twenty-first century. She didn’t mind letting me know she resented my old-school style of journalism. Clean writing, balanced coverage, fact checking-boring stuff. A little more of her beautiful, semi-poetic but inaccurate reporting and I was going to FedEx her to Tom Wolfe, to force him to live with the results of what seeds he had sown. I would have, until she told me that Wolfe was an old man and that was the old new journalism-she was going to be part of the new new journalism, a revolution on the World Wide Web. I couldn’t wait. In the meantime, I tried to teach her that the lead-the most essential and dramatic information in a news story-was not an acorn to be buried beneath several other paragraphs.
Ethan, who had been a city editor on that same college paper, was damned sure he was destined for better things than the Express. The rest of us just hadn’t realized that we had Jesus in our carpenter shop.
He was also our budding newsroom politician. He shamelessly brown-nosed Wrigley, who in turn made him a pet. He had talent, I thought, but he didn’t seem to be able to concentrate on his work and often took the easy way out on a story. I didn’t think he had quite found the style that was his own, either, because his writing approach was all over the map. When he focused on what he was doing, I recognized a style that needed a little time to mature, but held a lot of promise. Two days later, I would get stories from him that were so obviously a patchwork of other styles, they didn’t read well. I would tell him that while he had done the basic job of collecting facts in these cases, he’d be better off not trying to imitate other writers.
Ethan thought he had charmed me into believing he paid attention to what I told him about his work. Perhaps he thought I couldn’t read-the proof that he was ignoring me was writ large in nearly every story he filed. Lydia was tough on him-stories got kicked back to him or rewritten by surer hands. While Hailey was going to have problems because she hated anyone touching her lovely words, Ethan seemed almost unnaturally detached from his. He never minded a rewrite of his work-Ethan was on to the Next Big Thing by then-and was happy just as long as his name was on the story.
No problem. A byline was no longer an honor to be earned. Everyone got one. Most of the time, they got a mug shot pasted next to it, too. Lydia said it was just as well that the public knew who to blame.
Hailey peered at me over the top of her monitor now and asked, “What agency has jurisdiction over cemeteries?”
“No simple answer. California has a Cemetery and Funeral Bureau, which is part of the Department of Consumer Affairs. The federal government maintains veterans’ cemeteries. Some cemeteries belong to religious groups, some to counties, some privately to families.”
“What about the Las Piernas Municipal Cemetery?”
“The city owns that one, and believe it or not, that’s under the care of the Parks and Recreation Department.”
“Oh.”
“What have you got in mind?”
We heard the sound of laughter, and turned to see Ethan talking with Lydia, apparently amusing her. Hailey frowned, probably envying the attention he was getting from the city editor. She had a hard task ahead of her if she was going to compete with Ethan’s charm.
“You were saying something about the cemetery?” I said.
“Nothing much. Kind of a crazy thing-I have a friend who swears someone has been disturbing his grandfather’s grave.”
“Modern-day grave robbers?”
“I don’t think they’ve taken the body. Just messed with the grave. Although my friend thinks someone might have tried to break into the casket to steal this antique ring the old man was buried with. I thought I might try to find out if there’s anything to it, that’s all.”
“You run it by Lydia?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure I want to do anything about it. Besides, Lydia has given me a couple of other things to work on. And I don’t know- the whole thing creeps me out.”
“Maybe she’ll cut you loose from some of the other things you’re handling right now.”
“Maybe.”
I wasn’t going to do any hand-holding. I went back to my own work.
Most of my time is spent covering local politics-being married to a homicide detective prevents me from covering stories about crime, but there’s enough intrigue in city government to keep me busy. I read through some notes I had made about current issues before the harbor commission, but found my thoughts constantly drifting to O’Connor, and wondering what might be in the storage locker. I was curious, but also aware that Kenny had burdened me with what was undoubtedly going to be an emotionally draining task.
On the other hand, maybe it would just be a lot of crap that would be easy to toss out, and nothing more complicated than laziness had kept Kenny from doing it himself.
Except that in the time since he was injured, Kenny hadn’t been lazy at all.
I left the paper and spent a couple of hours at city hall trying to get some answers to questions I had about a planning commission proposal. When I returned, Ethan was talking to Lydia again. He soon rushed out of the news-room. Well, I thought, he’s finally catching on to the fact that you can’t cover the news if you stay inside the building. That, or he was going to lunch.
I glanced at my watch and realized that it was almost noon.
I suddenly recalled an appointment of my own and hurried over to the city desk. “I’m having lunch with Helen Swan and my great-aunt today. You want to join us?”
“I’d love to,” Lydia said, “but I can’t get away. Give them my best.”
“I may be back a little late.” I told her about Kenny’s visit and the storage locker key. “I’ll have my cell phone with me if you need me.”
Despite the fact that, as usual, she had three phones ringing, four people walking toward the desk from various parts of the newsroom, and more “highest priority” e-mail messages waiting for her than I wanted to think about, she said, “You need some company when you do that?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be all right. If it starts to…to bother me, I’ll lock it up and come back to it when I can handle it.”
Would that I could have lunch with Helen and Great-Aunt Mary every day. Each time I do, I’m reminded of how strong and smart and wise and downright ornery they are, and how much I hope to be like them someday. If I have half as much energy when and if I make it to my eighties, I’ll be happy.
It was the perfect way to prepare myself for going over to the storage unit. Helen had grown a little deaf over the years, and had voluntarily given up driving, but otherwise was doing well. Mary had become one of her closest friends. Mary was still driving her red Mustang, and seemed to enjoy taking Helen out and about. Mary was sharp and in good health and remained one of my anchors in times of trouble.
I told them about my fledglings, which amused Helen no end. She kindly didn’t mention her own trials with me, when I was her student. I mentioned to Helen that some of O’Connor’s papers had apparently been in a storage locker, and that Kenny had given me the key to it. “I’m on my way over there after lunch. If I find anything that might be of interest to you, I’m sure Kenny won’t mind if I give it to you.”
She seemed surprised, then distracted. Aunt Mary was going on and on about what a pack rat O’Connor was. She has drawings I gave her when I was in first grade, so I didn’t pay much attention to her. I became worried that I had upset Helen. O’Connor had been so close to her and Jack.
After O’Connor died, Max Ducane told me that Helen had been severely depressed and talked of having lost almost everyone who was dearest to her. She was, as always, resilient, and eventually seemed more herself, but I was concerned.
“Helen?”
As if coming out of a trance, she said, “Yes, let me know what you find. But you needn’t give anything to me. If it were up to me to choose one person to have O’Connor’s writing and notes and other treasures, I would choose you.”
I was flattered, and as I made my way to the storage place, I couldn’t help but remember the time I had told O’Connor that Helen’s counsel had kept me working with him. He had admitted then that she had been working
