Famous Last Words Read online

  “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 n
ow. 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.”

  “That’s very sweet,” I say, a lead already forming in my head.

  At the end of the call, Eileen Abraham thanks me profusely for giving her and her family a chance to sit around and remember happy times with their mother. It was nice to hear them all laughing and talking over each other during the interview.

  I type my first paragraph.

  To her four athletic children, Abigail Kraus was more than just a loving, supportive mother—she was a mom for all seasons. Football and soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter, and softball in the spring. “She was our biggest fan,” Eileen Abraham (née Kraus), her oldest daughter, said.

  “It’s a little Hallmark for my taste,” Harry says later that day after he reads my story. “But it’s a step in the right direction, D’Angelo. We’ll try this exercise again and see what we get.”

  Again? Somehow, I thought this was a one-shot deal. How many more of these will I have to endure? I’m thankful Harry isn’t going to make me rewrite this feature obit, but upset that it’s going to take more than that to prove myself. I want to get back to important stuff.

  “Oh, and D’Angelo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Send Bernie a fruit basket with the money you collected. She needs to eat better.”

  So much for investigative journalism.

  chapter twelve

  Jobs

  Bargain Books & Beans is a lot more happening since my visit with AJ. They’ve set up a sidewalk café, and the wrought-iron tables are all occupied by parents with kids in strollers and couples sipping iced coffee. It’s Saturday, and Chestnutville is holding its pre–Fourth of July festival today, complete with blow-up bouncy things, face painting, and free concerts. No doubt the extra foot traffic downtown is good for business.

  As promised, I spent most of the day with Shelby at the pool, and somehow convinced her to take a late-afternoon walk to the mayor’s coffee shop so she could help me with snooping. Harry didn’t say I couldn’t help Michael on my own time.

  Inside the coffee shop/bookstore, there’re a few adults with laptops, and I recognize a group of girls from our high school in the back. So does Shelby.

  “Holy crap, Joanne Feinstein looks like she’s lost about three hundred pounds,” Shelby whispers in my ear.

  Ignoring Shelby’s hyperbole, I look toward their table. Wow. She looks fantastic. Fiona Baxter is behind the counter. She’s the editor of our high school’s literary magazine, Folio. With a name like Fiona Baxter, could she be anything else? Fiona is friends with Joanne, the yearbook editor, and the other girls at Joanne’s table; all of them write for Folio, the yearbook, or both. I walk up to the counter with Shelby.

  “Hey, Fiona,” I say.

  “Hey, Sam!” She’s one of those perpetually upbeat people who can be superannoying sometimes. But I’ve never heard her utter a nasty word about anyone, so she gets points for being genuine.

  “How long have you been working here?”

  “This is my second week.”

  “Are they still hiring?”

  “Why? You need a job?”

  “Not me. Shelby.” I touch Shelby’s elbow and guide her toward the counter. “I’ve been working for the Herald Tribune this summer.”

  “Cool. Writing stories?”

  “Kinda. Obituaries mostly.”

  “Really?” Joanne says.

  Shelby pipes up. “I know, right? Who knew people wrote those.”

  “I’m hoping to do more news, though.” I try to say it without sounding like I’m bragging.

  “Nice. Well, if you want to write for Folio this year, just let me know.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “Anyway,” Fiona says, “I don’t know if we’re hiring, but Shelby can fill out an application. Let me see if I can find one.”

  Fiona retreats through a swinging door, presumably to some kind of kitchen/office. Shelby’s scanning the place, looking at all the used books and magazines. “I honestly don’t think I want to work here, Sam. I need a place with an employee discount I can use.”

  “Shh. I’m just hoping you get called for an interview. Then you can ask a few questions. Help me find out what the deal is.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  On the walk here, I tried my best to break it down for Shelby and explain what the Herald Tribune has been looking into. How Michael thinks Sy Goldberg is collecting a city salary without doing any work and how he’s a partner—a very silent partner—in Bargain Books & Beans.

  “Well, maybe the mayor or Sy Goldberg will interview you. That would answer some questions right there. Maybe we can find out how often you get paid and who signs your checks.”r />
  “Why don’t you apply, then?”

  “Because you’re the one who needs a job.”

  Fiona returns from the back room. “Here ya go. Just fill this out and I’ll give it to the manager. Need a pen?”

  Shelby wordlessly collects both the pen and the application, and we walk to a table in the back, near Joanne Feinstein.

  “Hi, Sam. Shelby,” she says. Joanne is beaming, and I can tell she’s proud of her new body. She should be! She hasn’t lost the exaggerated three hundred pounds, but she’s shed some significant weight and is no doubt wearing single-digit jeans.

  “Joanne,” Shelby says, “you look awesome.”

  “Gorgeous!” I agree.

  Her pals just sit there, lost. They’ve all got that look on their face—the one that says, Yeah, yeah, the fat girl got thin. Now what are the rest of us supposed to do? I get it. Change is hard to accept. Sometimes our friends need us to be a certain way. I’m not sure what comes first, the needing or the being.

  I try to make small talk while Shelby fills out the application.

  “So, are you all doing yearbook this year?”

  There’s a chorus of “yeahs,” and Joanne says, “You’re welcome to help out if you’ve got a free period.”

  The job offers are pouring in. “Thanks. How’s the Fourth of July fest going? Did you guys check it out?”

  “Nah,” says one of the girls, whose name I don’t know. “But we’ll be at the fireworks tomorrow. What about you?”

  Shelby looks up from her application. “Fireworks! You’re not working are you, Sam?”

  “During the day. I should be free at night.”

  Shelby puts the finishing touches on her application, and we say our good-byes.

  “See ya, Joanne, girls,” I say.

  “Bye, guys!” Joanne says.

  We walk up to the counter, and Shelby hands Fiona her application.

  “Hey, Fiona,” she says. “Settle a bet for us. Sam says the manager probably signs the paychecks around here. I say it’s the owner.”

  I’m floored. I seriously didn’t think Shelby listened to a word I said.

  “Looks like you win, Shelby! It’s definitely the owner. Mr. Goldberg.”