“Was he into raw food?”
“Who?”
“Stanley.”
I turned to Jimmy. You take this one. “No,” he shook his head. “He ate real food.”
“Oh. Maybe that’s why he died. It’s so sad.” She stepped toward the server. “Excuse me. Is that raw?”
The waiter looked down at the tray. “It’s ceviche.”
“Oh. Rad. Is that raw?”
“Well, kind of. I mean, I guess ceviche is technically ‘cooked’ with lime juice.”
“Wait, so it’s cooked or it’s not cooked? Because the thing about raw food is . . .” Britnee began lecturing the confused cocktail server, a captive audience. She followed him as he inched away toward other attendees.
cause of death: Spontaneous combustion.
after-death ritual: Evaporation. They’ll have that by the time she dies.
service: A carnival with a ball pit and Instagram photo booth.
processional music: “Wolves” by Selena Gomez.
memorial buffet: Raw food, obviously. Unless she has her period when she dies.
“Who’s the brain trust?” Gretchen smiled at Jimmy. “Your fiancée?” She had won the battle for superiority by default.
“Whatever,” he scowled. “She’s hot.”
“Sure. If you like preschoolers. Which you probably do.”
Abruptly, the classical playlist stopped—only then did I realize it had been ambient the whole time. I scanned the room. In the corner, by a Jeff Koons balloon animal, four of Stewart’s theater school friends were huddled around the baby grand. The opening cords for “Someone Like You” by Adele rang out. I hoped these were the more talented members of his class. Otherwise this would be brutal.
“hi, guys!” a voice boomed behind me.
I whipped around to discover Stewart’s friends Mallory and Brian holding hands beside us. Of course. How could I have forgotten? It always amazed me how identical this couple looked—and how much like Muppets—with matching grins and features that looked molded from clay. As usual, they appeared more costumed than dressed, like subjects from some Japanese fashion photo book. Brian was monochromatic in a black newsboy cap, a button-down and tie, and suspenders above pants cuffed as high waters. Even his wallet chain was matte black. Mallory was draped in dark layers with snake-inspired bracelets climbing up her tattooed arm like she was about to perform Medusa. Ten different studs dotted her ears.
The duo, now married, had been attached at the hip since I first met them when Stewart was in college. They had both been studying stage management then. I wasn’t sure what either of them did now, but they were always together and in perpetual good humor. Today seemed like no exception. “this is so terrible!” Mallory grinned. She had trouble modulating her voice and tended to draw glares in public. I imagined a lot of shushing backstage when she worked on plays. She embraced me in a warm hug. “wren, it’s so good to see you! it’s been too long!”
The Adele cover singers shot us dirty looks. We were disrupting their show. Meanwhile, had anyone asked the dead guy’s mother if it was okay to perform? I scanned the room and spotted Helen, now sitting on the far corner of a severe couch—all angles, no give. It was draped with a camel hair throw blanket, the cashmere kind that had never been thrown. A circle of people surrounded her; a balding middle-aged man knelt closest. He was speaking about something with apparent passion, and she was nodding, but, even from here, I could see that her eyes looked miles away—somewhere in the past with her son.
“wren, you must be so sad!” Mallory boomed. I snapped back to attention.
“We’re all sad,” whispered Brian. It was almost inaudible. He was very, very quiet, even on a good day.
“it’s true! you’d have to be a fucking robot not to be sad!” bellowed Mallory.
“Shhhhhhh.” Jimmy rolled his eyes. “This is a goddamn shiva. Have some respect!”
“oops! Sorry, Jimmy.” Mallory shrugged. We all listened to the singing for a minute. It was pretty. Then Mallory picked up where she’d left off. “did you guys know that in south korea, people have mock funerals so they can, like, experience their own funerals? my mom told me. she just did some ancestry.com thingy, and it turns out we’re one-eighteenth korean!”
No one responded. All I could think was that, if Stewart were here right now, he would have suggested ditching his own funeral reception and heading to a dive bar.
“you guys, this is so terrible!” Mallory boomed. I’m sure she thought she was whispering. Tears streamed down her face even as she smiled. I figured she was incapable of frowning.
“It’s the worst,” whispered Brian, rubbing her back. At least I think that’s what he said. It might have been, “Where’s your purse?” They both looked really stoned.
cause of death: Suicide pact.
after-death ritual: Cremation together into a single urn, then sprinkled over the set of Game of Thrones in Iceland.
service: A screening of The Big Lebowski.
processional music: “Broken” by lovelytheband.
memorial buffet: THC-laced edibles.
“It really has been so long,” I said because I had to eventually say something. “How are you guys?
“we’re okay,” laughed Mallory, “except for this. it’s just . . . there are so many things i never got to say!”
Not to be ungenerous, but I wondered what those things might be: “Cool T-shirt, Stu”? “Are you bingeing that new Marvel show on Netflix?”
“it’s just so crazy! remember stu had that line in the sci-fi thriller about amazon echos taking over on mars? ‘one day, everyone’s time comes! nothing to do about it!’ ” Mallory actually lowered her voice. “It’s like he knew.”
“I can’t believe you memorized that line.” Jimmy shook his head, and not in admiration.
“of course i did! brian and i saw every movie and tv show that stu was ever in! we were his biggest fans! brian wouldn’t shut up last night, quoting every single episode of manic mondays! i was like, enough already, honey! i need some quiet! stop talking my ear off, you chatterbox!”
Brian shot us a crooked grin and looked at his shoes.
“when did you guys last see stu? we tried to visit him on set last time we were in la, but he was so busy, we never even got to see him. but i guess that’s the deal when you’re a movie star. he said he would have preferred to hang with us than go to the work thing he had at the ivy with some studio people. i don’t blame him! who wouldn’t rather chill and get stoned with old friends than go to some obligatory dinner with hollywood honchos?” I scanned the nearby crowd for now affronted studio execs. Mallory sighed, loudly. “if only we had seen him, maybe . . .”
“Maybe it would have staved off his aneurysm?” commented Gretchen. She couldn’t help herself.
It was just like Stewart to prioritize cooler plans with cooler people. And it was just like Mallory not to realize she’d been dissed. Still, I was surprised that he hadn’t made any time at all for Mallory and Brian when they were in LA. They were weirdos, but they were lovable, and he’d been friends with them for a million years. They would have traversed the Earth—and Echo-controlled Mars—just to meet him at his apartment. He wouldn’t have needed to leave home.
“I saw him just after New Year’s,” Jimmy frowned. “But I hadn’t talked or texted with him in a month or so.” He shook his head, focusing hard on his feet, eyes welling. “Seems like Wren spoke to him last.”
Mallory and Brian turned their coordinated gaze on me. “when was that?”
Why did it feel like an accusation? I felt hunger in their eyes like I might be withholding. I swallowed. “Like, two days before—”
“what did you talk about? did he tell you if they were planning another season of the show? i read something that said they weren’t sure—unrest among the cast or whatever. i bet t
hat trish mckenzie is a huge pain in the ass! maybe she was the problem. who actually saw him last? wren, when did you last see him, like, in person?” I felt like I was being interrogated. By someone who didn’t need a bullhorn.
I thought back. I had been so preoccupied with keeping my last phone conversation with Stewart private that I’d forgotten to think about the last time I’d laid eyes on him. That lovable face. The truth is, he was away so much, we could often go a couple of months without grabbing dinner or hanging out. “I guess when he was in New York last. When was that? A month or two ago?”
Brian and Mallory looked at each other and shook their heads. “no way! it was spring, before pilot season. may, maybe even april.”
“Really?” I counted back: Had it been five months since I’d seen him? “Jesus. Time goes so fast.”
No one was listening.
“i wonder if they’ll cancel manic mondays now without him. they kinda have to, i guess. remember when he first got the show, bri? remember that? his mom got that first page of the first script framed for him? that was so sweet. huh. i wonder what they’ll do with that memorabilia now? i wonder what they’ll do with all his stuff?”
“I heard he didn’t have a will.” And, on that lovely note, Keith inserted himself into the conversation. As if from nowhere, he and Blair appeared beside us, shoulder to shoulder, like they’d been best friends forever. “Typical Stewart to be unprepared.” Keith rolled his eyes. I wanted to punch him in his dumb face.
“He probably didn’t think he was about to die,” Jimmy snapped. “He was thirty-six, not eighty. He went to the gym all the time, drank those nasty green juices.”
“how do you know there’s no will?” Mallory. That hungry look in her eyes again.
“It’s true.” Blair. Like she was the last word. “I would have organized it for him. I would have known about it.”
“what will happen to all his stuff then?”
“Probably his mom will go through it. Or someone will.”
“but what if whoever goes through it doesn’t realize and throws away precious stuff? like, they might not know what’s valuable—to us!”
I was starting to feel uncomfortable. Mallory’s voice was cutting through the throng; people were looking at us.
“I’ll handle it, I’m sure.” Blair. Flipping her hair over her shoulder like she was a shoo-in for Harvest Princess. “Don’t worry, Mal. I got you. We were so close. I know everything that was important to Stewart.”
Brian rubbed Mallory’s back again, as she nodded, unsure. “do you think they’ll keep his costumes?”
“This is literally the dumbest conversation of all time.” Jimmy grumbled.
“For once, we agree.” Gretchen.
“Why is it dumb?” Keith threw his chin up, Blair’s new bodyguard. I noticed an ingrown hair coming to a white head beneath his beard. No way he ever washed his face.
“Because Stewart just died. He’s gone! And you’re talking about his stupid TV show costumes!”
The group began to bicker. Grossed out and not wanting to be associated with any of them, I took the opportunity to slip away. I needed to talk to Helen anyway. The longer I put it off, the worse it would loom.
Chapter 9
Stewart. Here goes nothing.
Chapter 10
I took a swig of my whisky and marched toward Stewart’s mother and her surrounding semicircle. It wasn’t until I’d almost arrived that I realized I’d have to interrupt and deliver my inadequate sentiments in front of all those onlookers. On second thought, I was about to duck away, when Helen noticed me approaching. “Ah, Wren. Hello, dear.”
Caught. I righted my course and wound up squeezing awkwardly between the coffee table—a real Noguchi, of course—and a chair, still feet from where she perched, so I had to yelp to be heard. The tribe of supporters around her gazed up at me like she was their captain and I was a planetary interloper. “Hi, Helen . . . Mrs. Beasley. Um. I just wanted to come over—” I swear the whole group leaned forward.
“Yes, dear? Speak up! It’s difficult to hear above the noise.”
“I just wanted to say . . . that I’m sorry!”
She nodded, her chin wrinkling. “Well, it wasn’t your fault. It’s no one’s fault.” Why did it feel like she meant the opposite?
I wanted to ask if Stewart had been under the weather beforehand: Was there any warning? How did she get the news? I kept having these terrible flashes of what it must have been like for Helen to find out. Who told her? Who discovered him and when? Where was he in the apartment? Was he alone? Did aneurysms run in their family? Were they genetic? Why did this happen to her son, of all people? Was it because of the lead paint they may have used at that temporary LA apartment complex? Because of the ecstasy we did together in high school? The coke he experimented with in college? Because he fell off the jungle gym when we were eight? He had needed six stitches across his eyebrow.
The questions choked me so I couldn’t get a single word out. After a beat of deafening silence, Helen addressed the group, “This is Wren, a very old friend of Stewart’s. Stewart had so many longtime friends. He was very loyal.”
They all turned and looked at me expectantly.
“It’s true! As evidenced by all the people here.” I swept my arm outward to indicate the room like a spokesmodel for funerals. I sounded dumber than a bag of hair.
“Wren and Stewart were just platonic,” Helen explained to the group. My mouth dropped open. I hadn’t expected her to share that tidbit. Then she turned back to me, her hair just brushing her shoulders like an upscale car wash. “But you had one of those arrangements, didn’t you? If you didn’t find anyone else by the time you were forty and so forth?”
I was taken aback, first that she knew and second that she was bringing it up. In front of all these people. Before I could respond, she continued, “It’s so nice to have friends you can rely on that way. Of course, Stewart could have found a million women to end up with—and several men—if he chose.” She laughed ruefully.
The implication about my comparative prospects might as well have been erected in neon lights. Apparently, Helen shared her son’s belief that I was destined for life as a cat lady.
“What is that called?” she went on. “That kind of agreement? You were his . . .” she snapped her fingers, “‘last resort!’ That’s it, right? That’s what it’s called? Wren was Stewart’s last resort.”
That was definitely not what it was called—at least not in polite circles. I would have even taken “backup plan” or “consolation prize” over that.
The members of the semicircle nodded in unison. No one corrected her or even reacted.
Well, almost no one: The crinkly-eyed guy I’d seen her talking to earlier, who now leaned against the couch’s left arm, choked back a laugh. Either that or he was coughing, but the delight in his eyes suggested otherwise. I exhaled and tried to stand up taller. ’Cause things are less humiliating with good posture.
“But anyway, they’ve always been very close. Right, Wren? Even up until recently.”
“Yes.” I looked down. “We were.” The past tense seemed to echo throughout the room, bouncing off walls and leaving noxious gas in its wake. I needed to say something else—to erase the act of referring to Stewart as no longer—and clear the air. “We just texted a couple days ago.”
Helen leveled her gaze at me, the corners of her lips curling inward like shriveling petals. “Yes. They gave me his phone. I saw your conversation.”
I stopped breathing. In that moment, two words reverberated through my head: Ass. Hat. I just had to use that expression in my last text to him! Christ. I wanted to curl up in a ball and roll away like a pill bug. Why did I always end up acting like a moron in front of this woman?
The tribe’s eyes were still on me and I needed to escape. “Um, I know Kate had to go back to
Westchester. I just wanted to offer myself up for any help you might need. I have your number in an old email, so I’ll be in touch.”
Helen’s expression softened. “Thank you, sweetie. That’s very nice. I’m taken care of.”
“Okay, well, I’ll email you my information anyway, just in case. I have some old pictures you might like to see—of me and Stewart as kids mostly.”
As terrified as I was, I shuffled around the coffee table, brushing against people’s legs as they flushed them sideways. Finally, I leaned down, across the older bald man and all, and kissed Helen’s cheek. I thought, She smells like Saks Fifth Avenue. My stylish great-aunt and my mother used to take me there as a child to trail them while they shopped. I thought it was the fanciest place in the world, with its shiny marble floors and mirrors reflecting shards of light. If glamour has a smell, I’m pretty sure that’s it.
When I straightened back up, I could see Helen’s eyes were flooded. I had no idea if I had made things worse or better, but at least I had said something.
She smiled weakly—as if by some miracle she had appreciated it—and then grimaced, perhaps realizing anew that Stewart was gone. I was poor compensation. “Thank you, Wren. Maybe you’ll be my last resort too.”
Ouch. I backed away, injuring several people’s shins in the process, then turned my back to them, shutting my eyes against the humiliation. Ass hat. It was time to leave.
But my security blanket was nowhere to be found.
Frantically, I scanned the crowd for Gretchen. All around me, people were growing progressively animated and unmodulated; eye makeup was getting smeared. Blazers were coming off to reveal damp armpit stains and loose cuffs. Things were getting good and ugly, the way I suppose they do in the aftermath of a tragedy. Everybody wants to celebrate the life they still have, maybe? That’s the nicest spin on it. More likely they want to drown their existential fear like a mouse in a bucket.
Either way, the group was getting toasty. If Helen Beasley didn’t kick this crowd out soon, she’d have a proper Irish—well, semi-Jewish—wake on her hands. I watched two dark-haired women at the entrance to the living room propping each other up. Hands flew to heads, as mourners tried to stop their own aneurysms from materializing. Everyone was on the verge of telling their versions of the truth, and that seemed dangerous in a setting like this one. At the piano, Stewart’s theater friends had moved onto “Memory” from Cats. Things were going downhill quickly.
Competitive Grieving Page 7
