“I’d have thought your day off would have made you look rested.”
“Well, I had a lot of things to do.”
“I bet.” Burt’s gaze was piercingly direct.
Does he suspect? Pittman wondered.
“Considering how busy you are, I appreciate your making time for the Chronicle.”
“For you,” Pittman said.
“The same thing.”
When Jeremy had gotten sick, when Jeremy had died, when Pittman had collapsed, Burt Forsyth had always been there to provide reinforcement. “Need to go to the hospital to see your boy? Take all the time you need. Need to stay with him in intensive care? As long as you want. Your job? Don’t worry about it. Your desk will be waiting for you.” Burt had visited Jeremy in the hospital. Burt had arranged for the most valuable National Football League player to phone Jeremy. Burt had escorted Pittman to and from the mortuary. Burt had gotten drunk with Pittman. Although Pittman had tried to convince himself that he had paid back every debt, the truth was that Burt could never be repaid. Of all those who might have called last night, Burt was the one person Pittman could not refuse.
Burt studied him. “Got a minute?”
“My time is yours.”
“In my office.”
What now? Pittman thought. Is this where I get the lecture?
4
The Chronicle had a no smoking policy. Pittman could never understand how Burt managed constantly to have the recent smell of cigarette smoke on him. His office reeked of it, but there weren’t any ashtrays, and there weren’t any cigarette butts in the wastebasket. Besides, Burt’s office had glass walls. If he was breaking the rule and smoking in here, the reporters at the desks outside would have seen him.
A big man, Burt eased himself into the swivel chair behind his desk. Wood creaked.
Pittman took a chair opposite the desk.
Burt studied him. “Been drinking too much?”
Pittman glanced away.
“I asked you a question,” Burt said.
“If you were anybody else…”
“You’d tell me it was none of my business. But since I’m the one asking… Have you been drinking too much?”
“Depends,” Pittman said.
“On?”
“What you call too much.”
Burt sighed. “I can tell this isn’t going to be a productive conversation.”
“Look, you asked for nine days. I’m giving them to you. But that doesn’t mean you can run my life.”
“What’s left of it. You keep drinking as much as I think you have and you’ll kill yourself.”
“Now that’s a thought,” Pittman said.
“Drinking won’t bring back Jeremy.”
“That’s another thought.”
“And killing yourself won’t bring him back, either.”
Pittman looked away again.
“Besides, I’m not trying to run your life,” Burt said. “It’s your job I’m trying to run. I’ve got something different I want you to do, a special kind of obituary, and I want to make sure you’re up to doing it. If you’re not, just say so. I’ll keep you on the desk, answering obit calls and filling out forms.”
“Whatever you want.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I came back to work because you asked. If there’s something you need, I can do it. What kind of special obituary?”
“The subject isn’t dead yet.”
5
Pittman changed positions in the chair. Of course, it wasn’t any surprise to him, although it generally was to what Pittman called “civilians,” that some obituaries were written before the subject’s death. Aging movie stars, for example. Celebrities of one sort or another who were mortally ailing or in extremely advanced years. Common sense dictated that since they were going to die soon and since they were famous, why not prepare the obituary sooner rather than later? On occasion, the subjects were remarkably resilient. Pittman knew of one case where a lengthy obituary had been written for an elderly comedian-twenty years earlier-and the comedian in his nineties was still going strong.
But Pittman judged from Burt’s somber expression that he hadn’t been summoned here just to write something as ephemeral as an obituary for a not-yet-dead movie star. Burt’s brows were so thick, they made his eyes seem hooded-dark, intense.
“All right.” Pittman gestured. “The subject isn’t dead yet.”
Burt nodded.
“But evidently you’re convinced that he or she will be dead within nine days.”
Burt’s expression didn’t change.
“Otherwise, the obituary won’t be any good,” Pittman said, “because the Chronicle will be dead a week from tomorrow, and I never heard of other newspapers buying freelance obituaries.”
“It’s my gift to you.”
“Gosh. I don’t know what to say. How generous.”
“You’re not fooling anybody,” Burt said. “You think I haven’t figured out what you’re planning to do?”
Pittman showed no reaction.
“Ellen phoned yesterday,” Burt said.
Pittman felt sudden heat in his stomach, but he didn’t allow himself to show any reaction to that either, to the mention of his ex-wife.
“She says you’ve been acting strangely,” Burt said. “Not that I need her to tell me. I’ve got eyes. In fact, anybody who thinks of you as a friend has noticed. You’ve been going around making a point of paying back favors, money you borrowed, whatever. You’ve been apologizing for any harm you caused, and I know it’s not because you’re cleaning house as part of joining AA, not the way you’ve been drinking. That car accident three weeks ago. Three A.M. A deserted road in Jersey. A bridge abutment. What the hell were you doing out driving at that hour? And even as drunk as you were, I don’t see how you couldn’t have avoided that big an obstacle. You meant to hit it, and the only reason you didn’t die is that your body was so loose from the booze, you bounced like a rag doll when you were thrown from the car.”
Pittman touched a still-healing gash on the back of his hand but didn’t say anything.
“Don’t you want to know what Ellen wanted?” Burt asked.
Pittman stared at the floor.
“Come on,” Burt demanded. “Quit acting like you’re already dead.”
“I made a mistake.”
“What?”
“Coming back to work. I made a mistake.” Pittman stood.
“Don’t,” Burt said. “Let me finish.”
A reporter appeared in the doorway.
“In a minute,” Burt said.
The reporter assessed the two men, nodded somberly, and went away. Other reporters, seated at their desks, were glancing toward the glass walls of Burt’s office. Phones rang.
“What Ellen wanted was to tell you she was sorry,” Burt said. “She wants you to call her.”
“Tell me about this obituary.”
“Give her a chance.”
“Our son died. Then our marriage died. There’s plenty to be sorry about. But I don’t want to talk about it. I’m through talking about it. Nine-correction: Since I promised last night, if we count today, it’s eight more days, Burt. That’s all the time I’m willing to give you. Then we’re even. Tell me about the obituary.”
6
Assessing Pittman, Burt didn’t blink for quite a while. At once he shrugged, sighed, then picked up a folder on his desk. “Jonathan Millgate.”
Pittman felt a spark speed along his nerves.
“That name ought to sound familiar from when you were working on the national affairs desk, before…” Self-conscious, Burt let the sentence dangle.
“Before I cracked up, you mean? Or fell to pieces, or… What’s the euphemism these days?”
“Needed a rest.”
“I’m not so fuzzy-minded that I wouldn’t remember the name of one of the grand counselors.”
Burt raised his thick eyebrows.
From the forties, from the beginning of the Cold War onward, a group of five East Coast patricians had exerted a continuous influence on American government policy by acting as major advisers to various Presidents. At first they had been cabinet members and ambassadors, later private consultants, mostly to Republican Presidents, but not exclusively. During the Democratic administration in the late seventies, Carter was supposed to have consulted with them about the Iran hostage situation. It was rumored that on their advice he authorized the failed hostage-rescue attempt and in effect opened the way for Ronald Reagan to get into the White House. Eventually, as they aged, they acquired the status of legends and became known as the grand counselors.