Famous Last Words (11 page)

My longing is enhanced by the fact that our trip to city hall has been mind-numbingly boring. Is this the job I’ve been coveting?

“Michael and I both start our days in our towns, making rounds,” Meg says as we walk along the sidewalk toward her car. “It’s important to get face time with the people you cover. Build a rapport.”

Today we visited the police and fire departments, the health inspector’s office, and the mayor’s office, where we requested an agenda for next week’s city council meeting and chatted with Mayor Amato, who, not surprisingly, is very charming and probably considered attractive for an older man.

“Why’d you pick up the agenda so far in advance?”

“To see if anything interesting is coming up for a vote. It helps to be able to make calls and do some research beforehand. Summer is usually a slow time of year for city government, but in the case of this mayor, Harry wants to make sure he knows we’re keeping an eye on him.”

“Gotcha.”

As we drive back to the
Herald Tribune
, my stomach constricts at the thought of facing AJ. Should I act the same? Wait to see how he acts first? Bore him with a minute-by-minute account of my morning at city hall? I needn’t have stressed about it. As soon as we get through the newsroom door, Harry summons me.

“D’Angelo!” he calls from the city desk, where he’s standing up and paging through his stack of newspapers. “My office. Pronto.”

Turns out, being scared breathless is a real icebreaker.

“Wish me luck,” I say to AJ as I put my stuff down on the obit desk.

“If you’re not out in fifteen minutes, or if I hear any furniture crashing, I’m coming in after you.”

“My hero.”

I skulk into Harry’s office, notebook and pen in hand, and sit down in a chair facing his desk. I haven’t been in here since I interviewed with him in May, when I got my armadillo hand stamps and felt oddly pleased by this strange initiation. My eyes travel past the toy-filled desk to the bookcase behind him, and I see something I hadn’t noticed then—an actual stuffed armadillo. Not a fluffy toy. Harry’s peculiar.

“Do you know why I do this job, D’Angelo?” he asks after a couple of seconds’ worth of silent staring, drawing my attention away from the leathery dead critter and back to Harry. “I’ll give you a hint: It’s not for the job security.”

Even I know the future of print journalism in general does not look good, and the
Herald Tribune
’s situation is even more dire. Who knows if we’ll even exist a year from now? I refrain from commenting on his comment, however, and tackle his first question.

“You love it?”

“I do,” he says. “I come in here every day excited about what we’ll find out. For me, newspapers are the art of the possible. Anything is possible when you
care
. Do you
care
about what you’re doing, D’Angelo?”

“I’m really sorry about the mix-up and about
Raleigh
, Harry. I was having a bad—” I say, but Harry holds up his hand and cuts me off.

“Do you know why I have you take obits over the phone?” he asks.

“No, but I did wonder why funeral homes couldn’t just e-mail us their obits. Or fill out a form on the website or something.”

What I thought was an innocent comment sets Harry off.

“I know it seems like everyone is tweeting, blogging, and social-networking themselves to death these days looking for their fifteen minutes with one-sentence witticisms, but around here, I’m looking to get things right. And my way forces my editorial assistants to be accurate. I’m trying to teach you something here,” he says. “No one wants to piss off a family member. Or Bernie, for that matter.”

“I found that out,” I say.

Harry pauses, and I watch his blood red face fade to a more reasonable peachy color.

“It also teaches you how to do phoners—phone interviews,” he says.

“I understand,” I say.

“I don’t think you do,” he says. “I want you to be more accurate, but I also want you to start writing obits that show me you care. Especially the features. Your leads are boring and unimaginative.”

“I try to stick to the format,” I say.

“Forget the format. You’re writing someone’s life story,” he says. “There’s room for creativity on the obit page. I want you to start reading the obits in the
New York Times
. You should already be reading the
Times
every day. And the
Post
and the
Journal,
and whatever else you can get your hands on. I can teach you to be a reporter, but you have to read more to be a better writer. Of course, both of those points are moot until you decide you’re ready to care about what you’re doing.”

I open my mouth to object, but Harry cuts me off.

“About what
you’re
doing, D’Angelo. Not what Michael’s doing. Let him take care of his own beat.”

I
do
care about my job. I just find Michael’s more interesting. Still, I want to redeem myself for the obit blunder, my lackluster leads, and whatever health crises I seem to have triggered in Bernie. But I say nothing. He’s calming down now, and I don’t want to set him off again.

“So, with that said, I’ve got two assignments for you.”

“Article assignments?” I was hoping I could leave, since this is my day off and all, but I’m not going to push it.

“One is,” he says. “First I want you to go around the office and collect two dollars from everyone and put it in an envelope. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them you’re doing it for me and if they have a problem, they can come and talk to me about it.”

“Okay.” I’m guessing it’s a collection for Bernie, but I’m not questioning Harry. “What’s the second?”

“I want you to write a feature obit,” he says. “Get started now so I can read it myself before I leave tonight. In fact, with Bernie on leave, I’ll be reading
all
feature obits from now on.”

“Shouldn’t I ask AJ how many he’s got so far?”

“I don’t care how many we’ve got so far. Go over to your desk and ask AJ to e-mail you the first obit that came in today. That’s your feature.”

“Bernie usually waits to see who’s the most interesting.”

His tone is sharp when he answers me. “Everybody has a story, D’Angelo. Today it’s your job to find that person’s story and write the best damn obit you’ve ever written.
And
you’re going to shake down everyone in this room for two bucks. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say. “I promise I’ll try harder.”

Harry grimaces. “Famous last words.”

As I expected, AJ is confused when I ask him to e-mail me the first obit of the day.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I’m supposed to write the feature on that person,” I say.

“That doesn’t make any sense. This woman was pretty average, sorry to say.”

I’m bummed. I didn’t think I’d be working a full day.

“I guess I should get started.”

“Did Harry scream at you?” AJ asks gently.

“Scream? Not really. More like lectured. Loudly. He told me I’ve got to learn to be more accurate and to care about this job. Oh yeah, and he told me my leads are boring and unimaginative,” I say.

“You’re lucky. I made the same mistake once—got a name wrong. He came out of his office, called me a friggin’ idiot in front of everyone, and walked away. Harry’s not bound by rules of political correctness.”

“Maybe he didn’t scream at me in front of everyone because I’m a girl.”

“Nah. It’s because he likes you.”

“You think so?”

“Not in a lecherous-old-guy way,” he says. “Because you’re a good writer.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Seriously.”

I shrug my shoulders. “But maybe I’m not a good reporter.”

I decide to get the call to the family over with first. I call the funeral home and ask them to put me in touch with the family. The director says he’ll call back with their home number as soon as he has permission to give it out. I walk over to the supply closet, take out a manila envelope, and commence my second task of the day—the shakedown. I start with Jack, since he’s the nicest person in the newsroom.

“Hi, Jack. Harry asked me to collect two dollars from everyone,” I say.

“Sure,” he says. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out two bucks, and forks it over without another word. Next up, his assistant, Fran Garcia.

“Hey, Fran. Harry asked me to collect two dollars from everyone,” I say.

“Did he say what it was for?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“I’m in no position to ask questions,” I say.

“Gotcha. Here you go,” she says, handing me her money.

I work my way around the room, collecting money and writing names down on the outside of the envelope as I go along. The responses to my demand vary, but in the end, nearly everybody hands over the money. When I emerge from sports, I notice Tony has arrived. This would be a good time to take a bathroom break and fix my hair and makeup (more like apply makeup)—before talking to him. The bathroom mirror reveals that I look even plainer than I expected, and of course all I’ve got on me are mascara and lip balm. I’m swiping mascara on my lashes when Meg walks in.

“Hey there,” she says, smiling at me in the mirror. “I hope Harry wasn’t too hard on you. He wouldn’t bother if he didn’t see your potential.”

“AJ said the same thing.”

“Smart guy, that AJ.”

I pull out my ponytail holder and brush the tangles out of my long, straight hair.

“You know,” Meg says, “you’ve got some great reddish highlights in your hair. Have you ever thought about going with a really dramatic red?”

“You mean dye my hair? My mom is a redhead. Auburn, actually.”

“See? It’s in your genes. It would look pretty. Think about it. I’ve got a guy who does great color work. Jimmi Gerard. I can hook you up.”

“Thanks,” I say absently.

Meg enters a stall, leaving me to envision this
dramatic
red. I leave my hair down, apply some Blistex, and consider myself as ready as I’ll ever be to talk to Tony when I emerge from the ladies’ room. I drop my purse off at my desk and retrieve my collection envelope.

“Uh, Tony?”

“Yep?” he says, swiveling around and smiling. This guy is always smiling. My heart does a drumroll, complete with some high-hat-cymbal action.

“Harry asked me to collect two dollars from everyone in the newsroom,” I say.

“Do you do everything Harry asks?”

“Pretty much.”

“Lucky Harry,” he says, and makes serious eye contact.

Part of me knows it’s Tony being Tony, and part of me doesn’t care. I know I’m blushing, but I pretend I haven’t heard his comment. When he hands me the money, I swear he lets his hand linger slightly longer than necessary. It’s possible I’m making stuff up now. Still, as I settle into my desk chair, it doesn’t stop my brain from launching into a full-blown fantasy involving me, Mousy D’Angelo, walking into the senior prom with Tony. Just once I want to be that girl. Not the one who gets insulted by the popular girls at parties or triggers health crises in copy editors. I want to be the girl all the other girls want to be.

“I see you looking at him,” AJ says.

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Coma Boy.”

“Please.”

“But you were.”

“Was not—okay, I’m ending this exchange right now. Besides, how do you know I was looking at him? Were you looking at me?”

The phone rings and saves AJ from coming up with some quick retort that would undoubtedly involve insulting the size of my head or something. It’s the funeral director with the phone number for my feature obit.

“I have to say,” the director offers, “her daughter was a bit confused by the request. Although I’m sure she was a very nice woman, basically she was a housewife. I’m not sure how much more they have to share.”

“Hopefully, enough for me to write one good story,” I say. “Thank you for the number.”

I hang up with the funeral director and decide to hit the
New York Times
online obituaries for some inspiration. Harry told me that important and famous people already have an obit in the can at most major newspapers. All that’s missing is the date of death. I don’t know if that’s flattering, depressing, or both. Among those with the prestigious honor of not only being on the
Times
obit page but being worthy of a feature, are an artist who hung out with Andy Warhol and once shot holes in one of his paintings with a pistol; the woman who invented sparkling water; a documentary cameraman who filmed the wreckage of the
Titanic
, and a superior-court judge. There are no housewives on the list. I take a deep breath and decide to get the call over with quickly.

“Hello, Mrs. Abraham? This is Samantha D’Angelo. I’m an obit writer at the
Herald Tribune
.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve been expecting your call,” she says, sounding almost cheerful. “My sister and two brothers are here. We’ve been sitting around the kitchen table trying to figure out what we’re going to say to you.”

I want to confide in this woman that I’ve been sitting here trying to come up with some questions I can ask her about her mother, but she sounds so upbeat about the possibility of an interview that I don’t have the heart to take this less than seriously.

“So, there are four siblings total? Two boys and two girls?” I ask.

“Yes, and eight grandchildren,” she says.

“Growing up, did any of you play sports?”

“We all did. My sister played soccer, I played softball, my oldest brother was a football player, and our youngest brother was on the basketball team.”

“Wow, your mother must have spent a lot of hours sitting in bleachers or on the sidelines. Or wasn’t she a sports fan?”

“She wasn’t that into sports when she married our father, but she learned all the rules of our respective games and even played a little. Hey, Alan, remember when Mom won the free-throw contest at your junior-varsity fund-raiser? It was so funny. She threw ten granny buckets in a row and won a pizza party at Mario’s. Of course she wound up taking the whole team. She was our biggest fan.”