I’D GO IN AT 4:00, climbing stairs past a landing where linotypes clattered behind frosted glass. Another flight took me to the newsroom. I always ate beforehand at a grill down the street, open-faced hamburger and mashed potatoes with dark gravy. I could have taken a supper break, but I ate early because I didn’t want to miss anything. The two-star went to press at midnight. After the papers came up, we sent out for chili mac and beer. Sometimes we’d replate for a late-breaking story, but usually we played whiffle ball among the desks until 1 a.m. Then McCarthy, the night city editor, phoned the foreman to chisel a star off the plate, and the press in the basement rumbled back to life with the one-star. Staffers with families went home, and the rest of us bar-crawled the dark, humid city. It was my first newspaper job, and I wrote almost nothing but little stories about death.
I wrote about Herman Munger, 63, a truck driver who died of a heart attack, and Elise Pietrekewicz, 82, a lifelong resident who died of cancer. I wrote about Hope Williams, 36, a housewife with four children, found in her car with the engine running. McCarthy wanted something to humanize every obit, so I wrote a sentence each about Elton Schumacher’s railroad memorabilia, and Paul Acker’s collection of wooden-hulled power boats. People often had complicated families, so survivors’ lists were long. McCarthy drew the line at “companions,” “special friends” and pets. “No dogs, for Chrissake,” he’d mutter. “Let’s leave ‘em some dignity.” The next day I’d pour over what I’d written, testing each sentence for the elegance of concise writing. McCarthy told me I was good.
One night I heard steps on the stairs and looked up to see Harold Killenberg come fast through the door. He was the paper’s business manager. I’d only seen him before downstairs in a suit and tie. Here he was in the newsroom in a polo shirt and plaid slacks, breathing audibly from the climb.
“Mary Louise is dead,” he said in a low voice, bending over McCarthy’s ear. Everyone stopped typing. Mary Louise Bolen was the publisher’s ex-wife, the mother of his two sons. I picked up a pencil and notebook, the long, narrow kind with spiral binding at the top. Killenberg saw me, and he and McCarthy headed for the door, heads together. I heard: “Choked on a piece of chicken . . . country club . . . . ” Then they were out of earshot.
Ten minutes later, McCarthy was at my desk. “Clear everything off,” he said. “Just play it straight. The funeral home will call about 10, and the family will bring something in by 10:30. This’ll go on one, so you’ve got till 11:00, make it 11:15. For God’s sake don’t misspell anybody’s name.” I wrapped it up at 11:15 on the dot. McCarthy stood over my typewriter as I wrote, carrying half-sheets to the composing room, pencil-editing on his way down the stairs.
It was a good clean obit, and honest as these things go. It mentioned her career as a reporter on the paper, her marriage to Roy Bolen, their divorce 22 years later. It listed the civic activities she undertook after her marriage, and devoted a paragraph to the Arts Center, where she chaired the board and led an expansion drive. Family filtered in and out of the newsroom as I wrote, more for company and comfort, it seemed, than to look over our shoulders. I interviewed both sons for vignettes. The only bump was the dog, a Lhasa Apso. Mary Louise’s younger son insisted on including Ginger among the survivors. McCarthy, known for blowing up at any hint of family interference, gave in without a fight. “Put the dog in,” he said quietly. “It’s their paper.”
Poem For A Friend In Prison:
by A.D. Winans
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