I sit cross-legged on the floor and oh so carefully lift the letters out of the boxes, one by one—some on flowery notepaper, others on thick ecru stationery, still others torn from yellow lined legal pads. I treat each as the precious object it is, sharing priceless details from all stages of Jay’s life, creating a vivid portrait of the person he was.
His cousin Rich writes of his adventures with 10-year-old Jay, playing ice hockey on frozen ponds and putting bottle caps on the rails at the Plandome train station.
A friend from grammar school shares the unusually thoughtful get-well card Jay wrote him in third grade, signing off with “you’re the nicest pal a guy could have.” A letter from a classmate at Washington and Lee describes Jay charging down the lacrosse field, his ponytail—a rare sight at W&L—flying in the wind. A buddy from officer candidate school reminisces about the pitchers of beer they shared while writing songs for a revue. A law-firm colleague tells the girls that after our first date, Jay walked into her office and announced, “I just met the girl I’m going to marry.”
One letter writer says how sweet Jay had been to his young son, Luke, when we came over for dinner—Jay picking Luke up by his belt and twirling him around “like a merry-go-round.” He signs off with “Take care of one another, be good to your mom, and always be ever so proud that your name is Monahan. Your friend, Tim Russert.”
Tim, to whom I owed everything, a journalistic giant, respected by all who knew and watched him—who himself would die （suddenly, of a heart attack） a decade later.
ON THE EIGHTH anniversary of Jay’s death, I took Carrie to the cemetery, a place I never found comforting and didn’t visit often. I’d let her skip school that day, picking her up from home after the show. We got in Jack’s sedan and made the 45-minute pilgrimage to Holy Rood.
A year before, I’d placed two ceramic tiles bearing photos of the girls at the base of his tombstone. Miraculously, they were still there—the images now ghostly, faded from sun and snow. I felt the winter chill as I stood back and watched Carrie read the chiseled slab:
John Paul Monahan III
January 5, 1956–January 24, 1998
“Should we say a silent prayer?” I asked.
We bowed our heads.
Then we held hands and walked the frozen ground—patches of tired grass strewn with twigs. I pointed out some of Jay’s afterlife neighbors. “This is where Gaga is,” I told Carrie. “And here are Gaga’s parents. Your dad is with his family.”
After what felt like an appropriate amount of time in this strange and solemn setting, we scurried to the car.
When we reached Main Street, Jack pulled into Dunkin’ Donuts. Carrie requested a toasted coconut; I got a coffee and brought one to Jack. Then he turned onto 495 and drove us back to our lives.
Part III
44
The Way It Was
MATT AND I WERE in a groove. We had a warm, friendly relationship—he often referred to me as “sweetie” off camera, in the nicest way. Matt was less of a chauvinist than Bryant and didn’t make me feel on edge.
The crew loved him. He could get exasperated if something went wrong on the show, but he always kept his cool. On camera and off, he exuded decency and kindness. When Spence held its annual father-daughter dance for the fourth grade, Ellie didn’t have a father to bring. So Matt offered to step in.
The whole idea of a father-daughter dance really stuck in my craw. I thought it was so insensitive to the families who didn’t have fathers—two other dads in Ellie’s class had died of cancer, and another had been out of the picture for years. When I complained to the school and suggested they change the name of the event to something like “Bring a Special Friend,” the headmistress told me she had spoken to the mothers organizing the event and they felt strongly. “It’s a tradition,” she said.
“So was slavery,” I responded.
Ellie ended up not going, but I was so touched by Matt’s offer.
I often thought the key to our success was that we were opposites who respected each other’s distinct skill sets. He was punctual, arriving at 4:50 sharp every morning, unfailingly well prepared. I often rolled in well past 6, and crammed for my interviews while the hair and makeup folks whirled around me. And we had that rare, special thing called chemistry. We anticipated each other’s reactions and finished each other’s sentences. Best of all, we made each other laugh—that good time the viewers saw us having was real. Yes, we were competitive, vying for the big interviews and building our respective teams of producers. Occasionally that created tension, which made us both better.