We’re not talking...
And we’re glad.
I’ve become increasingly amazed by newscast sound bytes featuring persons tangentially related to a story who blather on without restraint. There are more and more of these people with less and less to say. And often grammatically comedio-tragic.
Where do those people come from? This week we came excrutiatingly close to becoming them.

Fran received a phone call around 1:00am Tuesday telling her that her high school sweetheart had been killed in Iraq. Hopes that this was just a bad rumor were quashed by a note on my desk at work informing me of a young former parishioner who had been killed in action. And even though I talked with a close friend of the young man’s mother, I waited until the name was released by the Dept. of Defense until I actually put his name on the list of prayers for the deceased.

Fran is a tough girl to read. Familial stiff upper lip and all that stuff. But I know the unconscious attachment one can keep for first loves and old friends. (I had a card in the mail from my childhood beau - we’re talking fifth grade - the day before Fran’s news and I found myself holding off on opening lest it be a bearer of bad news. It wasn’t. Just “how are you guys doing?” etc.) Her current suitor attended a different high school and never knew her old friend. So their was no opportunity for shared grief and I could tell she would keep any feelings under wraps, if only out of consideration for the man of the moment. (OK, man of the century, since they’ve been dating more than 5 years.)

Unnerved by this encroachment of reality, I tried to muddle through my day at work. There were enough snafus of the office technology ilk to keep me occupied. (almost broke the fax machine changing ink cartridges, strange lines through any correspondence printed on the laser writer and to top it off, a missing toner cartridge for the copier and a copier company that disavowed any knowledge of an on going relationship with our office. By two in the afternoon my voice was taking on a metallic edge as I phoned back and forth between the 800 number and the local corporate office...”But what about your service man, Josh? Why would Josh be here every other week if didn’t have a service contract for this (here I am imagining a string of obscenities) machine?”)

On Wednesday, things were not going a whole lot better. The office was short handed. Two of the three priests were out for two days and we were doing our best to do work that involved no copying, no pastor’s signature and no imminent decision making. That is when a call came in from a reporter for Channel 7 in Chicago. She wanted to know what we knew about a young man from Lake Forest who had been killed in Iraq. There was no one for her to talk to. The parish school that he had attended was empty. The pastor wasn’t in. (Not that our new pastor even knew this fellow.) So I volunteered Fran. Not having a long time to talk on the phone (yes, there is a certain ‘rush’ from putting a reporter on hold to answer two other lines...) I mentioned that my daughter dated this man about 8 years ago and perhaps she could share some thoughts and names of other friends. So I did that which we are never supposed to do. Give out a parishioner’s phone number to a caller. Tough nuts. I’m the parishioner’s mother. And I gave her Fran’s cell number.

Ten minutes later I received another call. Fran was helpful but declined to speak on camera. Would I mind standing in front of the church and making a brief statement? For one wretched second there was the appeal of a moment all my own to blather on camera. But I caught myself before I succumbed. For a number of reasons, the least of which was the fact that the pastor would certainly not be thrilled to turn on the telly at bedtime (and I know with my luck it would be Channel 7) and see his parish church and the only person tending the rectory phones standing out front babbling incoherently. And what would I say? What could I say?
It is tragic. Sad. He was a nice boy when I knew him. Maybe I could talk a little about the sweet musical snow globe he gave Franny (gawdy, but heart felt, with a bit of “my mom helped pick this out because I don’t know a thing about girly presents” written all over it) and that is still somewhere in our house. And now how could we dare get rid of this memento of a fallen graduate of LFHS? Maybe I would become completely unglued and segue into a bit of slander about the bungling fools at the copier company and how they had ruined my day. And then, filled with remorse at devoting so much of my time to photocopying and helping other people with their problems, I would burst into tears and wave at the camera and shriek, “Mom loves you boys. I’ll be home soon.”

No, discretion is the better part of valor.
I’m proud of Fran for keeping her feelings to her self, except for a few kind words off camera. I’m glad I caught myself before I could fall into the trap of making a tragedy an excuse for pathetic TV performance art. (And because I am a sucker for sad line, I had a second moment of temptation when the reporter dropped a hint about coming all the way out to Lake Forest and not getting anybody on tape. Should I have bailed her out? I think not. And I’m not pleased to see any further tragedy, but I did notice on the 10:00 o’clock news that she was in Buffalo Grove at the scene of a deadly fire of suspicious origins. So she didn’t spend a whole day’s work without getting her money shot.)

So we were thinking. And praying. Just off camera.