Obituary Writer (9780547691732) Read Online Free
Author: Porter Shreve
breathing into a glass, and I wondered if she might be drinking.
"I used to drive around and feel like this was my very own city. The streets were my streets and the river was mine and the barges and riverboats. And the buildings, too. Especially the buildings. I'd walk up and down the stairs of the old post office and run my hand over the banisters or sit in the main reading room of the public library looking up at the high ceilings, like they were ceilings in my own house. But I don't feel that way anymore."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I just want to stay home now, and my house is small. Fall is the best time of year, when the leaves start to change. Arthur liked to take me on walks in the botanical gardens."
This woman had waited for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes I'd had her on hold and she didn't even mention it. This must be despair, I thought, going to such lengths to keep a stranger on the phone.
The fan clattered away on its evening cycle. Apart from the racket, it cast a noxious odor, especially at this time of day when the lead particles, having accumulated from all corners of the newsroom, made a final turn from my desk on their way to the lower floor.
"What's that noise?" she asked.
As if on cue, the fan abruptly stopped.
"You should call us in the morning," I said, making use of the pause. "If you'd like to gather the information and fax it, with place of residence, age, occupation, cause of deathâ"
"Let me give it to you now," she interrupted.
And I realized that I wouldn't stand firm, that I was losing this fight, had lost it in fact an hour ago when I was convinced somehow of her husband's importance, then drawn in by the loneliness in her voice. I took down the essentials and promised I'd do my best to get it into the next morning's paper. With Ritger not looming over me, it wouldn't be much trouble finding space for a small obit. And that's exactly what I didâtapped out five inches, no subhead, fourth column, below the fold:
Arthur R. Whiting, 43, a loan officer with Portage Savings Bank, died Friday of a heart attack at his home in St. Charles.
Mr. Whiting was born in Davenport, Iowa. He was graduated from the University of Iowa in Iowa City with a degree in business administration. He also served in the U.S. Army.
Mr. Whiting was employed by Portage Savings Bank for 15 years. He worked as a bank teller, assistant manager, and manager before becoming chief loan officer at the St. Charles South branch.
He was treasurer of the Whispering Pines Country Club and former treasurer of the Clayton Lodge of Elks. A dog enthusiast, Mr. Whiting owned Irish wolfhounds that won several local, state, and national awards.
He leaves his wife, Alicia; a brother, Joseph R., of Winfield; and a sister, Margaret M., of St. Charles.
I hit Save and made a few more cuts to the dentist's obit to make room. I hadn't eaten since breakfast and could feel the dizziness that sets in with extreme hunger. I brought up a plate of rice and some kind of goulash from the cafeteria, forwarded my calls to the switchboard operator, and devoured my dinner, staring at the green blur of letters on my computer screen. I was in no mood to stay late, having wrapped up an advancer on Joe DiMaggio late the night before. So I packed up my briefcase, and getting up to leave, noticed Arthur Whiting's picture and the two clips still sitting on my desk.
In the picture, Alicia's husband was standing in front of the Portage Savings Bank shaking a policeman's hand. Tall and stoop-shouldered, he had thinning hair, rather long in the back, and a discernibly large Adam's apple. He looked older than forty-three, rawboned and hollow-cheeked.
The bank robbery had occurred just as the librarian described it. Arthur had gone for the emergency button, couldn't find it until the last possible moment. A pair of squad cars happened to be a block away, and the dispatcher had the police there in minutes. The robber was sixty-eight years old and had no
"I used to drive around and feel like this was my very own city. The streets were my streets and the river was mine and the barges and riverboats. And the buildings, too. Especially the buildings. I'd walk up and down the stairs of the old post office and run my hand over the banisters or sit in the main reading room of the public library looking up at the high ceilings, like they were ceilings in my own house. But I don't feel that way anymore."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I just want to stay home now, and my house is small. Fall is the best time of year, when the leaves start to change. Arthur liked to take me on walks in the botanical gardens."
This woman had waited for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes I'd had her on hold and she didn't even mention it. This must be despair, I thought, going to such lengths to keep a stranger on the phone.
The fan clattered away on its evening cycle. Apart from the racket, it cast a noxious odor, especially at this time of day when the lead particles, having accumulated from all corners of the newsroom, made a final turn from my desk on their way to the lower floor.
"What's that noise?" she asked.
As if on cue, the fan abruptly stopped.
"You should call us in the morning," I said, making use of the pause. "If you'd like to gather the information and fax it, with place of residence, age, occupation, cause of deathâ"
"Let me give it to you now," she interrupted.
And I realized that I wouldn't stand firm, that I was losing this fight, had lost it in fact an hour ago when I was convinced somehow of her husband's importance, then drawn in by the loneliness in her voice. I took down the essentials and promised I'd do my best to get it into the next morning's paper. With Ritger not looming over me, it wouldn't be much trouble finding space for a small obit. And that's exactly what I didâtapped out five inches, no subhead, fourth column, below the fold:
Arthur R. Whiting, 43, a loan officer with Portage Savings Bank, died Friday of a heart attack at his home in St. Charles.
Mr. Whiting was born in Davenport, Iowa. He was graduated from the University of Iowa in Iowa City with a degree in business administration. He also served in the U.S. Army.
Mr. Whiting was employed by Portage Savings Bank for 15 years. He worked as a bank teller, assistant manager, and manager before becoming chief loan officer at the St. Charles South branch.
He was treasurer of the Whispering Pines Country Club and former treasurer of the Clayton Lodge of Elks. A dog enthusiast, Mr. Whiting owned Irish wolfhounds that won several local, state, and national awards.
He leaves his wife, Alicia; a brother, Joseph R., of Winfield; and a sister, Margaret M., of St. Charles.
I hit Save and made a few more cuts to the dentist's obit to make room. I hadn't eaten since breakfast and could feel the dizziness that sets in with extreme hunger. I brought up a plate of rice and some kind of goulash from the cafeteria, forwarded my calls to the switchboard operator, and devoured my dinner, staring at the green blur of letters on my computer screen. I was in no mood to stay late, having wrapped up an advancer on Joe DiMaggio late the night before. So I packed up my briefcase, and getting up to leave, noticed Arthur Whiting's picture and the two clips still sitting on my desk.
In the picture, Alicia's husband was standing in front of the Portage Savings Bank shaking a policeman's hand. Tall and stoop-shouldered, he had thinning hair, rather long in the back, and a discernibly large Adam's apple. He looked older than forty-three, rawboned and hollow-cheeked.
The bank robbery had occurred just as the librarian described it. Arthur had gone for the emergency button, couldn't find it until the last possible moment. A pair of squad cars happened to be a block away, and the dispatcher had the police there in minutes. The robber was sixty-eight years old and had no
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