the free

psych session?

For the kung pao.

Dear reader:

I have just returned from

a typical mid-American city,

its snow-covered halls

well-decked

with Christmas cheer.

Its children sledding

or skating

or poking carrot noses

and coal eyes

into snowmen faces.

The journey took me

not to a house

but to a church,

to meet my first prospect

to receive the note I found -

a man of God,

as it turns out,

as was his father before him.

I showed the pastor

a copy of the note

and it took only a moment

for him to conclude,

as has been reported on TV,

that it had not been written

by his pop.

He had good reasons

and I am convinced

that the note

had not been intended for him.

Nonetheless, I believe the note

had a profound effect.

It offered the reverend

an unexpected opportunity,

a second chance if you will,

to reconsider a recent

and life-changing decision.

The note and the plane crash

served as a reminder to him

and to all of us,

that life is fragile

and we must live each day

as though it might be our last.

I am so sorry.

Mea culpa, mea culpa,

please forgive me.

I...

You have apologized

25 times.

I've forgiven you

25 times.

And what is so important

in Nashville

that they need to keep me

on hold forever?

And besides,

the only true thing

about tru Harris

is that he is

a dishonest dirtbag

and you and I are gonna

steer clear of him, right?

Right.

Good.

Sorry to keep you on hold.

Ms. quist is not available.

Did you tell her

it was about her father?

I did.

And she's still

not available?

That's correct.

Would you like to leave

a number

where she can reach you?

I did that

three calls ago.

Look, just tell her

that I called again,

remind her that it's important

and ask her please

to call me back.

I'll be sure to do that.

Oh my God.

What?

Have you seen

all these emails?

Nearly 2,000.

Amazing.

Peyton?

Do you see what time it is?

Yikes.

I was due upstairs

three minutes ago.

Okay, uh, when I'm done

up there,

I'm gonna go straight

to the airport.

Miss Taylor quist

is gonna see me,

like it or not.

Tell 'em I'm on my way!

Peyton macgruder's desk.

I'm glad you could make it,

Ms. macgruder.

I'm sorry.

I had some last minute

travel arrangements

to finish up.

I had a call this morning

from the C.E.O.

Of kelliston communications

in New York.

Of course, you know

they're our parent company.

They asked me to include

a friend of yours

in this meeting.

Hello, Peyton,

it's tru Harris.

Harris, what a surprise.

Let me get right to the point.

My...

Our boss wants to make

your story bigger.

Bigger?

Kelliston communications

owns "the times".

They also own ntb,

which is Truman's network.

Corporate wants us

to join forces, Peyton.

His crew would follow you

on your search for the owner

of the note.

Once the rightful person

is found,

he or she would be revealed

on a one hour

Christmas program.

I told you I'd get you

a special,

didn't I, Peyton?

So, what do you think?

I think that corporate

should go to-

Peyton!

Look, this is a story

that either I can tell

or Truman can tell!

Wait a minute,

I forgot.

Truman can't tell it

because he doesn't

have the note.

And you don't have

three million people

reading your pissant column!

I have all the readers I need

and, to me,

they're the only ones who count.

And I owe it to them...

we owe it to them

to reveal the owner

of the note

in "the heart healer".

And after that, Harris,

you can report on

any damn thing you please.

Now, if you'll excuse me,

I have a plane to catch.

+

Can't hear you.

The button.

You gotta press

the button.

The button behind you.

Press the button.

Hello?

I'm sorry to bother you.

My name is Peyton macgruder.

How'd you get in here?

There's nobody out front

and I just walked...

okay.

That's not entirely accurate.

The receptionist was there

and um...

I told her I was delivering

some contracts for you.

Are you like a stalker

or something?

No!

God, no!

I called.

My names macgruder,

Peyton macgruder with

"the middleborough times".

Can I come in there?

Talking between the glass

makes me feel like one of us

is in prison.

Door's on the side.

But I'm warning you,

I don't give interviews.

Hi.

I liked the song

you were playing, by the way.

Thanks.

Just noodlin' on a new tune.

You're the first

to hear it.

Well, you and marabelle.

Marabelle?

My cat.

You're not allergic

are you?

Got one of my own.

Tell me you're married.

I'm not.

Two soon-to-be

middle-aged women

living with their cats.

Gee, I hadn't really

thought of myself that way,

not until recently anyway.

Sorry.

Didn't mean to offend.

So, you're here all the way

from north Carolina?

Well, then it must be important.

Yes.

A few days after

the plane crash,

I found a note

in a plastic bag.

It had washed ashore

with some other debris

from the plane

and it appears that

the note was written

by someone on flight 848.

I have a copy for you

to look at.

Can I get you some coffee?

No, thanks.

My father didn't

write this note.

No?

No.

My father kicked me

out of the house

when I was 16-years-old.

He had years to get in touch

and he didn't.

Now why would he spend

the last few seconds

of this life

writing that note?

I don't know.

Of course you don't.

How could you?

How could you know

anything about it?

My father gave me

to my grandmother

when I was ten.

Why am I telling you this?

No, please.

Go on.

My mom died.

My dad was in his second year

of medical school

and I guess he figured

that he couldn't raise a kid

and finish his studies

at the same time, so...

But after that

I rarely saw my father,

except around christmastime.

My nickname for him actually

became "Mr. holiday".

"Mr. holiday."

I like that.

I could write

a song about it.

I mean...

It's not that my father

didn't love me.

I'm sure he did, but...

Where is he now?

Gone.

Died a few years ago.

I spent most of my teens

strung out.

My folks finally had

all they could take

and kicked me out.

Tough love they called it.

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