Newspapers customarily do not report a private death as a suicide, on the theory it might plant the idea in the minds of other depressed people, who would immediately rush out and do themselves in. These days no paper can afford to lose subscribers.
There is, however, a long-standing journalistic exception to the no-suicide rule.
"He's famous, Emma. The rule goes out the window."
"He's not famous. I never heard of him."
Again she is forcing me to insult her. "Ever heard of Sylvia Plath?" I ask.
"Of course."
"Do you know whyyou've heard of her, Emma? Because she stuck her head in an oven. That's what she's famous for."
"Jack, you're not funny."
"Otherwise she's just another brilliant, obscure, unappreciated poet," I say. "Fame enhances death, but death also enhances fame. That's a fact."
Emma's fine-boned lower jaw is working back and forth. She's itching to tell me to go screw myself but that would constitute a serious violation of management policy, a dark entry in an otherwise promising personnel file. I feel for her, I really do.
"Emma, let me do some checking on Stomarti."
"In the meantime," she says sharply, "I'll be holding twelve inches for Rabbi Levine."
A death notice isn't the same as an obituary. A death notice is a classified advertisement written and paid for by the family of the deceased, and sent to newspapers by the funeral home as part of its full-service package. Death notices usually are printed in a small type known as agate, but they can be as long-winded and florid as the family desires. Newspapers are always happy to sell the space.
The death notice of Jimmy Stoma was remarkable for its brevity, and for what was omitted:
STOMARTI, James Bradley, 39, passed away Thursday in the Berry Islands. A resident of Silver Beach since 1993, Jim was a successful businessman who was active in his church and neighborhood civic groups. He loved golf, sailing and diving, and raised thousands of dollars to help restore damaged coral reefs in the Florida Keys and the Bahamas. A cherished friend, devoted brother and beloved husband, he will be deeply missed by his wife, Cynthia Jane, and his sister Janet Stomarti Thrush of Beckerville. A private family mass will be held Tuesday morning at St. Stephen's Church, followed by a brief shipboard ceremony near the Ripley Lighthouse, where Jim wished to have his mortal remains committed. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that contributions be made to the Cousteau Society, in Jim's memory.
Odd. No trace of his life as a Slut Puppy, the six million records sold, the MTV video awards, the Grammy. Music wasn't even listed among his hobbies.
Maybe Jimmy Stoma had wanted it that way; maybe he had worked so hard to put the wild years behind him that he'd wanted nothing, not even his own death, to revive the past.
Sorry, pal, I'll try to be gentle.
There is no James or J. Stomarti in the county phone book, but a Janet Thrush is listed in Beckerville. A woman picks up on the third ring. I tell her who I am and what I'm writing.
"Sorry," she says, "it's a bad time."
"You're Jimmy's sister?"
"That's right. Look, can you call back in a couple days?"
Here comes the dicey part when I've got to explain—very delicately—that when it comes to obituaries, it's now or never. Wait forty-eight hours and nobody at the paper will give a rat's ass about your dead brother.
Nothing personal. It's the nature of news.
"The story's running tomorrow," I tell his sister. "I really hate to bother you. And you're right, there's lots of stuff I could use from our clippings ... "
I let this ghastly prospect sink in. Nobody deserves an obituary constructed exclusively from old newspaper stories.
"I'd prefer chatting with those who knew him best," I say. "His death is going to be a shock for lots of people all over the country. Your brother had so many fans ... "
"Fans?" Janet Thrush is testing me.
"Yeah. I was one of them."
On the other end: an unreadable silence.
"Jimmy Stoma," I press on. "Of Jimmy and the Slut Puppies. It isthe same James Stomarti, right?"
His sister says, quietly, "That was a long time ago."
"People will remember. Trust me."
"Well, that's good. I guess." She sounds unsure.
I say, "There wasn't much information in the death notice."
"I wouldn't know. I didn't see it."
"About his music, I mean."
"You talk to Cleo?"
"Who's that?" I ask.
"His wife."
"Oh. The funeral home gave the name as Cynthia."
"She goes by Cleo," says Jimmy's sister. "Cleo Rio. The one and only."
When I say I've never heard of her, Jimmy's sister chuckles. A television murmurs in the background. Meet the Press,it sounds like.
"Well, pretend you know who Cleo is," she advises, "and I guarantee she'll give you an interview."
Obviously Sis and the widow have some issues. "What about you?" I ask.
"Lord, don't mention my name."
"That's not what I meant," I say. "I was hoping you would talk to me. Just a few quick questions? I'm sorry, but I'm on a tight deadline—"
"After you get hold of Cleo," Jimmy's sister says, "call me back."
"Do you have her phone number?"
"Sure." She gives it to me, then says: "I've got an address, too. You ought to go out to the condo."
"Good idea," I say, but I hadn't planned to leave the newsroom. I can do five phoners in the time it takes to drive to Silver Beach and back.
Jimmy's sister says, "You want to get this story right, you gotta go meet Cleo." She pauses. "Hey, I'm not tryin' to tell you how to do your job."
"I appreciate the help, but just tell me one thing. How'd your brother die? Was he sick?"
She knows exactly what I mean. "Jimmy's been straight for nine years," she says.
"Then what happened?"
"It was an accident, I guess."
"What kind of accident?"
"Go ask Cleo," says Jimmy's sister, and hangs up.
I'm on my way out the door when Emma cuts me off. She's almost a whole foot shorter than I am; sneaky, too. I seldom see her coming.
She says, "Did you know Rabbi Levine took up hang gliding at age seventy? That's good stuff, Jack."
"Did he die in his hang glider, Emma? Crash into the synagogue, by chance?"
"No," she concedes. "Stroke."
I shrug. "Nice try, but I'm off to visit the widow Stomarti."
Emma doesn't budge. "I like the rabbi better."
Hell. Now she's forcing me to show my cards. I glance quickly around the newsroom and notice, with some relief, that none of the young superstars are working today. That's one good thing about a Sunday shift, the newsroom is like a tomb. Emma wants to take away my story, she'll have to write the damn thing herself.
And Emma, bless her sorority-sister soul, has never been a reporter. Judging by the strenuous syntax of her memos, she likely would have difficulty composing a thank-you note.
So, here goes.
"James Stomarti was Jimmy Stoma," I say.
Emma's brow crinkles. She senses that she ought to know the name. Rather than admitting she doesn't, she waits me out.
"Of Jimmy and the Slut Puppies," I prompt.
"No kidding."
"Remember that song, 'Basket Case'?"
"Sure." Emma turns slightly, her raptor eyes scanning the rows of cubicles. The plan, I know, is to hand off Stoma to another reporter and dispatch me to do the dead rabbi.
But Emma's coming up empty. The only warm body on the city desk is Griffin, the weekend cop guy. Griffin is sixty years old, nasty and untouchable. Emma has no authority over the police reporters. Griffin looks up from his desktop and stares right through her, as if she were smoke.