Still, he is not an unlikable or tedious interview. He’s feisty and coarse and colorfully blunt-spoken, as the dying are entitled to be. For me it’s hardly a wasted afternoon, spent in the company of one who has led a full life. Eighty-eight years is something to shoot for.
“I always believed a paper should be the conscience of its community,” he is saying for the third time. “News isn’t just the filler between advertisements. It’s the spine of the business. You write that down?”
“Every word,” I assure him.
“Think you got plenty for your article?”
“More than enough.”
“Good,” Polk growls. “Now all I gotta do is croak and you’re good to go.”
“Don’t hurry on account of me.”
“Close that damn notebook, Mr. Tagger. We’ve got some important matters to discuss, you and I. Off the record.”
I can’t imagine what.
“Put it away!” the old man tries to bark, though the only sound from his lips is a flatulent sibilance. He paws at the tracheostomy valve and finally grabs for the call button. The same unflappable nurse comes in and calmly clears the valve so that MacArthur Polk can continue speaking.
“Thank you, darling.” He squeezes both her hands. She bends down and kisses him sweetly on his blue-veined scalp.
“I love you,” says the old man.
“Love you, too,” says the nurse.
Now I get it.
“Mr. Tagger, say hello to my wife,” Polk says. “Ellen, this is the obituary man from the paper.”
“Nice to meet you,” says Ellen Polk, shaking my hand. “Did he throw the bedpan again? Mac, are you misbehaving?”
“Sit down, darling,” he tells her.
They both see it in my expression. Mrs. Polk says to me: “I’m not what you expected, am I?”
Bingo. I was expecting a shark in designer heels; a predatory blonde with store-bought boobs and probate lawyers in the closet. Ellen Polk is no gold digger; she’s a hardworking health care provider.
“We met in the cardiac wing,” says Old Man Polk.
“He was a regular,” Ellen adds.
“She let me grab her tush,” the old man warbles proudly.
“In your dreams, Mac.”
“Tell the truth, darling. You wanted me.”
“That’s right,” she says. “I’ve got a thing for guys on ventilators. That sucking noise really turns me on.”
Polk crows. Ellen rises to kiss him goodbye.
“No, stay,” he tells her. “This concerns you, too.”
Then, to me, the old man says: “Mr. Race Maggad III came to visit me here, Mr. Tagger. Why is that, you suppose?”
I play along. “He thinks of you as a father figure?”
“No, he detests me.”
“Now, Mac—” says Ellen.
“Oh, it’s true.” When the old man gulps, the valve at his throat gives off a muted peep. “Maggad hates me, Mr. Tagger, but he’s kissing ass because I’ve got something he desperately wants, preferably before I die.”
“What would that be?” I ask.
MacArthur Polk looks at his wife, who looks at me. They’re both smiling. I suppose I should be smiling, too.
The old man says, “You’re gonna enjoy this, Mr. Tagger.”
Meeting the lovely Mrs. MacArthur Polk has got me thinking about another young wife, Mrs. James Stomarti, who might not have been so devoted to her husband. After departing Charity Hospital I impulsively decide to go see if Jimmy’s widow really left for California, as she told me she would at the funeral.
What little I know about Cleo Rio comes from a back issue of Spin, which I tracked down through a friend at a guitar store. The article, which appeared shortly after the “Me” video was released, said the former Cynthia Jane Zigler was born and raised in Hammond, Indiana. At age fifteen she dropped out of school and, joined by two boyfriends, ran off to Stockholm. There she won third place in a talent contest, doing ABBA tunes in a topless rock band. The story said she moved back to the States and occasionally sang backup for Sheryl Crow and Stevie Nicks before being signed by a minor label. Buoyed by the instant success of “Me,” Cleo Rio summarily fired her agent, manager, record producer and voice coach. The usual “creative differences” were cited. “It’s time I broke some new ground,” she told the magazine, at the crusty old age of twenty-three. Her former business manager, who claimed Cleo once tried to run him over with a UPS truck, was quoted as saying, “She’s a greedy, ruthless, world-class cunt, but I wish her only the best.”