by Jan Burke
To keep costs down, Wrigley insisted that John replace veteran staffers who left the paper with young reporters fresh out of J-school. I didn’t mind working with these newcomers, but I stopped expecting to get to know them very well, because most of them left us after a few months to work for bigger papers. We were becoming a “nursery paper” — a training program for people who would win the Pulitzers at some other paper. That was another sore point among the older staffers. They became unwilling to invest time and effort into teaching the ropes to people who would be gone in less than a year.
My tolerance — and my friendship with Lydia, who had reign over the general assignment reporters — had earned me the keep of two of these fledglings, Hailey Freed and Ethan Shire. They had been assigned desks near mine. As I logged on to my computer that morning, I felt tired just thinking about them.
They had graduated in the same year from the journalism department of Las Piernas University (formerly Las Piernas College — my own degree was issued before the upgrade, and I shuddered to think what they might make of that fact). They had a lot of confidence in themselves and were competitive as all get out, but otherwise, they were as different as they could be from each other.
I sometimes wished they had a little less confidence. Hailey was fairly sure that two years on the campus paper and a summer internship meant she already knew it all and ought to be left alone so that she could pry journalism from the clutches of crones like me, abandon our archaic methods, and improve the paper for the twenty-first century. She didn’t mind letting me know she resented my old-school style of journalism. Clean writing, balanced coverage, fact checking — boring stuff. A little more of her beautiful, semi-poetic but inaccurate reporting and I was going to FedEx her to Tom Wolfe, to force him to live with the results of what seeds he had sown. I would have, until she told me that Wolfe was an old man and that was the old new journalism — she was going to be part of the new new journalism, a revolution on the World Wide Web. I couldn’t wait. In the meantime, I tried to teach her that the lead — the most essential and dramatic information in a news story — was not an acorn to be buried beneath several other paragraphs.
Ethan, who had been a city editor on that same college paper, was damned sure he was destined for better things than the Express. The rest of us just hadn’t realized that we had Jesus in our carpenter shop.
He was also our budding newsroom politician. He shamelessly brown-nosed Wrigley, who in turn made him a pet. He had talent, I thought, but he didn’t seem to be able to concentrate on his work and often took the easy way out on a story. I didn’t think he had quite found the style that was his own, either, because his writing approach was all over the map. When he focused on what he was doing, I recognized a style that needed a little time to mature, but held a lot of promise. Two days later, I would get stories from him that were so obviously a patchwork of other styles, they didn’t read well. I would tell him that while he had done the basic job of collecting facts in these cases, he’d be better off not trying to imitate other writers.
Ethan thought he had charmed me into believing he paid attention to what I told him about his work. Perhaps he thought I couldn’t read — the proof that he was ignoring me was writ large in nearly every story he filed. Lydia was tough on him — stories got kicked back to him or rewritten by surer hands. While Hailey was going to have problems because she hated anyone touching her lovely words, Ethan seemed almost unnaturally detached from his. He never minded a rewrite of his work — Ethan was on to the Next Big Thing by then — and was happy just as long as his name was on the story.
No problem. A byline was no longer an honor to be earned. Everyone got one. Most of the time, they got a mug shot pasted next to it, too. Lydia said it was just as well that the public knew who to blame.
Hailey peered at me over the top of her monitor now and asked, “What agency has jurisdiction over cemeteries?”
“No simple answer. California has a Cemetery and Funeral Bureau, which is part of the Department of Consumer Affairs. The federal government maintains veterans’ cemeteries. Some cemeteries belong to religious groups, some to counties, some privately to families.”
“What about the Las Piernas Municipal Cemetery?”
“The city owns that one, and believe it or not, that’s under the care of the Parks and Recreation Department.”
“Oh.”
“What have you got in mind?”
We heard the sound of laughter, and turned to see Ethan talking with Lydia, apparently amusing her. Hailey frowned, probably envying the attention he was getting from the city editor. She had a hard task ahead of her if she was going to compete with Ethan’s charm.
“You were saying something about the cemetery?” I said.
“Nothing much. Kind of a crazy thing — I have a friend who swears someone has been disturbing his grandfather’s grave.”
“Modern-day grave robbers?”
“I don’t think they’ve taken the body. Just messed with the grave. Although my friend thinks someone might have tried to break into the casket to steal this antique ring the old man was buried with. I thought I might try to find out if there’s anything to it, that’s all.”
“You run it by Lydia?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure I want to do anything about it. Besides, Lydia has given me a couple of other things to work on. And I don’t know — the whole thing creeps me out.”
“Maybe she’ll cut you loose from some of the other things you’re handling right now.”
“Maybe.”
I wasn’t going to do any hand-holding. I went back to my own work.
Most of my time is spent covering local politics — being married to a homicide detective prevents me from covering stories about crime, but there’s enough intrigue in city government to keep me busy. I read through some notes I had made about current issues before the harbor commission, but found my thoughts constantly drifting to O’Connor, and wondering what might be in the storage locker. I was curious, but also aware that Kenny had burdened me with what was undoubtedly going to be an emotionally draining task.
On the other hand, maybe it would just be a lot of crap that would be easy to toss out, and nothing more complicated than laziness had kept Kenny from doing it himself.
Except that in the time since he was injured, Kenny hadn’t been lazy at all.
I left the paper and spent a couple of hours at city hall trying to get some answers to questions I had about a planning commission proposal. When I returned, Ethan was talking to Lydia again. He soon rushed out of the news-room. Well, I thought, he’s finally catching on to the fact that you can’t cover the news if you stay inside the building. That, or he was going to lunch.
I glanced at my watch and realized that it was almost noon.
I suddenly recalled an appointment of my own and hurried over to the city desk. “I’m having lunch with Helen Swan and my great-aunt today. You want to join us?”
“I’d love to,” Lydia said, “but I can’t get away. Give them my best.”
“I may be back a little late.” I told her about Kenny’s visit and the storage locker key. “I’ll have my cell phone with me if you need me.”
Despite the fact that, as usual, she had three phones ringing, four people walking toward the desk from various parts of the newsroom, and more “highest priority” e-mail messages waiting for her than I wanted to think about, she said, “You need some company when you do that?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be all right. If it starts to … to bother me, I’ll lock it up and come back to it when I can handle it.”
Would that I could have lunch with Helen and Great-Aunt Mary every day. Each time I do, I’m reminded of how strong and smart and wise and downright ornery they are, and how much I hope to be like them someday. If I have half as much energy when and if I make it to my eighties, I’ll be happy.
It was the perfect way to prepare myself for going over to the storage unit. Helen had gro
wn a little deaf over the years, and had voluntarily given up driving, but otherwise was doing well. Mary had become one of her closest friends. Mary was still driving her red Mustang, and seemed to enjoy taking Helen out and about. Mary was sharp and in good health and remained one of my anchors in times of trouble.
I told them about my fledglings, which amused Helen no end. She kindly didn’t mention her own trials with me, when I was her student. I mentioned to Helen that some of O’Connor’s papers had apparently been in a storage locker, and that Kenny had given me the key to it. “I’m on my way over there after lunch. If I find anything that might be of interest to you, I’m sure Kenny won’t mind if I give it to you.”
She seemed surprised, then distracted. Aunt Mary was going on and on about what a pack rat O’Connor was. She has drawings I gave her when I was in first grade, so I didn’t pay much attention to her. I became worried that I had upset Helen. O’Connor had been so close to her and Jack.
After O’Connor died, Max Ducane told me that Helen had been severely depressed and talked of having lost almost everyone who was dearest to her. She was, as always, resilient, and eventually seemed more herself, but I was concerned.
“Helen?”
As if coming out of a trance, she said, “Yes, let me know what you find. But you needn’t give anything to me. If it were up to me to choose one person to have O’Connor’s writing and notes and other treasures, I would choose you.”
I was flattered, and as I made my way to the storage place, I couldn’t help but remember the time I had told O’Connor that Helen’s counsel had kept me working with him. He had admitted then that she had been working just as hard to keep him from giving up on me. I owed her thanks for one of the most important friendships of my life.
U-Keep-It Self-Storage was typical of those built in the mid-1970s. Cinder block and steel roll-up doors. I pulled up to it in the Jeep Wrangler we had just bought from a friend, Ben Sheridan. Ben is a forensic anthropologist. Thinking of him, I wondered if he might be able to help Hailey out with her story.
A sign warned that anyone entering the premises was subject to video surveillance. I entered the 4645 code, and a security gate opened to let me into the parking lot. I was parked and out of the car before it rolled shut again. O’Connor’s unit was on the second floor. I thought that was probably good — a little more secure. I took the stairs. The wide hallway was windowless and dark, but apparently a motion detector sensed my presence, because a series of bare bulbs lit overhead.
I found the unit, shoved a small flatbed cart away from the door, and fit the key in the padlock. The lock was a little stiff, but it opened. I flipped the bolt aside and pulled the door up.
Before me were about forty boxes and plastic containers, and two metal trunks. Some boxes were labeled, some weren’t. Some looked relatively new, but most appeared to be old and bore signs of long storage.
One was immediately familiar to me. Written in that misunderstood scrawl of his was a beloved friend’s name: Jack.
I heard myself exhale, hard. Seeing the box made me think of the day I first saw it, of O’Connor walking across that dusty field, holding on to it as if he were a priest carrying the last tabernacle, asking me — a green reporter — if he could help me with my story. He had worked so relentlessly to discover what had really happened on that night in 1958. For all that had been learned, there was still a great deal that was unknown.
Eric and Ian Yeager were already out of prison, supposedly living on a Caribbean island, but every now and then someone said they had seen them in town. Mitch Yeager — that old buzzard — would probably survive World War III. The only punishment he had received came from his three kids, spoiled brats who had never done an honest day’s work.
I shook off thoughts of that family from hell and stepped inside, found a light switch for the unit (a luxury item), and was surprised to find that the bulb wasn’t dead. I rolled the door down a little more than halfway. I wanted some privacy, but claustrophobia is a problem for me — I counted being able to pull the door shut at all a major victory.
The old trunks intrigued me. One was brown, the other green. They were side by side. Neither was locked, although they were latched shut. I snapped the latches open on the brown one, which looked older to me.
It was full of fragile, yellowing papers covered in a childish scrawl. I carefully lifted a few from the trunk. Each had a title, written in small and large caps, headline style: “THE MAN WHO FIXES MOTOR CARS.” “THE HOUSE WHERE MY MOTHER WORKS.” “HOW MY DA GOT HURT.” “HOW DERMOT HELPS A HORSE WIN A RACE.” “LUCKY THINGS IN MY HOUSE.” “WE MOVE TO A NEW HOUSE.” Each of these stories was clearly marked, “by Conn O’Connor.”
Lucky things in his house included a horseshoe that had come from a stakes winner, various religious medals and other artifacts, a piece of wood “from a true fairy tree” back in Ireland, a crow’s feather that “Dermot says isn’t lucky at all, but he’s wrong,” and a “dollar from my benefactress.” This last word appeared to have been carefully copied from a dictionary.
I smiled. After he had known me for a few years, O’Connor told me of the day he had met Jack Corrigan, and that Lillian had tipped him a silver dollar. I looked around me, thinking that it might well be in one of these boxes.
Maybe not. He was such a superstitious old Irishman, he probably had it in his pocket the day he died.
For some stupid reason, I started crying.
I pulled myself together after a bit and looked in the trunk again. Not far from the top were nine diaries.
The oldest one was dated 1936. I opened it carefully and read the first entry.
52
“TODAY MAUREEN GAVE ME THIS DIARY. SHE IS THE BEST SISTER IN THE world.” A little below that was written, “Jack would say that’s hipurboily, but it’s not.”
“Best” and “not” were heavily underlined. The word “hipurboily” had been crossed out and carefully corrected to hyperbole. I sat on the other trunk and kept reading. As I read on, again and again I saw corrections. I found myself feeling amazed that a boy his age wrote so well, and had taken the time to correct his mistakes.
“Jack gave me another boxing lesson today.”
“Da had a bad day today. I tried to be quiet.”
“Jack liked the story about the horse but he is making me redo it anyway.”
“Jack said to call it rewrite, not redo. Said my diary is for me, not to show it to him again. Said I could get mad as fire at him in my diary — say anything here.”
“Miss Swan scared me again today. Asked if I am writing Jack’s stories. Told her I am only a kid.”
That one made me laugh aloud.
“Jack still likes Lily, I think. She is mad at him.”
“A good day. Jack took me upstairs to the newsroom. Met Mr. Wrigley. He is very old. Jack told him I will be a reporter for the Express one day. Mr. Wrigley did not say no.”
“Jack and Miss Swan had dinner tonight. Jack calls her Swanie. He is brave.”
Hardly a day went by without a reference to Jack Corrigan. Helen had told me they were close, as had O’Connor, and O’Connor was always full of stories about him. But seeing this day-by-day record of O’Connor’s boyish adoration of him gave me new awareness of just how close they were. Jack seemed to treat him like a much younger brother, at times almost as a son. He must have taken him under his wing from the start and had infinite patience.
Well, no, I thought — even at eight, O’Connor was obviously an amusing companion.
As I read on, I realized that while Helen clearly thought of him in that way, Lillian seemed to have been annoyed with him. She probably wasn’t aware that her snide remarks were not only overheard but dutifully recorded by O’Connor. Gradually, through the observant if not fully comprehending eyes of an eight-year-old, I saw a picture of a young, willful rich girl who was enjoying a bit of rebellion by dating Corrigan. The picture that emerged of Thelma Ducane was even less flattering. Corrigan, for his pa
rt, seemed unfazed by Lillian’s tantrums or threats, and not far into the entries, either Jack stopped seeing her or O’Connor became uninterested in reporting about Jack’s love life.
I guess Jack sought company with his colleagues for a time, because then the stories were of other reporters, often Helen Swan. I had a feeling that Jack had been smitten with her long before he married her, something that was going right over O’Connor’s young head. Maybe over Jack’s as well.
I got a fascinated child’s view of the staffs of the two papers.
In that same summer, O’Connor, the little rat, had spied on Jack one night — and saw that he was out with Lillian again. “It is wrong. She is married.” The kid should have been a gossip columnist. I turned the page and repented of these thoughts.
This page was tearstained. It said, “Jack hurt in his car. Might die. Please, God, help him. I will be good.”
The next entry thanked God “even though I was not so good.” O’Connor had managed to sneak into the hospital to visit Jack, apparently by charming a kind janitor and a sympathetic old nun. This went on for a few days. The entries were worried ones — “Jack’s ankle broke. The doctor can’t fix it.” “Jack is sad. I can’t help him.” Then, one day, “Miss Swan visited.” A report of what she said to Jack made me realize she was as tough then as she is now. But the entry ended with, “Jack likes her. He will be better, I think.”
He noted a date not much later, when she left the News. I hadn’t known about that. O’Connor wrote, “Jack misses her, I think. Talks about her a lot.”
The outside hallway light had turned off at some point, but it suddenly snapped on again. I waited, heard someone’s footsteps at the other end of the hall, the sound of another unit’s door being rolled open and down again.
For no real reason I could name, I felt uneasy.
I glanced at my watch and nearly swore. I had certainly whiled away the afternoon. Lydia probably thought I’d gone to work for another paper. She hadn’t called, though. I pulled out my cell phone to see if I had missed a call. No signal.