“It doesn’t make a… Burt, we’re even. We don’t owe each other anything. Let’s leave it at that.”
“You make it sound like just because you quit, we’ll never see each other again. Hey, we’ll keep owing each other plenty. Yesterday was your last day, so you probably haven’t heard. They gave us the word this morning. The
Burt’s voice seemed to come from far away. Pittman felt groggy. “What?”
“We realized the newspaper was in bad shape. Not this bad, though. Bankrupt. Couldn’t find a buyer. In- depth stories can’t compete with TV news and
“I still don’t…”
“I want you to come back to work, Matt. We were understaffed to begin with. Now… Look, I’ve spent thirty years of my life on the
Pittman stared at the floor.
“Matt?”
Pittman’s muscles cramped from emotional pain.
“Matt? Are you there?”
Pittman studied his gun. “Your timing’s lousy, Burt.”
“But will you do it?”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Sure I do. For you to be my friend.”
“Damn you, Burt.”
Pittman set down the phone. In anguish, he waited for it to ring again, but it stayed silent. He set down the pistol, went over to the bourbon bottle next to the refrigerator, and poured himself a drink. No ice, no water. He quickly drank it and poured himself another.
2
Under the circumstances, it struck Pittman as ironic that he worked in the obituary department of a dying newspaper. His desk, one of many, separated by waist-high partitions, was on the fourth floor, across from and midway between the elevator and the men’s room. Although the
“You look awful, Matt.”
Pittman shrugged.
“You been sick?”
“A little.”
“What’s happening to the
“Yeah, so I heard.”
The tubby man from Business placed both hands on the front of Pittman’s desk and loomed down. “Maybe you also heard the damned pension might be in trouble. And… But how
“No.” Pittman cleared his throat. “Actually I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Then why…?”
“I just got tired.”
The man looked blank. “Tired. What are you doing back here?”
Pittman was having grave difficulty concentrating. “Came back to help. Only a week from tomorrow. Everything will be over then.” Already the time felt as if it would be an eternity.
“Well, if I were you and I had money in the bank-which I assume you must have or you wouldn’t have quit-I wouldn’t be wasting my time here. I’d be looking for another job.”
Pittman didn’t know what to say to that.
The tubby man leaned so close to Pittman’s desk that his open sport coat covered the phone, which suddenly rang. In surprise, the man peered down toward the hidden source of the ringing. He straightened.
Pittman picked up the phone.
The call, from what sounded like a middle-aged woman, her voice strained with emotion, was about a seventy-five-year-old man (Pittman guessed it was the woman’s father) who had died at his home.
Pittman reached for a form and wrote down the deceased’s full name. “Did you wish to specify the cause of death?”
“Excuse me?” The woman sounded breathy, as if she’d been crying. “This has been such a strain. What do you mean ‘specify’?”
“Did you wish to be exact and say why he died, ma’am? Perhaps you wish to say ‘after a lengthy illness.’ Or perhaps you don’t wish to give any cause of death at all.”
“He had cancer.”
The statement struck Pittman as if an icy blade had knocked him off balance. Unprepared, he suddenly had mental images of Jeremy. Robust, with thick, long, windblown red hair, playing football. Frail, hairless, dead in an equipment-crammed room in a hospital intensive-care unit.
“I’m sorry.”
“What?”
Pittman’s throat constricted. “I lost a son to cancer. I’m sorry.”
An awkward pause made the line seem to hum.
“A lengthy illness.” the woman said. “Don’t say he had cancer.”
Other details: surviving relatives, former occupation, time and place for the funeral.
“Donations?” Pittman asked.
“For what? I don’t understand.”
“Sometimes close relatives of the deceased prefer that, instead of flowers, a donation be sent to a favorite charity. In this case, perhaps the Cancer Society.”
“But wouldn’t that be the same as saying he had cancer?”
“Yes, I suppose it would.”
“A lengthy illness. My father died from a lengthy illness. I don’t want to get involved in the rest of it. If I mention the Cancer Society, every charity in town will be calling me. Is that all you need? Don’t forget to mention he belonged to the East Side senior citizens bowling team.”
“I’ve got it,” Pittman said.
“In that case…”
“I’ll need your address.”
“But I already told you where my father lived.”
“No, I need
“Statement?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You mean a bill?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The newspaper doesn’t print obituaries as a community service?”
