I was impressed that she knew that detail about me and sensed that she wasn’t one to miss a step. She continued moving as she spoke, “I can eat cheese, but maybe it would be better if I couldn’t. I eat it by the barrels! That’s probably why I’m not a size four, but the heart wants what it wants! And mine wants triple-cream brie!”
cause of death: By falling cartoon anvil. Or maybe an overdose on cheese?
after-death ritual: Cremation, so someone can make one of those creepy diamonds from her ashes.
service: Landmark Forum meeting.
processional music: “Happy” by Pharrell Williams.
memorial buffet: Marzipan fruits and petit fours. Sickly sweet.
Madison gestured for me to follow and, when I hesitated, she prodded me forward with a series of taps on the back of my shoulder. Come, come. “So you’re a writer, right? What kind again? I love magazines.”
“Just a grant writer.”
I could read her disappointment even from the back of her head, the way it settled into her neck. Maybe I was projecting.
“Oh. Grant writing. What does that mean exactly?”
I scurried to keep up with her as she zoomed down the hallway. The one thing I’ll say for the whirlwind that was Madison is that I didn’t have time for panic; I was winded from exertion instead. “I write applications, so that people or organizations—one organization in particular right now—is awarded money for research and program initiatives. That kind of thing.”
“Uh, huh. Totally.” She wasn’t listening. “Did you used to write for magazines? I thought I remembered that? Stewart was in a lot of the good ones. I loved looking for him in them while getting my weekly pedicure. It’s so sad!” She said it like, “It’s so awesome!” I wasn’t sure if she meant Stewart’s death or the fact that she couldn’t find him in magazines anymore.
“I wrote for a few. Magazines. In the beginning. But editorial is very unreliable, I—”
“Uh-huh. Totally.” Madison didn’t turn around as she said, “I don’t know how you do it! I do not enjoy writing. No, sir! As soon as I was done with that last college term paper, I thought, ‘Thank God! I’m never doing that again!’ No offense. I’m sure it’s great for you!”
Was it great for me? It was more like part of me. Writing was the language of my household. I grew up in a cluttered but well-loved rent-controlled apartment—the kind with piles of first edition books and not enough storage. The bookshelves we did have were finds from flea markets and antique shops, although my parents are discerning, so many were of Danish modern and other design movements. My mother and father left each other—and eventually me—Post-it notes on surfaces all over the house: Don’t forget fennel for tonight’s dinner party. Take out the garbage. Remind me to tell you about this Hannah Arendt passage I rediscovered. It’s how we communicated. Sometimes, especially in comparison to Stewart’s home—or homes—I found our lifestyle embarrassing and avoided having friends over.
“Your parents are the real deal,” Stewart used to assure me. “They just don’t have real furniture.”
He loved them. How could he not? My parents were the diametric opposite of his. Back in the day, he never missed a Passover at our house.
cause of death: Simultaneous.
after-death ritual: Cremation. There is no God. Lifelong atheists. Also: “I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes, so live not in your yesterdays, not just for tomorrow, but in the here and now.” (Carl Sandburg)
service: All their weird literary friends—and me, of course. Maybe at the local library.
processional music: Neil Young and Talking Heads. For days.
memorial buffet: Italian subs, for sure. With dill pickle–flavored chips. My dad wouldn’t have it any other way.
My parents—who were both adjunct professors—took their time in the mornings, listened to NPR, scheduled time for “thinking.” The only things that inspired urgency in them were the residency and fellowship applications they were always filling out, so that one or both of them (and often me, too, unless my grandparents watched me) could go work on their craft somewhere remote for a period of time. Generally, that meant a monastic setting in the middle of nowhere with lots of trees, no TV, no internet, and scratchy sheets on uncomfortable Victorian cots. There, they spent their time reading theory and fiction, writing and attending readings—which is how they spent time in their everyday lives anyway. If you think about it, it’s no surprise that my one skill turned out to be writing grant proposals.
My mother was thrilled that I chose a more stable career than they had; my father less so. He thought, in less intense terms than Stewart, that I might be wasting my “talents.” For some reason, he dreamed of me writing screenplays, maybe because I wrote one semidecent one in college. For the millionth time in the last few days—okay, maybe much longer than that, if I was honest—I had a sinking feeling like somehow I’d failed. Like maybe my career wasn’t what it should be, and everyone knew it but me. Did Stewart’s criticisms bug me because I sensed the kernel of truth in them?
Madison stopped before a closed door, her hand on the knob. “Oh, shoot! I just realized that I got popovers to go with the tea, but you won’t be able to eat them. Eggs!”
“Oh, no. I can have eggs. I just—”
“Anyway! Can’t keep them waiting!”
“Wait, them? I meant to ask, who is the other—?”
She flung the door open to reveal Helen, sitting on a mauve love seat next to George, the jerk from the day before. Of course. Because—my luck. He was holding her hand. Her head was bowed. Maybe she was crying.
The pop of the door opening had startled them both, though, and Helen looked up. Spotting me, she pursed her lips and dropped George’s hand, erasing any signs of vulnerability. She raised her palm in a flourish to gesture me in. “Wren. You’ve arrived.”
My Queen Elizabeth had nothing on hers.
“Sorry if I’m late. The train . . .” Why had I even said that? I knew I wasn’t late. It was like I wanted to give her reason to hate me.
“Let me know if you need anything!” Madison chirped. She shut the door behind me. For all her annoyingness, I wished her back. This place felt like a trap.
Still, I had to admit, it was a beautiful dungeon. The walls were vaguely pink and the furniture was all by recognizable modernist designers—angular and embodied. But there was also a warmth here. The neutral rugs and textiles were woven into muted patterns, creating a yogic effect, as if we’d been transported to an Asian-inspired wellness retreat. Of course, there was a signature orchid on Helen’s desk.
Once, when I was a kid, I knocked one of her flowers over while Stewart and I were playing some make-believe dragon game. I was terrified, but Stewart took the blame. It was the only time I ever heard her raise her voice at him. “You know my mother,” he would say sardonically years later. “She’s a delicate flower herself.”
My sweater was starting to feel like its own little prison. Like I was being cultivated in a greenhouse like her orchids.
“Have a seat.” Helen’s voice quivered. At least I thought it did. “Do you know George?”
I nodded, sitting down in a chair to their left and allowing my eyes to stray to his face. What was he doing here? He nodded back without smiling, no indication that he remembered yesterday’s exchange. Maybe it had never happened. Maybe none of this was happening.
“I’m sorry to be abrupt,” Helen continued, “but I have an appointment with my estate lawyer shortly, so I’m afraid I need to dispense with pleasantries.” I’m not sure if she meant the word pleasantries ironically, but it sure felt off in this context.
“Whatever you need.”
“So, as you know, Stewart’s passing was very sudden.” George and I nodded solemnly. “As a result, we’re left with some messes to clean up. He wasn’t . . . prepared. Well, none of us were. And, as
you also know, he wouldn’t have been one to worry much about the fallout from such things. He would have figured when you’re gone, you’re gone.” I thought I saw the faintest trace of a smile cross her lips, as she recalled how maddening her son could be.
“I asked you both here because I’d like you to take on the most literal mess: his apartment.”
This was not what I’d expected. I figured whatever Helen asked would be deeply peripheral like informing his old classmates or helping to cancel his subscriptions to Variety and Blue Apron. But this? This seemed like a major undertaking, from both an emotional and practical standpoint. I was at once horrified and honored to be entrusted with the task.
“You want us to . . . sorry, do what in his apartment?” asked George. Turns out I wasn’t the only one caught off guard.
“Go through his stuff,” Helen said, massaging her temple. Maybe she had a headache too. “Decide what should be kept, donated, or discarded. Decide who should get what, after I’ve reserved whatever Kate and Ted and I might like to keep.”
George and I looked at each other, then back at Helen.
“But how will we know?” I heard myself say. “What has value? To you?”
“Wren, you were his best friend for three decades. If you don’t know, then who would?”
To my horror, I felt flattered. “What about Kate? She doesn’t want to see what’s there?”
“She’s too busy. Or upset. I don’t know.”
“But—”
“You’ll have George here to help you figure out how best to disseminate things—what, if anything, has monetary value or should go to a specific person based on Stewart’s very vague will. Some of Stewart’s other friends have reached out about retrieving mementos. I’ll let them know that you’ll be handling things.”
“He had a will?” I blurted out, instantly regretting it. “I didn’t realize.” Every revelation was like a knife to the gut. I guess it just made it all more real. I furrowed my brow in confusion. “But why would”—I gestured at George without looking his way—“he know what Stewart cared about?”
Helen stared at me like I was the world’s biggest moron. “Because George was Stewart’s lawyer. He drew up the will.”
I’m sure my eyes opened wide at that. I looked at George, as he avoided my gaze. “His lawyer? Oh. I see.”
As my mind reeled, processing that information, Helen continued, “The Institute of Television Arts has expressed interest in hosting a memorial in Stewart’s honor—some speakers and the like to highlight his work. Very short notice; they like to do these things quickly. There will be a curated display of certain objects, some photographs, et cetera, in a small gallery by the auditorium there, for attendees to peruse, so you should also be on the lookout for anything to include.”
“Anything?”
“Photographs, costumes, objects, his Emmy. Anything that reflects his career trajectory, his inspirations. Anything that screams, ‘Stewart.’ You understand.” She looked away quickly.
We do? An image came to mind of Stewart as Friar Tuck in our fifth-grade production of Robin Hood. And a postcard he kept propped on his adolescent desk of Robert De Niro in Raging Bull. So there would be something beyond the boilerplate funeral. Thank God.
Helen rose and walked to her desk. She opened a drawer and pulled out a set of keys on a brown leather Balenciaga keychain. She crossed back to us and held them out. “Here.” George and I stared at the dangling cluster without moving. “Take these, so you can let yourselves into the apartment and start sorting everything tomorrow. Who wants them?”
I said, “I can—”
“George. You take them. There’s only one set.”
She’ll only lose them.
“Of course.” He stood and accepted the keys, which had started to feel totemic to me. So I stood too.
“One last thing: Wren, the Institute likes to partner with a charity for these events to donate proceeds from ticket sales. In this case, an aneurysm organization seems to make the most sense. I can’t recall—are you writing for magazines or working in the nonprofit sector these days?”
“No, I stopped the journalism stuff a while ago. The industry is dying, I—”
“Good. Then you’ll be in charge of figuring out which aneurysm nonprofit is the best fit. Be in touch if you have any questions.” The idea of delving into the details of the affliction was both terrifying and enticing.
This was our cue to leave. George opened the door and I hurried through, almost slamming into Madison, who waited on the other side with a gigantic smile frozen on her face. I stifled a shriek. I bet she slept with her eyes open.
“Can I show you out?”
Minutes later, George and I were back in our coats and riding down in the elevator together.
I couldn’t restrain myself for long: “His lawyer, huh? You said ‘douche bag friend.’ ”
“First of all, I never actually called myself a ‘douchebag friend.’ ” George looked sheepish, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “And I was both. Friend and attorney.”
“Sure.”
“I didn’t mention the lawyer thing because I didn’t want you to react like you are now, thinking I was some bottom feeder. Stu and I were close.”
“Right, right. Close. You’re an entertainment lawyer, I imagine, then?”
“Yeah. I just drew up a boilerplate will because he said the studio insisted he have something basic. That’s partially why it’s not as detailed as it should be.”
“Uh-huh.” I sighed. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
“That you have to go through his apartment? Or that you have to do it with me?”
“Both.”
The truth is I was shocked that Helen had chosen me and acknowledged me as Stewart’s “best friend.” Had I been wrong? Did she see my value in Stewart’s life, after all?
“I’m not thrilled either,” George frowned. “I have a job. This is going to be really time-consuming and the partners at the firm aren’t going to be happy about me working remotely for even longer. Plus I loved Stewart, but I really don’t need to go through his underwear drawer.”
“You know, I have a job too.”
“No, but I have a real job.”
I stared at him. “You’re the worst, you know that?”
“Oh, and you’re a ray of sunshine?”
I clenched my hands into fists. The doors swept open. Sensing my rage, George backed out of the way as I stomped from the elevator like I might run him over. If only I’d had a car.
Behind me, I heard a groan, then he jogged to catch up. “Wait! Wren, wait.” He stopped me in the middle of the lobby, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder. I almost shrugged it off, but the contact felt oddly calming. “Look,” his voice softened, “I know we haven’t exactly hit it off so far, but this . . . it’s going to be tough. On many levels. Let’s try to make the best of it and help each other, okay?”
I exhaled. That sounded reasonable. It was maybe the first thing out of his mouth that did. “Fine.”
He pulled his phone from his back pocket. “What’s your number? I’ll call you now, so we have each other’s info.” I recited it; my phone rang.
“You would use that old-fashioned phone ringtone.” I opened my mouth to protest, but George held up a hand. “I mean, because it’s so quaint, not because it’s played out. And grandma.” He shot me a fake smile. “Okay. Let’s leave it at that before I make things worse. Tomorrow at ten a.m.?”
I rolled my eyes but nodded begrudgingly. The doorman opened the lobby doors wide in obvious deference to George, but, as I walked past, he scrutinized me. I looked down at my jeans and then at George’s navy peacoat and pressed button-down. I guess he was dressed as if he merited respect. Was that the difference?
“See ya, Bill!” George waved to the doorman, who waved back. Oh. Or
maybe George had made a buddy.
I crossed my arms. “Why is that guy such a dick to me?”
“Who? Bill? What did he do?”
“He just glares at me.”
“I think he’s just being cautious.”
“Cautious? Why? Do I look like I might mug a tenant?”
George shook his head. He gestured across the street, to the park side of Central Park West, where a cluster of men lingered with cameras. Paparazzi. I started. I don’t know why I was surprised. Sometimes I was so busy thinking about where Stewart started that I forgot who he had become. “Oh! Oh, I see.”
“They’ve been loitering out there waiting for photos. One doorman caught them paying off a garbage man, so they could rifle through the Beasleys’ trash. Slow gossip week, I guess.”
“But that’s disgusting!”
“Sure is.”
It was like there was my universe and then this foreign Hollywood one, and I didn’t even speak that language. But then I had never been able to understand Stewart’s world of fame or his attraction to it. Even back when he started making theater friends in high school and dedicating so much time to acting, I couldn’t comprehend the appeal.
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow,” George said. For him, apparently the tabloid scavengers were no big thing. “Should I bring coffee? How do you take it?”
“I think Stewart was gifted one of those fancy Nespresso things with the pods after doing a commercial,” I said, tearing my eyes away from the photographers. “He probably never used it. I’m sure there’s plenty.”
“Okay. We can play it by ear then. Oh, and I’ll call the police detective who’s lead on the case and make sure we’re clear to get through the crime scene tape.”
I swear my heart stopped. Just for a moment. Maybe I died and came back to life like that older guy with the bow tie from the shiva. I couldn’t speak—and I wanted to so badly. I looked from the blue sky to the sidewalk, where the first fallen leaves were collecting beneath the curb’s lip, and tried to find my breath. “Wait, what?” I finally managed. “Why police?”
Competitive Grieving Page 10
