Famous Last Words

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  AJ is usually late, but he likes to come in through the front door anyway. It’s closer to where Alice sits, and he always brings her a hot tea. Everyone else kisses up to the editors, but AJ’s the only one who remembers Harry’s secretary.

  I walk over to Alice now and ask her if the morning mail delivery has arrived.

  “Got it right here, hon,” she says, pushing the laundry-basket–size container out from under her desk. “Want me to get Jack to carry it for you?”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

  Alice is a motherly presence in the newsroom. She hounds the reporters to log their hours so they can get paid on time, helps everyone with confusing paperwork, and looks out for the people who work here, especially Harry. She’s his rock.

  The mailboxes are behind the obit desk, adjacent to the Nerf court. I’m good at the mail. I sort an entire plastic container without stopping to read the names on each mailbox. I’m completely absorbed in the Zen of sorting and about to throw a rather thick press package into Jack’s box when a male voice startles me.

  “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  I turn around to find myself staring at a guy who could very well be the star of some seductive, subtitled film. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Olive skin. Hello, Rob-McGinty-in-a-few-years.

  “I’m Tony Roma,” he says. “The features intern.”

  Tony Roma? I should be picturing this guy in a powder blue tuxedo with a ruffled shirt singing old Italian songs in a Vegas lounge. At the very least, I should be imagining him plugging his pizzeria chain on local television. And I would be picturing those scenarios, if not for the fact that he’s so incredibly hot in a universal, People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive kind of way. Shelby says some guys just ooze sex, which always sounded gross to me. But that’s only because I didn’t know what she meant until this exact moment. My body is talking to me. It’s telling me things I’ve never heard it say before—things that warrant a listener-advisory sticker for explicit lyrics.

  “Samantha,” I say. “Sam I am.” I am a total dork.

  “Are you the new intern?”

  I nod.

  “I haven’t been around lately. I took time off to cram in an intensive summer class,” he says. “Three credits in three weeks.”

  “Oh,” I say. Oh?

  “Welcome, Sam-I-am,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. I swear my heart jumps so far, it lands in my inner ear, rendering me off balance. Feeling somewhat light-headed, I return to the obit desk and find AJ already sitting there with a big grin.

  “I do not like green eggs and ham,” he says.

  “Shut up, eavesdropper. You’re like an old lady.”

  “I walked right by you and said hello. You didn’t hear me.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He scowls. “Yeah, well, I see yet another female has fallen victim to the charms of Coma Boy.”

  “What?! I don’t—Coma Boy? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, you know. He’s one of these brain-dead guys who wants to be on TV.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Isn’t TV where most people get their news?

  “He’s a drama major. TV news wouldn’t be a bad thing if guys like him would go into acting and leave the news to real reporters.”

  “I didn’t know you felt so passionately about news coverage.”

  “I don’t. I just think he’s a dick.”

  I decide to change the subject. “Michael was here. He asked me to go to city hall with him, but Bernie wouldn’t let me. He’s going to confront the mayor with what we found out at Bargain Books & Beans.”

  “You mean what you found out, Nancy Drew. Maybe you can invite Coma Boy along on your next fact-finding adventure.”

  I stick my tongue out at AJ, but his tone stings. I thought our night got better after we left the coffee shop. We walked around town for a while, and as promised, I pointed out everything from Annie Oakley’s house to my old dancing school. When he dropped me off at home, AJ told me he’d had fun.

  But I don’t dwell too much on AJ’s dig, because for the rest of the day, I’m completely preoccupied by Tony’s mere presence in the newsroom. I search online for articles he’s written for the Herald Tribune, and I’m slightly disappointed to discover they’re all sort of blah. AJ is a much better writer. Oh, well. Tony’s an intern too, right? He’s bound to improve.

  I’d never admit this to anyone, but my lack of focus may be why it’s already after nine o’clock (I called my dad two hours ago to tell him I’d be late), we have no feature obit written, and we’re totally screwed. I thought AJ made the call; he thought I made the call. Now I’m stuck on the phone with the recently widowed Mrs. Spitaleri, and she just won’t give me a break.

  “Tell me again why you want to write a story about my husband?” Mrs. Spitaleri asks.

  “Because he was a veterinarian, and my editor thinks that’s a very interesting profession,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Well, because not everyone gets to be a veterinarian.”

  “Not everyone wants to.”

  She kind of has me there.

  I hear AJ in my other ear, enduring a different kind of obit hell. “How many survivors?” he asks. “Fourteen? Okay, fourteen. Are these all immediate family? Brothers and sisters. Okay. Half? Yes, they count too. Go ahead, I’m ready. Washington, Virginia, Florida, Carolina. Do you realize these first names are all the names of states? Are you sure this is right?”

  I turn my attention back to Mrs. S. and try a different approach.

  “Are there any interesting stories about your husband that you’d like to share?”

  “No.”

  “Any other interests aside from animals?”

  “No. Hard work was his only interest. That’s what killed him.”

  I would have better luck trying to sell her the newspaper. Bernadette is giving me the evil eye, complete with caked-on blue eye shadow—I sense it. So I slouch behind my monitor to avoid her glare.

  “Look, honey,” Mrs. Spitaleri says, “I know you’re just doing your job, but I don’t want to answer any of these questions.”

  Then she hangs up. In about thirty seconds, Bernadette is going to yell, “Moronica, where the hell is my feature obit?” and I have nothing. Maybe the copy desk could just bump up the point size on all the obits? It would serve the dual purpose of filling the page and helping senior citizens—the obit page’s most devoted readers, who tend not to be online readers. Large-Print Obits. Could be a real selling point.

  I try to get AJ’s attention to ask him what to do, but he’s busy reading back fourteen states’ names to some funeral director. If I hang up the phone, Bernadette will pounce. So I keep the receiver propped between my chin and shoulder, pretend to type, and wait for AJ. My head pulses from a caffeine overdose. My contacts feel like Scotch tape on my corneas. This blows. I can’t tell Bernadette our feature obit hung up on me. Whose next of kin am I gonna reach at this hour? Full-blown panic is setting in when my phone rings. I hope no one notices I haven’t really been on the phone.

  “Obit desk,” I say. It’s my buddy from the Glendale Home for Funerals. He’s got news. Good news, sort of. “He did?” I ask. “Really?” God forgive me, I’m giddy with excitement and can’t wait to hang up. “Okay, okay. I’ll let the city desk know.”

  Putting the drab green receiver back on the hook, I raise my arms touchdown style and scream, “The police chief of Totowa is dead!” I’m going to hell, but I don’t care: We have our feature obit.

  “O’Shea! Your police chief is dead!” screams Harry. “Go over there and help D’Angelo write a front-page obit.”

  Totowa is Meg O’Shea’s beat, although she often helps out on big stories like the Paterson fire. As Meg crosses the newsroom toward the obit desk, two thoughts simultaneously enter my brain. Both begin with an expletive. The first is, Front page? Am I going to write a front-page story? The second is, Do I still have to fill the featu
re slot on the obit page?

  AJ works his mind-meld magic and answers the latter question. “Don’t worry. They can always run a house ad on the obit page,” he says. “Plus, they’ll have to bump a story or two to make room for the front-page obit.”

  “Hey, Moron!” Bernadette yells.

  “Or Bernie could make me write a feature just for the hell of it. Shit. I’m not missing band practice again,” he says. “That old woman is killing my cool.”

  “Go easy on that mature woman,” Meg says as she rolls a chair over to my desk. “Hi there. Ready to help me write this story?”

  I don’t know every reporter yet, but I can tell there are a couple who think talking with interns is beneath them. Meg doesn’t fall into that category. She speaks quickly and authoritatively, and I can hear the New Yorker in her. I wish I could be more like her. Confident without being bossy; strong without being bitchy.

  “The chief was sick for a long time. I’ve got most of his obituary written already—we’re just looking for react. Let’s see,” she says, peering at a list of names and numbers she’s clutching. “I’ll make a copy of this for you. I know his wife, so I’ll call her myself. I’ll also call the city manager, the acting chief of police, and some of the officers. You can call the city council members. It’s late, so I’m not sure who’ll be answering their phones. Send me the quotes you get.”

  Then Meg puts a hand on my shoulder and adds, “Don’t worry. After the Paterson fire, this should be easy for you.”

  It should be, but it’s not. I come up empty-handed when I call the first two council members on the list. Both times, I get voice mail and leave a message stating who I am and why I called. Hopefully at least one will call back. I glance over at Tony’s desk. The features department looks like a ghost town—desk lamps offs, chairs neatly pushed under desks. I guess writing Dancing with the Stars recaps and movie reviews has its advantages. No late-night deadline pressure.

  I’m about to phone the third name on the list when I remember something. My neighbor, Mr. Stein, grew up in Totowa. He’s mentioned more than once that he and the deceased police chief played ball together in high school. It wouldn’t hurt to give him a try while I wait for callbacks from the city council people. I text my dad to tell him I’m going to be even later than I thought and to ask him for Mr. Stein’s number, which he provides promptly.

  I talk fast when my neighbor picks up. “Hi, Mr. Stein. It’s Sam D’Angelo, from next door?” I’m relieved he answered and didn’t screen me as a telemarketer when he saw the Herald Tribune’s name in his caller ID.

  “Sam, how are you, dear? Is everything okay at home?” He sounds concerned.

  “Oh, yes, everyone is fine, thanks. I have some bad news, though, about an old buddy of yours, the Totowa chief of police? He passed away tonight.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I knew he was sick.”

  “I was wondering.… I’m helping to write his obituary, and I’ve been asked to gather quotes from people who knew him. Would I be able to ask you a few questions?”

  “I’d be happy to help,” Mr. Stein says. “Ask away.”

  Mr. Stein hooks me up with some heartfelt, downright eloquent quotes. After I hang up with him, I’m able to reach the third council member on the list Meg gave me, plus one of the first two returns my call. Not bad.

  It’s close to eleven by the time I type up my quotes from Mr. Stein and the two town council members. I send them to Meg, who then weaves them into the body of her story. She lets me peer over her shoulder as she puts the finishing touches on her article.

  “Nice work getting one of the chief’s old school buddies to comment. Where’d you dig him up?”

  My face turns crimson. “He’s my neighbor. I hope that’s okay. I remembered that Mr. Stein knew the chief.”

  “It’s more than okay. He gave us great material,” Meg says.

  In school, I don’t play sports and I’m not in Drama Club or anything, but tonight, I discover for the first time what I’ve been missing by not being part of something larger than the exclusive clique of me, Shelby, and occasionally Ashley and Caitlin. It’s exhilarating working with other people and doing my best work in record time with a deadline looming over my head. Our heads.

  AJ checks in with me before he leaves, “Sam-I-am. Need me to wait?”

  I’m happy he’s not as grumpy as before, and touched that he’s starting to feel responsible for me. “I already texted my dad. But thanks.” I look him in the eye and try to make it clear that I’m grateful. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Same bat time, same bat channel,” he says. Then he gives me a quick salute and leaves.

  The story finally clears the copy desk around eleven thirty. Even though I know my parents are going to freak about me working so late, it’s worth it. It feels like I’ve won something.

  Meg says even though the story will be online tonight, the real payoff for her doesn’t happen until the next morning, when she holds the paper in her hands and sips her morning coffee. “And by then everyone has moved on to the next big story.” Meg laughs.

  But truly, as I leave the newsroom and Harry says, “Not bad, D’Angelo. You haven’t screwed anything up yet,” it’s all the payoff I need.

  I’m practically ecstatic—a rare emotion for me—as I walk into our living room with my dad sometime after twelve. I’m about to tell him all about my night (my brain was too fried for speech during the car ride home), but then I see Gram in her recliner. Her eyes are closed, and she’s incredibly still. Too still.

  chapter six

  Home and Garden

  Okay, Gram is not dead. What’s wrong with me? I realize I had a mental overreaction when I see how unconcerned Dad is as he hovers over Gram and pries the remote from her hand. But for some reason, I’m still standing in the doorway holding my breath as the TV channel guide scrolls and plays light tunes. When Dad shakes her arm lightly, Gram’s eyes spring open like she’s just emerged from underwater to find herself in a strange place. Only then do I exhale. Dad grabs one of her elbows, and I scoot over to help guide Gram out of the chair. At eighty-one, she’s still pretty spry. Probably why, until tonight, I never thought about her dying—not even after Gramps passed away.

  I also never spent the summer writing obits before, so there’s that.

  “Come on, Gram,” I say. “I’ll walk you upstairs.”

  “What time is it?” she asks. Her hazel eyes look huge and confused behind her glasses.

  “Midnight,” I say.

  “Gee, this job is making you keep some crazy hours,” she says in a loud whisper.

  “I know, Gram. But I don’t mind.”

  “Well, at any rate, it’s nice to have some late-night company other than the TV for a change,” she says. “Dateline did a special report about identity theft. Then I watched the news and Jimmy Kimmel.”

  “Part of Jimmy Kimmel, at least,” I say.

  Gram’s a night owl. Unlike my mom, who’s up by 5:30 a.m. on weekdays to get an early bus into Manhattan, where she’s the editor of the magazine NYC Lawyer. Gram’s been living with us for the past two years, ever since my grandfather passed away. She has commandeered this TV even though my parents got her a small flat screen for her bedroom. I can tell this bugs my mom. She never complains out loud, but I see her tight smile when she walks through the door after work and gets her usual wave from Gram. Perhaps it has more to do with Gram’s constant presence in the living room and less with the unused bedroom TV. It’s tough on them all. Gram no longer has her own home, but then again, neither do my parents.

  “I’m pretty beat,” Dad says. “I fell asleep before the news. I hope these late nights aren’t going to be a pattern.”

  “You should talk,” I joke. “Maybe your rock-and-roll lifestyle is catching up with you.”

  In addition to being a lawyer, my dad’s the bassist for the Breakfast Club, named for the John Hughes film. My parents love all things ’80s, especially the music, even the chee
sy one-hit wonders. Like me. I, too, am a one-hit wonder, though I wouldn’t call myself cheesy.

  “I contributed to a front-page story tonight,” I say.

  “You did? That’s great! That should have been the first thing you told me,” Dad said. “You buried the lead.”

  “Quit using newsroomspeak. Anyway, the front-page story is an obit. The police chief of Totowa died. I’ll probably get a tag line. No big deal.”

  My nonchalant facade doesn’t fool my dad. He understands my supreme indifference is my way of not letting the universe know how badly I want something for fear of jinxing it. Unlike a lot of sixteen-year-olds, in addition to loving my parents, I like them. They get me. Most of the time, though, I worry that I’m disappointing them. I picture Mom and Dad talking about me in bed at night, discussing, in hushed whispers, how the cool gene managed to skip a generation and wondering aloud if I’ll turn out okay.

  “Obit or not, I’ll be looking forward to seeing that story tomorrow,” Dad says, kissing the top of my head. We’re one of the few families on the block who still get the paper delivered. Gram likes to work the crossword puzzle at breakfast.

  “Good night, Dad.”

  Gram shuffles along, and I steer her toward the steps.

  “Come on, Gram,” I say. “Show a little hustle, will you? I’m exhausted.”

  Gram and I snipe at each other a lot. We both appreciate caustic humor.

  “You’ll be happy if you have half my hustle when you’re my age.”

  When we finally reach Gram’s room, my eyes settle on a picture of Gramps she keeps on her nightstand. He’s wearing his glasses and a sweater vest. He’s also smiling and waving. Whenever I look at the photo, it always feels like he’s waving to me from where he is now, not where he was when the photo was taken, which was beside my grandmother at their dining room table on Christmas.

  “So, Dateline did a thing on identity theft?” I ask as I bend down to kiss my Gram on the cheek.