"I used to watch that as a little girl," she gushed. "I can still see it, on the black-and-white TV my parents used to have in the living room. It was the only 'boy' show I liked, mostly because Cowboy Bill was so handsome. My God," she said, finally coming up for air, "how old is he? He must be a hundred."
"Eighty-two."
"You're kidding. That's amazing. I remember him as being so old. Of course," her mom laughed, "I was seven, so anyone older than sixteen was an old man to me."
Bill had been very pleased when Susanna told him about her mother's reaction. That night, he'd asked her to dine with him, which she did. They ate in the Home's common room, in front of the TV. After that, they'd even had dinner outside the Home a couple of times. She tried taking him to Sunset, her favorite seafood dive, thinking he'd love it, but leaving the apartment complex seemed to disorient him. When he talked, he got his dates all mixed up, forgot a lot of details of his career, and mingled dubious fact with obvious fiction. So after two unsuccessful attempts they went back to their twice-a-week afternoon chats in the comfortable if somewhat musty complex.
As Susanna wrote Bill Miller's obit for the East End Journal, she found herself tearing up. She was sad for Bill, yes, but she was even sadder for herself, she realized. She was going to miss him. His stories. The way he used to poke fun at her. His advice about men and her career. She liked Cowboy Bill Miller and she was sorry he was gone, so she decided she'd write the best obituary she'd ever written. She'd give him a proper send-off. A tribute.
So that's what she'd done. Or what she thought she'd done.
The obit had come out in that morning's paper, and she picked it up to read for perhaps the twentieth time in the past half hour.
COWBOY BILL DEAD AT 82
William Miller, best known for the three years he spent riding the TV range as the poor man's Roy Rogers and folksy star of Cowboy Bill, was found dead in his room at the East End Retirement Home this past Wednesday. Miller, one of East End Harbor's most beloved and colorful citizens, began his career as a serious actor, receiving an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor when he was just a teenager, in the 1938 costume drama The Queen of Sheba. He was too rebellious to fit into the Hollywood studio system, however, and his film career stalled. By 1953 he found himself starring as Cowboy Bill in the television series of the same name. Cashing in on the popularity of Western shows starring Roy Rogers and Gene Autry, Cowboy Bill lasted three seasons and is fondly remembered by many baby boomers.
Mr. Miller's credits are spotty after that. He appeared in one low-budget horror film, The Vampire's Bite, in 1966. In 1968, he appeared in a lead part in the acclaimed off-Broadway revival of Clifford Odets' Golden Boy. His final stage appearance was in 1971 in another Odets revival, Waiting for Lefty.
Mr. Miller's wife, Jessica Talbot, an actress, died in 1972. He is survived by his great-nephew, Edward Marion, of Wilton, Connecticut. -Susanna Morgan
When she first saw it, she had been a little disappointed with the way the piece had come out. There was a space problem and Harlan had cut a lot of the personal touches she had labored so hard over. She felt as if she hadn't done what she promised herself she'd do: make the town proud of Bill Miller and make Bill proud of her. But after the conversation she had with Harlan first thing that morning-all about the conversation he'd had with some nut who was incensed about the obit-her disappointment was fading. It was being replaced by confusion. And a strong feeling of embarrassment.
As soon as she strolled into the office that Friday, Harlan had come over to her desk. He said that he'd gotten an irate phone call. In fact, irate didn't even begin to describe it. Some guy in Middleview, a mid-Island town about an hour closer to the city, had erupted on the telephone. The guy's name-"Get this one," Harlan had said-was Wally Crabbe and he was a movie fanatic. So fanatical, in fact, that he'd flown into a rage because all the information in the Bill Miller obit was wrong. While Harlan held the receiver away from his ear, Crabbe had ticked off the long list of errors that he'd spotted. Susanna's boss held up a yellow legal pad, almost apologetically. He tore off the top page, which was covered with his scribbling, and handed it to her. "This is everything Mr. Crabbe said was wrong with your story," he said softly. "Actually, it's not everything. He was still going on when I told him I had to get off the phone. When I hung up, he was screaming at me that he wanted a free subscription to the paper to make up for our incompetence. Why is it that people want something for free if they think it's not good enough to pay for?"
He grinned, to show her that his question was meant to prove that he didn't take this all that seriously, but she didn't return the grin or give an answer, so Harlan told her, still in that uncomfortably gentle tone, to get to the bottom of things. If her facts were wrong, he said, they'd have to print a retraction in next week's paper. Susanna knew the way the town worked, and she colored a deep red at the idea of admitting in print that Bill had lied about himself. If she had indeed screwed up, she had not immortalized her friend Bill in town lore; she had permanently humiliated him.
She herself had been surprised at one thing when she was researching the story. She had called over to the Home to confirm certain facts, and found one she didn't know: Bill had had a nephew. A great-nephew to be exact. She was certain Bill had told her, several times, that he had no living relatives. But Fred, who managed the Home, had told her about the nephew-great-nephew-who visited Bill every three months, like clockwork, stayed no more than five or ten minutes, and always paid for the next three months of Bill's stay. Fred said that he had called the nephew right after he'd found Bill slumped in an easy chair in his room, to give him the sad news. The man had said he'd take care of all funeral arrangements and, in fact, that very night Fred called Susanna at home to say that Bill's body had been picked up by ambulance and taken away. The nephew-great-nephew-made it clear that the funeral was going to be small and very private.
Everything else in the obit she'd gotten from Bill when he was alive. She'd taken it all on faith because she'd heard it so many times, and she realized now that even if one were a cynic-which she most definitely was not-repetition was a subtle form of brainwashing when it came to the truth. If you heard something often enough, especially from someone you trusted, it became true. Whether it was or not.
She told herself that Bill Miller was not a liar. She told herself that there had to be a misunderstanding. She told herself that what she'd put in the obit had been correct.
Only deep down she didn't believe it, so she decided to find out for herself.
If there was a mistake, it was her mistake, not the paper's, so she didn't want to do this work on the Journal's time. That's why, at lunchtime, three hours after Harlan told her that she'd screwed up, Susanna walked over to the East End Harbor Public Library.
After conferring with the librarian, Adrienne, a surprisingly snip-pish and impatient woman, Susanna took a seat in front of the computer that was in the lobby to the right of the checkout desk. She pulled out the sheet of yellow legal paper that Harlan had handed her, looked down the list of errors that angry Wally Crabbe had called in. She went on-line, wound up going to the Askjeeves.com Web site, and typed in the question: How do I find out who was nominated for the 1938 Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor?