Famous Last Words

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hi, Sam,” Joanne says. “Missy, Sarah, and I have made this our new favorite place. Fiona should be starting her shift soon.”

  “That’s cool. It’s a good place to come to get ideas.”

  “Are you doing something for work?” Sarah asks. “Fiona mentioned you’re writing for the Herald Tribune.”

  “I guess. Sort of.” I hesitate, wondering if I want to share what I’m doing with this bunch. “I’m trying to come up with an idea for a blog. For kids our age.”

  This gets Missy going. “I follow this blog by a girl who dishes about all the kids in her high school. She doesn’t use real names or anything.”

  “How do you know she’s not lying? She might not even be in high school,” I say.

  “She could be a he,” Joanne offers.

  “Burst my bubble, why don’t you.” Missy laughs. “I don’t care. It’s still entertaining.”

  “What do you want to write about?” Sarah asks.

  “I’m still trying to decide. I want it to help readers, and I want it to be the truth,” I say.

  I spend the next hour tossing around ideas with Joanne, Sarah, and Missy. They’re a big help, and I find I really enjoy talking with them. Shelby’s topics of conversation are limited to boys, clothes, parties, and … well, that about covers it.

  By the time I leave the coffee shop, the thought of writing for the yearbook and Folio this year is sounding a lot better.

  chapter eighteen

  News Brief

  The next couple of weeks fly by in a repetitive cycle of work punctuated by running, mayor stakeouts, parent-approved bar nights, and coffee-shop visits. The latter is not so much about stalking the mayor. More and more, I’m finding I enjoy hanging out there on a regular basis with the yearbook crowd and working on ideas for my yet-to-be-launched blog. It’s beginning to look like I can actually make it happen. I haven’t asked the still-jobless Shelby to join me on my trips to Bargain Books & Beans. I feel a bit guilty, like I’m cheating or something, but I don’t see Shelby and those girls mixing.

  Shelby and I do get to the beach once. She’s baffled by how I don’t want to have more summer fun. But what she doesn’t get is, I am having fun. A romance is heating up between her and the keg boy, Mark, though, so lately she’s not as bothered by my lack of availability.

  I’ve been more determined than ever to impress Harry with my feature obits. I want to prove to him I can do exceptional work on the obit desk before I approach him with my blog idea. And the cool thing is, I’m hitting my stride. It’s amazing, the things people share with me, a stranger. The memories my questions trigger; the simplest details that make them laugh or cry. I’ve learned the importance of listening patiently. I let people talk, and wait for that one quote that sparks an idea for a lead and gives me something to build a story around.

  My father always used to say he wanted us kids to have roots and wings.…

  Every Sunday, she sat and peeled ten pounds of potatoes, ten pounds.…

  I can’t imagine not hearing him play piano anymore.…

  My goal is to write a story people will clip from the newspaper and keep with their other mementos, something they will read ten years from now and smile at, or laminate like that woman Eileen Abraham. Yes, only the rich and famous get feature obits in newspapers like the New York Times, but at the Herald Tribune, everyone has a shot at getting his or her story told by me. It feels awesome.

  The amount of fan mail I get from appreciative relatives is surprising. It’s not varsity softball or the lead in a school play, but I’ll take it. At the last bar night, some reporters—and even a couple of old-guy Harp regulars, like Bob and Sharkey—told me they really look forward to my feature obits. And much to my utter shock and surprise, Bernadette called last week to pay me a compliment in her own way.

  “Moronica,” she said when I picked up the phone, “keep it up. You finally figured out you’re writing about a life, not reporting a death.”

  chapter nineteen

  Dateline

  It’s the last Wednesday in July, and I’ve earned my shot at covering Michael’s beat while he’s on vacation. Harry made it official yesterday, when Michael left for Maine. Even though the news caused Tony to leave early in a huff—no pit stop by my desk to congratulate me—I smile every time I think about it.

  “Are we still on after work?” AJ says, referring to our weekly “date” following the mayor.

  I smile every time I think of that, too. We’ve determined that Wednesday is not always the mayor’s banking day. Last week we wound up following him to his house, but we’ve gotten better about timing a food pickup with our stealth operation.

  “Yep, we’re on. I plan on finishing the feature obit early.”

  “Nice. These have been the best weeks of my life at the Herald Tribune,” AJ says.

  AJ has been able to write more music-related articles since I’ve been taking care of all the feature obits. His features are very well written, and Harry has stopped by the obit desk on several occasions to tell AJ he’s impressed. One time, Harry actually used the word “talented.” Probably why AJ’s been such a good sport about helping me with this mayor business.

  “Your review of that local band was excellent,” I say. “I love the way you describe music. Not like those reviewers who care more about making obscure musical references than doing justice to the band. You could totally have a career as a music writer if the whole drummer thing doesn’t pan out.”

  “Yeah?” He tries not to smile. “Thanks. Harry liked it too.”

  At three o’clock, I’m surprised when Alice calls my phone to say there’s someone here who wants to see me. When I step into the reception area, Antoinette at the front desk nods her head toward an old—make that very, very old—man seated in one of our mustard-colored leather chairs that’s almost as old as he is. He’s wearing long sleeves, even though it feels like it’s a hundred degrees out today with this humidity.

  He stands when he sees me. “Samantha?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are so young!” he exclaims. I’m not offended. To him, everyone must look young.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  I see he’s holding some papers in his hand. On top is a feature obituary I wrote last week.

  “I like your writing,” he says, pointing to my byline.

  “Thank you.”

  “I am Aleksandr Kovalevsky. Alex,” he says, extending his age-spot-covered hand, which I promptly take. “I would like for you to tell my story.”

  Then he slips another paper from the stack he’s carrying. It’s a faded photocopy of a newspaper clipping depicting a hollow-cheeked young man in a dirty prison uniform.

  “This is me,” he says. “On the day I was liberated from a Nazi prison camp. I’ve never told anyone about what happened to me. But now I want my grandchildren to know this story. Before I’m gone.”

  It takes me a few beats to process this, and I’m not sure how to proceed. Thankfully, Antoinette, who’s all ears at this point, offers me a next step.

  “Why don’t you take this gentleman to the conference room and get him some water,” she says.

  I do as she suggests, then find Harry to let him know about Mr. Kovalevsky. He looks around the newsroom, and I’m wondering if he’s trying to choose a reporter to go talk to him. “Meg!” he finally says. “Do you have a recorder D’Angelo can borrow?”

  “Sure!”

  “Grab a notebook and pen, D’Angelo. Take notes and record him too,” Harry says.

  “You want me to interview him?”

  “Of course. I want to know what he has to say. Don’t you?”

  I do.

  Meg gives me a quick lesson in how to operate her digital recorder, and I return to Mr. Kovalevsky in the conference room.

  “Do you mind if I record you?” I ask.

  “Not at all, my dear.” The term of endearment sounds sweet coming from him and insta
ntly puts me at ease. I flip open my notebook, pull up a chair, and turn on the recorder. I just start with the obvious question.

  “How did you end up in a Nazi prison camp?”

  He looks out the window. His pale blue eyes match the summer sky. Is he having second thoughts about telling me his story? But then he rubs his hands together like he’s warming them and begins to speak.

  “It’s funny. I started off at a Russian work camp. The Germans were the ones who liberated me,” he says. “I had no idea how much worse my nightmare would become.”

  His story unfolds like a Spielberg film. The son of Ukrainian immigrants, Kovalevsky went to visit his grandmother in Poland in 1939. He was there during the Soviet invasion and eventually imprisoned when KGB officers stormed his grandmother’s home and found his American flag in her house. “My prison cell was very, very dark. Many mornings I would awake and think I had gone blind,” he says. He takes a drink of water, and I wait for him to speak again. I ask very few questions—he’s had a long time to think about this story. All I do is listen. “One of my favorite things to think about was the parade I attended after Charles Lindbergh made his transatlantic flight. I relived that day many, many times.”

  His days were divided, he says, between walking in circles in his solitary cell and interrogations, where he was forced to stand at attention for hours with a bright light shining in his face. And throughout it all, he was literally starving, given only “filthy soup” to eat.

  In 1941, Mr. Kovalevsky was liberated when the Germans invaded eastern Poland, but eventually sent to a Nazi camp, where he remained until the end of the war. I can’t believe what he endured for all those years. He was beaten, starved, humiliated, and again interrogated. He saw mass graves and witnessed men being nailed to concrete walls and pregnant women being tortured and left for dead. These memories, he says, still wake him up screaming in the middle of the night.

  “I’m getting up in age. I didn’t want my story to die with me,” he says. “It wasn’t easy to find people who wanted to listen to me when the war ended. A lot of people had sad stories. But I want my family to know what happened to me.”

  After his liberation, he married and had three children. He has six grandchildren and a great-grandchild on the way. But no one knows the details of his imprisonment. How many stories get lost because people didn’t want to listen or ask questions? Mr. Kovalevsky’s makes me think about the history that dies when an elderly person passes away. My own grandmother was a young girl when World War II ended, and she and her family had survived the Great Depression, but most of the time, all I ever ask her about is what’s on TV or what we’re having for dinner.

  Nearly two hours later, I walk Mr. Kovalevsky to the reception area. “Thank you, Samantha,” he says, grabbing my hand with both of his. His eyes are watery, and I’m afraid if he starts crying, I will too.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m honored you chose me to talk to.”

  As I watch him walk gingerly through the glass doors and down the sidewalk, I’m sad and drained but also inspired. I can’t change the horrible things that happened to him, but I can tell other people what this man endured in order to live.

  As I pass by Harry on the way to my desk, he looks up and says, “How’d it go?”

  “Intense. He had a lot to say.”

  “Take your time with it,” Harry says. “Get me something by next Friday and we’ll go from there.”

  That gives me more than a week. I’m glad. A lot of my best writing happens in my head. Stories form and organize themselves there. The quotes I remember are usually the ones worth keeping. I’ve come to realize that journalists, the really good ones, aren’t just great wordsmiths, they’re great thinkers.

  “Where’ve ya been?” AJ asks when I sit down at my desk. I fill him in and get the usual one-word AJ response of “heavy.” He packs a lot of emotion into two syllables.

  “I don’t have to file the story tonight, though,” I say.

  “Okay. Let me finish this concert preview and we can go.”

  I start transcribing my notes while AJ finishes working, and that’s when Tony stops by my desk.

  “Hey, Sam,” he says. “I forgot to tell you. I’m leaving earlier than expected for my vacation, so I won’t be going to the Journey and Foreigner concert on Saturday.”

  I’ve been so busy, I’d forgotten all about it. Almost.

  “Oh, that’s okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Alexis is still going. Maybe you can be her plus one.”

  Still going? So, she was invited all along? I shrug it off.

  “Uh, no. That’s all right. Have fun in Aruba.”

  My body feels hot. I can’t look at AJ after Tony walks away.

  “Thanks, I will.” Tony smiles like a cat with a canary in his mouth.

  “You were going to be Coma Boy’s plus one?!”

  Oh, here we go. “No! He mentioned it a long time ago. I completely forgot about it. And, anyway, I don’t remember ever saying I’d go.”

  “No explanation necessary,” AJ says. “Date whomever you want.”

  My back goes up when he says that. I can date anyone I want. It’s not like AJ shares any information about his love life with me. I never did find out what he was doing with Jessica in Chestnutville during the weekend of the Fourth. We spend enough time together at work and on weekly stakeouts—if at any point he wanted to hang out as more than just friends, well, he’s a big boy. He should have said something.

  I don’t talk much as we follow the mayor’s Jaguar to his final destination, Fidelity Savings in Belleville—we got lucky, today is banking day. The quiet time gives me a chance to think. When AJ parks the car, I decide to shake things up a bit. I wait until the mayor leaves through the back door, the one closest to the parking lot, and I get out of the car.

  “Come on,” I say to AJ. “Let’s go in the front.”

  When we get through the doors, I run up to a teller and act like I’m out of breath.

  “Hi! We were supposed to meet our new boss here. I don’t have an account yet, but he said he would cash our paychecks for us. We work at his bookstore slash coffee shop.”

  “Was he here? Big guy? Salt-and-pepper hair?” AJ asks.

  “You mean Mr. Goldberg?” the teller says. “He just walked out the back door. Maybe you can catch him in the parking lot.”

  “Thank you!” I say, then I grab AJ by the arm. “Come on.”

  By the time we get to the lot, the mayor is long gone. Still, I wait until we’re back in the car before I say anything.

  “Why is the mayor pretending to be Sy Goldberg? Is Sy too sick to sign paychecks?” I ask.

  “Maybe he’s stealing Sy’s money while the poor guy lies dying.”

  “I know I should tell Harry, but I can’t. He told me to stay out of it, and I don’t want him to get mad at me before my big week of covering Michael’s beat.”

  “Wait until Michael gets back. We’re not sure what this means or what it proves. If anything,” AJ says.

  “I guess.” The guilt may give me an ulcer by then.

  “It can wait a week,” AJ says. “Trust me.”

  I do trust AJ.

  * * *

  It’s Friday morning, and I’m flying solo at East Passaic city hall this morning. My dad dropped me off here at ten, and AJ agreed to pick me up when I’m done. I’ve already stopped by the police and fire department headquarters and the mayor’s office. Just like Meg showed me. Mayor Amato wasn’t in this time, but I got my advance copy of the agenda of the next city council meeting from his secretary, Marisol.

  I’m about to text AJ to say I’ll meet him out front in five minutes when I realize I forgot to charge my phone. I glance around the maze of cubicles and spy an empty one. The nameplate reads KIKI RAMIREZ. Sounds like she should be famous, not stuck behind a desk in city hall. I walk over to the man across from Kiki’s.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Would it be okay if I use the phone on K
iki Ramirez’s desk? It’s a local call, and it doesn’t look like—”

  “Who?” He looks confused. I may have woken him up.

  “Kiki? She sits across from you?”

  “I’ve never seen anybody sitting there,” the man says. He’s standing now and looking toward the cubicle in question. “As far as I know, no one sits there.”

  “Oh, well, could I use the phone? I’ll be quick.”

  “Okay by me. Dial nine for an outside line.” Then he sits down and goes back to work or his nap. I’m not sure which.

  Fifteen minutes later, it feels like I’m stepping into a sauna when I walk through the front doors of city hall and into the heavy August air. AJ is already waiting by the curb. It’s a shame the air-conditioning doesn’t work in his Jeep. I’m going to be a sweaty mess by the time I get to the Herald Tribune.

  I open the passenger door and get inside.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.”

  “Got the agenda.” I wave the document in his face, then buckle my seat belt.

  “Anything look interesting?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll have Meg double-check it for me. Tuesday’s meeting should be a short one. Feel like coming with me? We can hit the Harp afterward,” I say.

  “You mean you want me to be your plus one?”

  I slap him with the agenda.

  Is this a dig about Tony, or does he want it to be a date? Do I? It now feels like it’s about 107 degrees in his vehicle, because I’m blushing. But I don’t think AJ notices. For the rest of the ride, he never looks my way.

  chapter twenty

  Nut Graph

  I spent all day yesterday prepping for this Tuesday-night city-council meeting. Meg read over the agenda again with me to see if there are any important votes coming up. The only thing that seems newsworthy is a cost-savings proposal to go from two-day-a-week garbage pickup to one. Perhaps the city’s tax dollars would be better spent if it focused its trash-removal efforts on the mayor.