I crunched across the glass, grabbed a broom from my pantry, and began sweeping, trying to make sure I found every last shard, shaving, and splinter—because if I didn’t, Deadline would. Somewhere around the third dustpan full, I started feeling strangely heartened to know I was still considered trouble. It gave me new hope there was something out there—maybe at the National Labor Relations Board—that would make this all come together, with or without confirmation of the threats Jackman had made in Jim McNabb’s presence, with or without evidence of the nefarious link between Jackman and Papadopolous.
I just had to stay alive until I found it.
* * *
My transformation from hospital-weary caretaker to spit-polished funeral-goer took fourteen minutes. On my way out, I remembered to let Deadline out of the bathroom. Though, really, he probably wouldn’t have minded spending the day in there: when I opened the door, he was passed out on the rug, having gorged himself on Iams Weight Control. The toilet paper that was once on his paw was now a shredded mess on the floor, but the bleeding had stopped. So I left him alone. Never disturb a happy cat.
The funeral was held a short drive away in Belleville at St. Peter Roman Catholic Church, a beautiful Gothic-style stone building that had been erected back in the days when people still knew how to make churches—not like these days, when so many of them can be confused with warehouses or big-box stores. Just to the right of the church was a cemetery, where a plot had been dug, draped, and made ready to accept a new resident. A row of white plastic chairs had been set up, giving close family members a graveside seat for the interment.
I parked in the lot across the street, which was filling up like it was Easter Sunday, and walked toward the front entrance. I stopped and looked at the marquee, which told me St. Peter offered a Sunday Mass in Spanish. I’m sure some of the old Italians in the area probably griped about a bunch of Spanish-speakers coming in and taking over their church. What they didn’t remember is, once upon a time, the Irish who founded St. Peter probably griped about the Italians. And someday the Ecuadorians and Peruvians coming into the area would grumble about someone new.
And really, they were all worshiping the same God; living the same American story; experiencing the emotions of thousands of births and baptisms, confirmations and communions, weddings and funerals. And it was tempting, standing in front of a church built by people who were long dead, to be so humbled by one’s own insignificance as to wonder what any of it could possibly mean. What’s one more life—or death—when we all just end up in the cemetery next door anyway?
But I suppose at a certain point you have to resign yourself to the simple fact that while you don’t get many years on this planet—in the grand scheme of things—you sure do get a lot of days. So you might as well get on with the business of doing with them what you can.
And maybe someday, someone wandering through the cemetery would see Nancy’s headstone, do a bit of quick math on her dates of birth and death, and wonder what ended her life after just forty-two years. And if they got real curious, I wanted to make damn sure that if they typed the name “Nancy Marino” into some supercomputer of the future, the archives would be waiting for them with the real story. Because that’s what I had chosen to do with
my
days on this Earth.
I was standing there, still stuck in this thought, as Jim McNabb came strolling up.
“Good morning,” he said solemnly. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“Nope, just pondering mortality,” I said, staring up at the steeple. “And the things that really matter.”
“Oh yeah? And what really matters?”
“Getting the story. Finding the truth. No matter what it costs.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down at the steps.
“What’s it cost you so far?” he asked.
“Well, my job, for one. After I left your place yesterday, I got myself fired. My girlfriend, for another. She and the job sort of went hand in hand. I might lose my house, too. I don’t exactly have a lot of savings to cushion being out of a paycheck. But all of that stuff is just, I don’t know, fleeting.”
“You don’t give up, do you?” he said, taking a hand out of his pocket and clapping me on the shoulder affectionately.
“Not if I can help it.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, I don’t know what your beliefs are. But I’m going to go in there and spend a little time on my knees,” he announced. “For Nancy and for me. We could all use a little confession now and then, you know?”
“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right,” I said, and followed him inside.
It was five minutes to ten, a little later than I liked to arrive for a funeral, and the place was already near capacity. I recognized many of the same people from Monday’s wake, including an odd pairing three-quarters of the way back, sitting on opposite sides of the same aisle: on the left, a foppish-looking man with ash-blond hair and, on the right, a mostly bald man with thin strands stretched across his pate.
Jackman and Papadopolous. Together. Again.
I wanted to confront them, make a scene even. But this was hardly the right setting—especially when I wasn’t entirely sure what was really going on. Yeah, they were probably in cahoots. But for all I knew, Nancy’s murder had been entirely Gus’s doing and Jackman had nothing to do with it. Or it was just as possible it was all Jackman and no Gus.
Nevertheless, the brick-through-the-window thing needed to be answered. I had to do something to show these guys that I wasn’t cowed by bullying. So I did what writers do: I composed a snarky note.
I pulled out my notepad, opened to a clean page, and in the same big, anonymous block lettering my brick-tosser had used, I wrote:
MESSAGE FROM CARTER ROSS
Then I tore out the sheet, turned it over, and continued:
“YOUR” IS A POSSESSIVE PRONOUN. “YOU’RE” IS A CONTRACTION OF “YOU” AND “ARE.” PLEASE LEARN THE DIFFERENCE.
I made another copy of the note, then walked the short distance up the aisle to where they were sitting. I turned and faced both of them.
“Hello, gentlemen,” I said, plastering a fake smile on my face.
I then stuffed my pieces of paper in the breast pocket of each of their suits. Gus was so stunned by the assault he didn’t even move. Jackman physically recoiled, though he was more taken aback than anything—I had mashed his pocket square. I gave each of them a final head nod, then turned and walked toward the front of the church without looking back.
It wasn’t the big scene I was really aching to cause. But, as juvenile as it was, it felt nice to be on the offensive for a change.
* * *
The only open seating that remains two minutes before the start of a crowded funeral is, inevitably, up front, close to the casket, where no one really wants to be. And that’s where I landed, in the row directly behind the pews that had been reserved for family.
I hadn’t been seated for more than a minute when Jeanne Nygard was escorted in on the arm of her husband, Jerry. She had managed to find herself a black dress—no hippie-dippy floral pattern, for once—but was still wearing Birkenstocks. She was immediately followed by her stern sister, Anne McCaffrey, who had on another totally sensible charcoal gray skirt suit that, to the unschooled eye, was indistinguishable from all her other totally sensible suits.
Jeanne slowly made her way down the row until she was directly in front of me. She sat but turned immediately, peering at me through those photochromic lenses that were still dark from the sun.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” she said in a voice that was just a bit too loud.
The stern sister pounced before I could answer.
“Jeanne, no!” Anne hissed.
Jerry wasn’t far behind. “Hon, we talked about this,” he growled.
“I’ve been trying to call you, but your phone has been off,” she repeated, making a point of twisting a little farther away from her sister and husband as if to emphasize that she was ignoring them.
“Sorry about that,” I replied softly. “I have a new phone number.”
Jerry turned around, pointed at me, and whisper-shouted, “You leave her alone! This is none of your business!”
Jeanne was still disregarding her family’s protestations, focusing on me as she said, “I need to talk to you as soon as possible.”
“Jeanne!” Anne barked.
“Come to Nancy’s house after the funeral,” Jeanne continued. “We’re having a reception. We can talk there.”
“That’d be fine,” I said, while Anne was saying something along the lines of “Don’t you dare!”
Satisfied, Jeanne turned back around. Anne glared at her sister while Jerry was trying to shoot me dirty looks. But any further hostility was cut short by an organ sounding the first mournful notes of a funeral procession.
I spent the next hour or so fathoming the mystery of Christian death in the light of the resurrection, observing as the rite of committal was administered, trying not to screw up any of the prayers. Then it was off to Nancy’s house.
Which, naturally, got me thinking about potato salad. A motivational speaker I heard once—can’t remember his name—had a monologue about potato salad. His conclusion, basically, was that life is all about what happens between birth and potato salad. And you have to accomplish what you can before the potato salad. Because after the potato salad, it’s all over.
The joke, of course, is that after you die, your family and friends spend a few days saying wonderful things about you—things they might never have said when you were still alive—and then they take you out to some grassy spot, leave you there, and go back to your house and eat potato salad.
And before long, that’s what we were all doing: eating potato salad at Nancy’s place.
Her house turned out to be a small, white 1950s ranch with a sunken garage beneath the main floor. There were folks congregating on the front lawn, which had a decent-sized tent on it. Jerry Nygard was among them, and he put his hands on his hips when he saw me, like I would be scared off when I realized how offended he was by my presence. I thought about going up to him and offering him a Coke.
Instead, after a morning of mourning, I needed to find myself a bathroom. So I invited myself inside the house.
The front door opened into a small living room. There was some food set out on the coffee table, but it had yet to attract any visitors, who were all still under the tent. At the far end of the room was a swinging door—probably to the kitchen—and a hallway that cut down the middle of the house and led, I hoped, to a bathroom. I started walking in that direction and was just about to take a left when I heard what sounded like Anne’s voice coming from behind the swinging door. I caught her midway through a sentence that ended:
“… a spectacle out of our sister’s death.”
Then I heard what was unmistakably Jeanne replying, “What do you propose? That we let the
legal system
work it out?”
Anne: “Well, obviously not. She can’t very well testify now, can she?”
Jeanne: “So what do you propose?”
Anne: “Drop it. Just let it drop.”
Jeanne: “I’m not going to let a murder drop.”
Anne: “It wasn’t a murder.”
Jeanne: “You don’t know that.”
There was a momentary standstill. I heard the rattling of a pot, the running of water, the clicking of a gas stove being ignited, and then the soft whooshing of the flame coming to life. I kept myself perfectly still, not even daring to swallow, lest it make too much noise.
“Do you really trust this guy?” Anne resumed.
“He seems like a nice young man,” Jeanne answered.
“Yeah, but would he, you know, blow things out of proportion?” Anne asked. “Reporters do that, you know.”
By “reporters” I realized, of course, they were talking about me. But bursting into the room and insisting I wasn’t like all those other lowly journalists—who skulk around people’s houses and eavesdrop on their conversations—was clearly out of the question. So I just hung on and hoped Jeanne would do my fighting for me.
“I don’t think he would,” Jeanne said. “He seemed very reasonable to me.”
Attagirl. Sure, I might have worded it a little more strongly, but that would do.
Jeanne added: “If anything, he seemed more reserved than I thought he should be. He talked about the need to be prudent.”
“He did?” Anne asked.
I did? Then I remembered I had. Well, actually, Jeanne had used the word “prudent,” and I just repeated it. But if she needed me to be Mr. Prudent, I could keep my speedometer at fifty-five, my seat belt fastened, and both hands on the wheel.
“Oh yes. He said there might not be a story, and he wouldn’t charge around throwing out false allegations.”
Yes, yes I had. I heard the scraping and jostling of cookware, then Anne finally said: “You know, I suppose there’s no harm in showing it to him. If I’m right and there’s nothing to it, there’s not a story. And if you’re right, I guess we have to do it.”
“Good,” Jeanne said.
Great,
I thought. Of course, now I was intensely curious as to what “it” was.
“But can we ask him to come back later?” Anne asked. “I just don’t want to do it now. This is a funeral, for goodness’ sake.”
“You
promise
we’ll show it to him?”
Anne hefted a resigned sigh. “Yes, I promise.”
I heard the suction of a refrigerator door being pulled open and the soft ringing of bottles clinking against each other. “Do we have any mustard?” Anne asked.
“It’s out in the tent, I’ll get it,” Jeanne said.
“No, just relax. I’ll get it,” Anne replied.
I heard footsteps coming toward me and quickly backed several steps away down the hallway, then pulled on the first door handle I saw. Anne swung open the kitchen door just as I was pulling on a handle that, it turned out, led down into the basement.
“Hi, I’m sorry, I was looking for a bathroom,” I said, as apologetically as possible. I was just a guest in need of relief, not a guy who had been helping himself to her private conversation.
I had caught her by surprise, and she just said, “Next one down.”