Desperate Measures

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.”