After Visiting Friends (14 page)

He pauses.

I’m silent.

“Bob died in a woman’s apartment. I don’t know the whole story. But I’m pretty sure
my father arranged a cover-up. After Bob died, we never talked about that night again.”

“Is there anyone you think knows who the woman is?”

“Two people I can think of. Did you ever know Craig Klugman?”

“No.”

“He worked with Bob. He and I drove to the funeral in my car. Last I heard he was
in Fort Wayne.”

“Who else?”

“You probably don’t remember my first wife, Nancy. I was dating her when Bob died.
She used to claim that she knew everything that happened that night. She said that
my mother had told her.”

“Do you know where Nancy is now?”

“No. Her maiden name was Verzano. I don’t know if she’s remarried. But her best friend
was Pam Smicklas. A few years ago I saw a wire story that she was the mayor of Santa
Monica. Maybe ask her.”

“I can’t believe all these years, I was right in my gut.”

“Let me ask you something,” he says. “Was it really the obits?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it,” he says. “The truth was sitting there, in plain sight. It was a sloppy
cover-up waiting to be exposed. I knew you’d figure it out.”

“But how could Dick pull off a cover-up? How did the cops let him do it?”

“The cops helped him. It was a different time. In some ways, it was the last days
of cops and newspapermen being on the same team. Dick carried a lot of weight in Chicago.
In the end, it’s just a big brother taking care of his kid brother.”

“But if Dick covered it up, how did he forget to tell the papers not to print the
truth?”

“Like I say, it was a sloppy cover-up. And if you think about it, the papers didn’t
print the truth. They printed clues. That night, what happens, I think, is this: Bob
dies in this woman’s apartment. The woman panics, calls an ambulance, calls Dick.
Dick gets to the woman’s place and does two things. One, he persuades the cops to
let him—not them—break the news to your mother so he can give her the cover story.
You know, kind of like, ‘Officer, c’mon—this guy is my brother. He has two kids and
a wife at home. No need for them to know.’ I think the second thing Dick did is call
the night editors and tell them to print that Bob died on the street, outside, after
visiting friends—and not in any woman’s apartment. It was a bad cover-up, because
the detail about ‘friends’ raises more questions than it answers. But I imagine at
four or five in the morning, when he’s trying to sweep all of this up, he’s not thinking
everything through. He’s racing the clock till your mother wakes up.”

He pauses.

“If Dick had enough time, none of the papers would have printed those details about
‘friends.’ Your dad—heck, both of them—Dick and Bob were undone by the thing they
loved: solid,
101-reporting. The fundamentals. But you have to understand—Dick did it all to protect
you guys. And Bob was his kid brother.”

“I know. I mean, what are you going to do? Woman calls you in the middle of the night,
hysterical.”

“Exactly. Your brother, dead in her bed. His family asleep at home, waiting for him.
The cops, about to knock on the door and break the news to your mother. Dick wanted
to keep that pain from your mom. I’m not saying he was right, but.”

“I wish I would’ve asked him about all this before he died.”

“I think he was always terrified you were going to.”

“So you guys talked about it?”

“Never.”

#

I went to a bar. For a long time I stare at my reflection, what I could see of me
through the bottles and glass, through the browns and greens. Over and over in my
head I think, Now I know I am not crazy.

Sitting there in the bar, a man of a certain age—in my forties and I’ve outlived him
by a good few years now—I get it. Who among us does not know that such temptations
exist? He just had the dumb luck to die in her bed. Thirty minutes earlier or later
either way, and he truly does die out on the street. Or driving home. Crashing into
a light pole. His head, seizured. His secret, safe. His name, clean.

I look down the bar and part of me expects to see him. I always do. Part of what it
means to lose a parent early: You never accept the truth that they are dead. You can’t.
You won’t. In your head, you always believe that somewhere, they exist. And someday,
you will find them and all your questions will be answered. Most of all: Why did you
leave me?

Like now. There he is, roosting alone at the end of the bar, clad in that beat-up,
battered raincoat, the one Clarence said he never shed.

He sees me. He hoists his rocks glass high—his salute to me from across the room.
He winks and says, “Well, kiddo, you found me.”

“No,” I say, “I found you out.”

“Did you?”

“You heard what Mark said today.”

“What the hell does Mark know?”

“He knows how you died.”

“Does he? Think about it, pal. As we say in the newspaper game, you got nothing. You
have a dead man and no witnesses. No first-hand sources. They’re all dead. Or missing.
Where’s this woman? You got a statement from her? Where’s the police report? You’ve
got a story that’s based on a telephone call that someone overheard in the hallway
at two in the morning thirty-some years ago. And by the way, what’s Mark’s motivation?
Ever think of that? You call yourself a reporter? Face it: You got nothing on me,
kid.”

My father raises his glass again, shakes it at me, and grins. His ice rattles like
laughter.

#  #  #

It’s Reporting 101. In the newspaper game, it’s the Five W’s plus one: Who, What,
Where, When, How, and Why.

Who?
Robert Charles Hainey.

What?
Died.

Where?
Somewhere on the 3900 block of North Pine Grove Avenue, Chicago, Illinois.

When?
April 24, 1970.

How?
Aneurism.

Why?
Why, indeed.

Surely there must be a why. That’s what they teach you about reporting. There’s always
a why. Dig deep enough and you will find it.

A newspaperman knows the why is the key to the story.

#  #  #

After grad school, I get a part-time job reporting for the
Tribune
. I cover city-council meetings in the suburbs. I’m what newspapermen call a stringer.

Because council members work day jobs, the meetings all take place at night. My bureau
chief—the editor of the Northwest Suburban desk—calls me during the day and gives
me that night’s assignment. Elk Grove Village. Mount Prospect. Schiller Park. Suburbs
like that. I sit in the first row of an auditorium in some 1960s-era municipal building,
listen to people argue the finer points of opposite-side-of-the-street parking. Or
whether residents should be allowed to park on the street overnight. Or if parking
meters should be removed in the downtown business district. Every meeting involves
debates about parking. And every meeting goes late. Eleven. Midnight. After, I drive
my 1972 Chevy Malibu to the bureau—a glass-paneled office tower near O’Hare where
the
Tribune
leases a floor. This is where I file. I have a pass code. Let myself in. Turn on
the lights. Walk the carpet of the empty newsroom. A field of cubicles and computers
linked to the Tribune Tower on Michigan Avenue. I have to file a brief on the meeting
for the Metro section. Those 250-word squibs they run in your paper. What used
to be called Neighborhood News. If the news is big—and it never is—the desk might
go long with it. For hours, I sit there, cursor blinking. My notes a mess of names
and city ordinance numbers and quotes about nothing. What I wanted and what I was,
two different things. Newsman in the night. Me walking the beat, the mean streets
of the Northwest suburbs.

I wanted so much to belong. In my head I saw myself continuing my father’s work. Learning
the trade so I could finish what he began. A newsman in the city. In a line with him.
And in a line with my uncle. Keeping the line going. Strung together.

Me.

The cursor, blinking.

#  #  #

I start with what Mark gave me—I’ll try to find his ex. I Google: Pam Smicklas Mayor
Santa Monica. Turns out she’s Pam O’Connor now. I call her office, and she tells me
that Nancy remarried some years ago but that she hasn’t talked to her for years. “She
married a man named Bonetti,” she says. “She was living in the Bay Area. Hayward?
Fremont? We lost touch. I remember when your father died. That was a huge shock. Nancy
always talked about it and how shook up the whole family was.”

She says if I find Nancy, can I say hello for her?

“Give her my number. It’d be good to get back in touch.”

#

I go on ZabaSearch and find a Nancy Bonetti in Denver, North Carolina.

It’s a strange thing, being the hand that reaches across time. You feel awkward at
first in your phone calls. I find myself talking fast, like a teenager calling and
asking for a date to the dance. I find myself nervous about losing my opening. Hearing
the phone going
click!
Hi-you-don’t-know-me-but-my-name’s-Michael-Hainey-and-I-think-you-knew-my-father-Bob-Hainey-and-I-hope-this-is-not-a-bad-time-but-I-was-hoping-you-could-help-me.

A woman answers.

“Hi-you-don’t-know-me-but-my-name’s-Michael-Hainey-and-I-think-you-knew-my-father-Bob-Hainey-and-I-hope-this-is-not-a-bad-time-but-I-was-hoping-you-could-help-me.”

“My God! Of course I remember you! How is your mother?”

“She’s fine, thank you.”

“Oh, I have the fondest memories of you two boys and your mother. And I always felt
so sad for your mother. Please tell her I said hello.”

“Well, that’s something you could help me with,” I say. “That night my father died.
I was wondering if you could tell me what you remember.”

“Well, Mark called me late that night and told me the news.”

“This is going to sound strange, but I have to ask you. I was talking to Mark—”

“Mark? Oh, how is he?”

“Fine. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Mark told me you know the truth of that night. He said that you used to claim that
you knew the name of the woman.”

“Mark and I had our troubles, but I never said that. I hope he’s found some peace
in his life. But no, I never knew what happened. Have you asked Dick?”

“He and Helen are both dead.”

“They really loved you two boys. I know that.”

She pauses.

“Your father’s death was one of those things that was never spoken of. The circumstances
just hung there, unspoken. And his presence shrouded that house. It was suffocating.
Dick was always invoking Bob. Especially to Mark, when it came to him being a newspaperman.
Dick was forever telling Mark, ‘You’ll never be as good as Bob.’ Did your mother ever
talk about that night?”

“No, it was the same in our house,” I say. “I mean, we didn’t know the circumstances
of his death. We were told a different story. The one that Dick made up. But his death
defined our house, too.”

“I think that on some level your mother knew there was foul play. On some level, every
woman knows. She’s a smart woman. I always remember her as being so elegant and witty.
I wanted to be like her. She had so much grace.”

#

A few days later, I get an e-mail from Nancy:

Though it was “out of the blue,” I want you to know that I am happy you contacted
me. I hope whatever memories I have of those early years are of use to you in your
quest. I sincerely hope it helps you to find the answers you need to move forward
in your life. But, keep in mind that you may never get all the answers you want. However,
it may just be the beginning of a closer relationship with your cousin, which will
tie you and your brother to your past. And that would be a very good thing.

Regards,

Nancy

My brother calls. A catch-up call. I clutch. I don’t want to be the one who destroys
his world. What am I becoming but my father? A keeper of secrets. Worse, I am a keeper
of his secrets. A co-conspirator.
I hear my brother talking about the kids, his week. Then he asks if I’ve talked to
Mark yet, and I say yes.

“You know,” I say, “Mark and I were talking about McCook and I had this thought to
go out there.”

“I’d go with you. I want Glenn to see it.”

So, next thing I know, we’ve got a reunion weekend planned for McCook. Chris, me,
Mark, and my nephew. Three generations.

It had been years since I had seen McCook. The last time, I was a year or so out of
grad school (Medill, almost thirty years to the day after my father got his master’s
there, too) and I rented a Century and drove I-80 flat and fast to McCook. Looking
for him. Roy Orbison’s
Mystery Girl
had just come out, and I play it over and over as I drive from Chicago.

And now that I am reporting all of this, trying to get inside my father’s head, I
need to go back again and see the streets, the house, talk to people. I need to inhabit
the space. The fact, though, that I was now leading a group tour freaked me out. Especially
when I added in my deception of my brother:
Hey, want to come to McCook? It’ll be fun. We can bond. Oh, but by the way, I’m carrying
an enormous secret about him and I’m going to keep it from you.

So often I wonder, do all brothers end up at Kitty Hawk? Flipping a coin to write
history. One will fly. The other stands slack-jawed with awe. Maybe chasing his brother.
The wind in his face now. The wind that lifts his brother.

#  #  #

Nebraska.

What do you know of it? If you and I were paired on
Password
and you gave the clue “Neh-brass-
kaaaaahhh . . . ,
” I’d shout, “Boys Town!”

Nebraska—where orphans went. A place where the stronger brother hoists his weaker
kid brother onto his back to tote him through the blizzard to the orphanage that will
take them in and, when a stranger assumes it must be a wearying weight, tells the
man, “He ain’t heavy. He’s m’brother.”