Free Obituary Writer (9780547691732) by Porter Shreve Page B

machine said, and I knew it meant trouble. "Thea just called from a restaurant down the street from you. She's been waiting forty-five minutes and I've told her to leave—"
    I cut it off there, skipping ahead to the second message.
    The voice was Thea's.
    I pressed the rewind button—I couldn't stand to listen—and fell back in my bed.

8
    ON WEDNESDAY MORNING , I printed out the seventy-nine advancers, single-spaced, reduced to a small point size, in the order I had written them. I planned to save them as a reminder of my potential.
    On my chair sat a piece of pink notepaper, folded in half and stapled, with "Gordon Hatch, Obituary Desk" written in a leaning cursive.
Dear Gordon Hatch,
    I was appalled by the way you were treated yesterday. From my observations, you are a hard-working young man who does his part and does it quietly. Nobody deserves to be pilloried like that, least of all someone whose only offense was making a positive change. If you care for an audience or if you need anything, I am at your service.
    Regards,
Jessie Tennant
    I could see that Jessie Tennant's computer was signed off, her desk cleared; a bottle of Windex stood at the end of a neat row of reference books. Photographs of Sarah Vaughan and Rosa Parks and a postcard print of a toppled yellow rocking chair were pressed next to a calendar under the heavy glass on her desk.
    I never respond well to acts of kindness. I wish I could look a person in the eye in a way that says,
What a decent gesture—one day I'll do the same for you or for someone else with you in mind,
but invariably I'm embarrassed by the attention and go out of my way to avoid an encounter. Still, I was comforted to know that I had an in-house supporter.
    After starting and scrapping several longer messages, I managed to write back, through interoffice mail, "Dear Jessie Tennant, Thank you very much for your nice note. With gratitude, Gordon Hatch."
    I organized my advancers and slipped them into an envelope along with Jessie Tennant's note. I sealed the envelope, rotating it, feeling its impressive weight in my hands, and in black felt marker wrote,
ADVANCERS
September 13, 1988–October 5, 1989
R. Nixon through J. DiMaggio
    and tucked the envelope in the pocket of my briefcase.
    I had forgotten about the photo of Arthur Whiting that Alicia had left for me at the security desk that first night she called. I took another look at it now—his small eyes, the sharp angles of his face. He did resemble his sister, Margaret, though the similarity had less to do with features than with a common edge, an intensity they seemed to share. The first time I had seen his photograph, he had reminded me of those daguerreotypes of Old West homesteaders. Tall, drawn, remote, even a bit lost. But now I saw a fervor in his eyes that I hadn't recognized before.
    I slipped the photograph back into the envelope, and as I did so, I could feel something else at the bottom of the package. I reached in to pull out a folded piece of paper. I assumed that it would be a pleasant note from Alicia, thanking me for placing her husband's obit, but as I opened it I saw a grid—one of Arthur's weekly schedules.
    Attached to the schedule was a yellow Post-it note. "Copy and send to Margaret." Someone, I assumed Alicia, had written it in a hasty print. Typed along the top of the spreadsheet was "Schedule for the Week of September 30 to October 6, 1989." It was partially filled out, through Wednesday, October 2. I got the chills thinking of Arthur at his computer working on this document not knowing that he would die the next day. I wondered if his own hand had touched this same piece of paper.
    Alicia had described these schedules well. Every half hour was accounted for. Monday night they had watched a video,
On the Waterfront.
Under the title of the film, Arthur had written, "Elia Kazan, director/ Marlon Brando, male lead/ Eva Marie Saint, female lead." He had gone to bed at 11:30 after