Front-Page McGuffin & The Greatest Story Never Told (2 page)

“Sure,” said Sonny, nodding his head. Hell, it was just a filler piece.

“Well, I am,” said A. D.

“Sure,” said Sonny Vocello. “We gonna have to call you
Front-Page
McGuffin.” And he laughed, calling it out to anyone near enough to respond.

A. D. smiled and went along with the gag. But it made him even more determined to succeed.

A. D. didn’t officially earn this sobriquet until December 1954 when he reported on the censure of the senator from Wisconsin for what the Senate called ‘four years of abuse of his colleagues’. A week later, albeit in smaller print and in a keylined box in the bottom right corner, A. D. got his second front page story when Papa Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature for his sparingly written story of an old fisherman who just refused to give up.

From then on, Front-Page McGuffin got a lot of lead stories and he just stuck with the name.

He retired from the Times in 1991 at the not-so-tender age of 65. He was happy to be leaving it all behind, even though he still yearned for those years when newspaper reporting meant something more. But, he still had his wife, Betty, and he intended to write a book, a kind of memoir of the post-war years when everyone had a mental eye on the nuclear clock, watching its hands tick around to Armageddon.

He had his friends, too.

And his favourite watering hole, a two-flight walk-down that had just opened up a couple of years earlier on the corner of 23rd and Fifth, where he had met people who seemed real and where folks off the street just didn’t seem to come. He made some
new
friends there, too, at a time of life when a guy couldn’t really expect to make new friends but just to sit around and lose the ones he already had.

That last part was true enough for Front-Page McGuffin.

Cancers took a half-dozen of them in only half as many years, cut them down in their prime, wasting them to skin and bones and puckering up their mouths into thin-lipped sad little smiles. Bobby DuBarr, who could make a pool cue ball near on sit up and bark like a dog; Jimmy Frommer, who taught Front-Page all there was to know about subjunctive clauses; even Lester ‘Dawdle’ O’Rourke, Front-Page’s friend of friends, who was always late for everything, even the punchline of a joke…all of them went that way, eaten up from the inside like wormy apples, their skins yellow-white like old parchment and their ankles blown up over the sides of their house shoes because of all the steroids they were taking.

Heart attacks took another couple—Jack Blonstein, who had a singing voice that the angels would love, and Nick Diamanetti, who knew every joke that had ever existed (or so it seemed)—Front-Page watching them slip away in quiet hospital rooms with a barrage of blipping machines and suspended drips fixed onto scrawny arms.

A traffic accident took one of his best friends, a car crash up in Vermont where Bill Berison and his wife, Jenny had gone to see the fall colours on the trees. It had been something Bill had always planned to do.

Then, on New Year’s Eve of 1994, in a lonely hospital ward in the South Bronx, Betty McGuffin gave in to the cancer that roiled inside her, slipping regretfully away from Front-Page into the waiting bedsheets, holding Front-Page’s hand so tight he thought it would shatter and biting her lip to try to hold on another few minutes. To stay with him.

Thus, as millions of people celebrated the sudden movement of a clock-hand onto 12, the world ended for Front-Page McGuffin.

It didn’t end with the cataclysmic explosion that Front-Page and his friends at the
Times
had been predicting in the 1950s and ‘60s, but with a sudden rush of silence that accentuated all of the minutiae of sound and colour that surrounded him.

He didn’t remember getting home that night. Didn’t remember getting into the suddenly wide and empty and lonely bed: it had been wide and empty for all of the nights that Betty had been in hospital but then Front-Page had been praying and hoping she’d come back. Now that he knew she would never be coming back, the bed was the loneliest place in the world.

The next night, he had been gone down to The Land at the End of the Working Day the way he’d gone down there to Jack Fedogan’s bar most nights round about 6.30, for just a couple of drinks before going home to Betty and supper. Edgar Nornhoevan had been in that night, just like he was most nights, and Jim Leafman, too. Even McCoy Brewer came in, at around 10, armed with a passle of jokes that would have made even Nick Diamanetti smile.

Nobody mentioned Betty even once, but everyone bought Front-Page a drink and everyone gave his shoulder a squeeze. Once or twice, Edgar and Jim and McCoy saw Jack wiping his face with a towel, making out like the heat was getting to him, even though it was the first day of January and cold enough to freeze the spit as you swallowed it. Edgar, Jim and McCoy figured Jack Fedogan was thinking back about his own Phyllis and recognizing Front-Page’s grief and his loss.

At a little after midnight, Front-Page made his farewells and stumbled up the stairs and out into the night. They never saw him again.

Not until tonight.

Three years later.

* * *

The three men at the table sit and stare.

Jack Fedogan stands and stares, the seemingly ever-present glass that he polishes held limply in one hand and the towel in the other.

Over behind them, Edgar, Jim and McCoy hear the sound of chair legs being pushed roughly across the floor. When they turn around they see Bills Williams standing up at his table and staring across at the new customer.

It’s a night for staring, though none of the other patrons—the irregular regulars—are paying any attention to Front-Page McGuffin.

“Hello,” says Front-Page, like he’s been here every night for months, but stammering the word and making it come out in a kind of croak.

Jack Fedogan leans on the bar and shakes his head. “Front-Page,” he says, “Where you been hiding yourself?”

Front-Page McGuffin looks around like he’s seeing the place for the first time, frowning and blinking his eyes. As they watch, Edgar, McCoy and Jim notice one of the eyelids seems to hang down longer, like it’s got stuck on the way back. Front-Page lifts his left arm and starts swinging it towards his face, the fingers moving slow and robotic like the pick-up-a-prize machines out on Coney Island. Eventually, the hand gently connects with Front-Page’s neck and then crawls—there’s no other word for it—crawls its way up onto his chin and then around the cheek up to the eye socket where one of the fingers extends and pushes the lid up. Front-Page rubs at it, blinks a couple more times, and then drops the arm by his side.

“Not … well,” says Front-Page, leaving a big space between the words. “How you guys?”

Edgar gets to his feet and moves to take Front-Page’s hand, having to lift it up from the man’s side first, and pumps it furiously but carefully. “Good to see you,” he says, “been a long time.”

“Long time,” Front-Page echoes.

He looks to the other two men at the table and then walks across stiltedly, listing to the left at first until he whacks himself on the hip. This seems to cure the trouble and he makes it all the way to the table without further mishap. His co-ordination seems to have improved a little but it’s still shaky, like he’s not in control of his movements. Front-Page takes hold of Jim Leafman’s hand, shakes it and says, “Jim.” Jim nods, returns the shake.

“How about that?” Edgar is saying to Jack Fedogan.

“Something’s wrong,” says Jack, keeping his voice low.

Over at the table, McCoy Brewer is reaching his hand across to Front-Page but Front-Page backs away, looking at it in a kind of blank-faced horror … a quiet desperation.

McCoy looks across at Jim and then over at Edgar and Jack. “What did I say?” he asks, but Front-Page is already making his way around the table. When he reaches McCoy, he leans forward and takes hold of McCoy’s hand in both of his own and shakes it emphatically. “Bad luck,” says Front-Page, shaking his head slowly and uncertainly, looking like maybe he’s already had a few Happy Hours of his own before hitting the Working Day.

McCoy pulls his hand back from Front-Page, who seems momentarily unable to detach himself, and flexes the fingers and then rubs it in his other hand. “Jeez,” says McCoy, “must be cold out there.”

Jim moves across and puts an arm around Front-Page’s shoulder. “You okay?” He pulls a chair across from a nearby table. “You want to sit down?”

Front-Page moves his head slowly and jerkily to face Jim Leafman. His eyes are all white for a second and then the pupils slide slowly down. “Not well,” he says.

Jim helps him to the chair and Front-Page drops onto the seat.

Bills Williams moves over to stand by the table. Jim and McCoy look at him and shrug.

“How you doing, wordsmith?” says Bills.

Front-Page shakes his head. “Not well,” he says, the words sticking partway out.

McCoy and Jim take their seats and pull their chairs into the table. Edgar says to Jack Fedogan to bring over a pitcher of beer and four glasses. When he sees Bills Williams pulling another chair across, he tells Jack to make that five glasses.

Over at the table, McCoy asks what was bad luck.

“Bad luck,” Front-Page agrees enthusiastically.

“No,” McCoy says, raising his voice like he’s talking to someone who speaks a different language to the one
he
uses, separating out the words. “What. Did. You. Mean. About. Bad. Luck. When. You. Shook. My. Hand?”

Front-Page nods. “Bad luck.” And then he leans forward, raps the table with his knuckles, puts his head on his arm and commences to let out the most fearful noise.

“He’s really lost the plot,” McCoy Brewer observes.

Edgar Nornhoevan looks down at his hands and notes, with some surprise, that they’re shaking. “I’m not even sure he recognized me … or any of us,” he says, more to himself than to anyone else.

Jim Leafman taps Edgar on the shoulder and nods in the direction of Front-Page McGuffin. “He having some kind of attack?”

“He’s crying,” Bills Williams says quietly.

“Crying?” says McCoy. “That’s
crying
?”

The sound that the one-time star reporter of the New York Times is making is a noise that’s a little bit like nails being dragged across a blackboard, a little bit like the busted air conditioning in Edgar’s apartment, and a little bit like the whine of the loose fanbelt on Jim Leafman’s aged Plymouth. And with every new expulsion, Front-Page’s back arches like a mad cat.

Bills reaches
across and takes hold of Front-Page’s hand, raises his eyebrows. Then he shifts his hold to the wrist.

“He’s cold isn’t he?” says McCoy. “He’s one sick man.”

“He’s worse than that,” says Bills.

Edgar frowns. “What’s worse than being sick?” he asks.

Front-Page lifts his head and that eyelid has stuck down again. He lifts his hand and adjusts it, this time a little easier. “I do … I do remember you guys,” he says, the words sticking here and there, coming out croaked, and then raps the table with his knuckles.

“You eating, Front-Page? You gotta eat you know,” says Edgar, sounding like he’s talking to a child. “Keeps your strength up.”

“Not hungry,” says Front-Page, rapping his knuckles on the table again.

“Ask him when he last ate something?” Jim whispers to Edgar.

“Two weeks, maybe three,” says Front-Page without waiting for Edgar to pass on the question. He raps his knuckles again. “Don’t remember. Just remember the pain.”

Edgar says, “Pain?”

Front-Page slaps a hand heavily against his chest. “Pain,” he says, “right here. Fell over in the street … down near Battery Park. Late night. Nobody around.” He pauses and makes a wheezing sound. When he speaks again, the lips barely come apart, cracked and discoloured. “Just lay there for a time. Thinking of Betty.”

“Oh God,” Edgar says, hanging his head.

“Then what happened?” asks Bills.

“Pain went away. Got up … went somewhere.”

“Where’d you go, Front-Page? Did you go home?”

Front-Page looks at Jim and tries to shrug.
“Doanmumber.”

“He doesn’t remember,” Bills translates for the frowning Edgar. He hands his glass of beer to Front-Page and watches him take a long slug.

Jack Fedogan strolls across and places the pitcher of frothy beer on the table, puts a glass in front of each person. “How’s he doing?”

“Not good,” says Edgar.

“He’s worse than not good,” says Bills.
“He’s dead.”

Nobody speaks.

Front-Page looks from one wide-eyed face to another while in the background, from Jack Fedogan’s bar speakers, Ellis and Branford Marsalis play a haunting version of ‘Maria’.

“I think,” says Front-Page, “he’s right.” The words come out straighter and coherent and he looks as surprised at that as everyone else looks as a result of Bills Williams’s revelation. “It happens sometimes,” Front-page says. He gives the table a single knock with his knuckles.

“It happens sometimes that people die and walk into a bar to see their old friends?” Edgar says, his voice getting higher with each word.

Front-Page shakes his head. “My voice,” he says. “Sometimes it sounds almost normal. The beer helps.”

“But, yes, Edgar, it does happen sometimes that people walk around after they’ve …
passed on
,” Bills says. “I seen it once before, down in New Orleans.” He reaches across to Front-Page’s open shirt-neck, pulls a silver chain there until he exposes a circular medallion depicting an old man carrying someone on his shoulders. “Saint Christopher,” Bills says.

“Who’s he?” asks Jim Leafman.

“Patron Saint of travellers,” Front-Page says. “Protects anyone on the road … looks after them.”

“Why did you not shake McCoy’s hand?” Bills asks. “When you came over to the table.”

“Bad luck to shake hands across a table,” Front-Page answers. “Everyone knows that.” He looks around at the blank faces. “Don’t they?”

“Why’d you keep rapping the table, Edgar asks, making it sound like he already knows the answer.

“Knocking wood,” Front-Page says. “Keeps from tempting fate.”