Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  “There’re always police when someone dies suddenly like this. Apparently, it’s standard.”

  “But why would you need to call?”

  “Well, it’s possible that they haven’t closed the case file.”

  I shut my eyes. “Stop. What are you talking about? I don’t understand. Why would there be police tape at his New York apartment?”

  “Because that’s where he died.” George’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Did you not know that?”

  Chapter 15

  You were here? Stewart. You were here. And you didn’t call me.

  How come?

  Chapter 16

  Before I was able to answer George, my phone bing’d. I looked at the screen without seeing. Stewart was in town when he died? I was going to have to sort through the crime scene?

  I snapped back to reality. The text was from yet another number I didn’t recognize.

  Wren. It’s Blair. We need to talk. Keith and I heard that you’re—

  Another bing. Another text.

  It’s Keith. It’s so generous of you to go through Stewart’s crap. I’m sure there’s endless piles of it. He was such a slob. I don’t even want the job, but I think we can both agree that there are certain things that only I, as a fellow—

  Bing.

  wren, hi hi! it’s mallory! so, helen mentioned that you’ll be the one going through—

  Bing.

  Cheers, Wren! It’s Willow. Hope you’re having a beautiful and peaceful day. I was just wondering if you’d like me to bring sage for a clearing ceremony for—

  The texts kept coming. I was tempted to throw my phone into oncoming traffic. And then maybe follow it.

  “What’s with your phone?” George cocked his head. “Is it having a psychotic break?”

  I looked up at him, suddenly too exhausted to speak.

  “Are you having a psychotic break?”

  I exhaled. “I’m guessing that Helen sent an email to the vultures about cleaning out the apartment.”

  “The vultures?”

  “Stewart’s ‘friends.’ ” I formed air quotes with my free hand.

  “Aren’t they your friends too?”

  I shrugged. Not really.

  “What are they saying?”

  “That they want to help.”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “So?”

  “So that’s bullshit. It’s code for wanting to prove that they knew him best. That they have sobbing rights. They want to carve out a piece for themselves, soak up what’s left of his celebrity. Maybe they want stuff. I don’t know.”

  George narrowed his eyes, channeling Atticus Finch. “Like what kind of stuff?”

  “Who knows? His watches, his photos, his old socks. A piece of Stewart.”

  “Ah,” George exhaled. “I thought you meant money or things of substantial monetary value.”

  “Who knows?” I shrugged. “That’s your department.”

  “Well, let’s just assume the best for now, okay?” George let his shoulders drop, slipping his hands inside his coat pockets. “You’re probably overreacting. Maybe they all just want to be in his place and absorb the fact that he’s gone. Maybe they each want a memento in order to feel close to him.”

  Oh, George. He was so innocent—and condescending. My mouth said, “Maybe.” My tone said, “Maybe not.” I ran a hand through my hair, which I’d taken the time to curl into a wave earlier. “Look, you didn’t hear that crew talking at the funeral.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Well, it was gross. And—”

  “Look, no offense, but—”

  “Oh, this should be good,” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Sentences that start with ‘no offense’ are generally not at all offensive.”

  “Can I give you some advice?”

  “Seriously? No.”

  “Case and point: You’re a little negative. You’re always assuming the worst.”

  “Always?” I threw my hands in the air. “We’re on an ‘always’ basis now?”

  “Always. In the two times that I’ve met you.”

  “Not much of a straw poll.”

  “I think Nate Silver would still agree with me.”

  I took a deep breath of cool air and tried to contain my seething anger. “Look, I know these people.”

  “Okay, fine. That’s true. But, for the record, I’ve worked with Blair before on Stu’s behalf and she’s been just fine.”

  “By Hollywood standards?”

  “But forget that. Just imagine for a moment that maybe these people loved Stewart too and aren’t going to make this all about themselves. Think about how much better you’d feel in this moment if you trusted that they were offering you earnest support in this difficult task.” I felt like I was trapped in the world’s worst self-help seminar.

  “Fine. Maybe they’re not self-serving. Maybe they’re not trying to milk this thing for all it’s worth—from a status, career, and monetary standpoint. Maybe they’re not trying to demonstrate that their grief is the most valid. Maybe they’re not all about getting attention and feeling important—and sucking the blood out of my dead friend’s memory.”

  “Our dead friend’s memory.”

  “My dead friend. Your dead client.”

  George groaned and slapped a hand to his forehead in frustration. “Whatever. The point is, maybe! Maybe they do have decent intentions!”

  I looked blankly back at him.

  “See?” he grinned. “Don’t you feel better now?”

  “Yes. I always feel better after a man who knows less than I do explains why I’m wrong.”

  “This isn’t a gender thing,” George sighed. “I’m just trying to stay positive.”

  “Why don’t you leave that to your STD tests?”

  “I give up.”

  “Awesome.”

  “I’ll see you at ten a.m. If you want, I’ll email the group and ask them to join us at noon, after we’ve had a couple of hours to sort through things. That way you don’t have to deal with them when we first arrive, and we’ll have some control over the situation.”

  I forced a fake smile. “Works for me. Can’t wait!”

  Without a goodbye between us, George and I turned and walked in opposite directions. I wasn’t even heading toward the right train stop. I just wanted to escape. I could feel our energy dividing, as I walked on, as if pressure was releasing.

  On the subway ride home, as the car jostled and tossed me around, I read Helen’s email, which she had sent to Blair, Keith, Mallory, Brian, George, Willow, Jimmy, and me. I guess we represented Stewart’s inner circle in her mind. Inner circle of hell, if you asked me. But no one did.

  Dear All,

  Thank you again for being at the funeral and reception. It meant a lot to see you there. Your friendship is a credit to Stewart’s memory and reminded me of simpler times.

  Several of you have reached out to ask what might happen to Stewart’s memorabilia, photos, and other possessions. I have asked George and Wren—Stewart’s attorney and friend, in case you haven’t met—to take a cursory look and organize the possessions at Stewart’s New York apartment. After that, we can decide how to disseminate things. Let me know if there are specific items by which you’d like to remember my son and I will keep that in mind.

  Best,

  Helen

  I sighed. So this was my new reality. How did I wind up without Stewart, but with all of these nightmarish people? When he was alive, they had seemed like the comic relief I put up with in order to spend time with him. He would shoot me a knowing look across a restaurant banquette or bar, and then resume whatever silly conversation with a sip of his vodka. Later, we would joke about the absurdity of it all. Now there was only absurdity and no touchstone.

&nb
sp; In retrospect, it was hard not to question Stewart’s values for having chosen these friends. But none of that even mattered. Because he had been here. In New York City. And not only hadn’t he mentioned it, he had pretended to be in LA. I tried to think back: Had he actually said he was in California when we talked on the phone or had I just assumed? Was I the only one who didn’t know or were we all in the dark?

  You’re probably shooting today. Wasn’t that what I had texted him? Was he already dead by then? Did he forget to tell me he was in town because his brain wasn’t working at full capacity as it readied to explode? Had he decided he didn’t want to see me after our argument? Had he been more fed up than I’d realized? Or had I not been high status enough to merit his time? To me, the conversation had been vintage us. Maybe it was a bit more charged than usual; he had less sense of humor about my “limitations.” But I figured he was just in one of his moods.

  The worst part was that I had no reliable narrator. My own memory was the only record, and it was proving hard to trust.

  The subway screeched to a halt. Across the train, a bearded man in a skullcap—homeless or hipster?—groaned in his sleep, head falling onto the shoulder of the revolted woman next to him.

  We are being held momentarily by the train’s dispatcher.

  The lights blinked off and on again. A split second of darkness, then a blast of fluorescents. A minute passed and then another. Was I about to get stuck on this train for the long haul? Passengers started to shift in their seats. A man nearby began talking to himself—or was he on his phone’s earbuds? Were we trapped with someone unstable or was he completely normal?

  We are delayed because of train traffic ahead of us.

  I felt paranoid. I looked at the people around me—and I didn’t trust them. My eyes strained against the light. The air smelled like something rotten; I hoped it wasn’t emanating from nearby. Being trapped on the subway is a nightmare. Please no, I thought. But then something else occurred to me: You are lucky to be stuck on this subway.

  You could be Stewart. You could be dead. You could never be stuck on a subway again—or even ride one. You could have vanished off the face of the Earth. You could be gone.

  Chapter 17

  Dear Stewart,

  I wonder where you are, if anywhere. When it comes to the afterlife, I’ve always believed whatever was most comfortable at a given time: reincarnation and karma (to explain away an asshole who somehow comes out a winner), another stage of existence, a heaven that is whatever your unconscious mind decides. Maybe just being dead and gone is the most realistic outcome, but I guess that makes me uncomfortable.

  Whenever we talked about this stuff, you claimed to be an atheist. Remember when I came home from Florida after my grandfather died? I pestered you until you admitted what you believed about the afterlife: “When you’re dead, you’re dead. That’s it. No encore.” Even then, I’m not sure I believed you. Sure, that fit your cooler-than-thou misanthropic image. But how could someone who lived life with such intensity believe that everything just goes black? What then was the point of expending all that energy?

  So where are you, Stewart? Are you just gone? Or will your soul be hovering over your apartment tomorrow, your essence permeating the negative space as we invade your privacy, leafing through your Arthur Miller collection and emptying the half-finished pressed juices—the ones you drank out of obligation—from your fridge? Will you be watching over us? Do you even care? Or are you too enlightened now to have time for petty grievances?

  Sometimes you even acted that way while alive—above it all.

  “Wren,” you would groan, impatient with my intolerance, even as you felt intolerant of me. But most of the time, you were right there with me, Stewart. Snarky as hell. I miss that.

  So I’m wondering, when you die, do you lose your sense of humor? If not, I bet you think my life is pretty hilarious right now.

  xo - W.

  Chapter 18

  That evening, George sent an email, as promised, inviting Stewart’s nearest and dearest monsters to join us at noon the next day for a cathartic last visit to his apartment. Their responses flooded my inbox within minutes:

  7:51 p.m.

  Thanks for handling this, George. Stu would have really appreciated it. And I’m sure he left a big mess, if I know him. We’ll be able to offer some unique insight into what has value, no doubt. I still can’t believe the loss we’ve suffered. Cheers, Keith

  7:52 p.m.

  George, it means the world that you’re able to support Helen in this difficult time. I know because I talked to her twice today and she told me. She keeps reaching out to me, which is very difficult, but I would never say no. Of course we’ll meet you at the apartment and say a real goodbye to our best friend. I know Stu would have wanted it. I am practically OCD when it comes to organizing, so I can help in any way.

  Have you gotten bins from IKEA? A label maker? It will be very trying for us all, but I’m so important. xx - Blair

  7:53 p.m.

  Sorry. I meant “it’s” so important. Obviously. xx - B.

  7:55 p.m.

  GEORGE, you’re our HERO for taking on this HORRIBLE task. OF COURSE WE WILL HELP YOU. I’m actually GREAT at this kind of thing and know everything about the Manic Mondays stuff especially. I know Wren could never have handled this alone; I’m so glad she doesn’t have to now. I CANNOT stop CRYING onto this keyboard; I’m going to damage my COMPUTER. Brian and I will both be there. We wouldn’t miss it for the world! Brian will not stop talking about it! You know how he is. Should I bring beer? It seems like we could use some liquid courage. Maybe some snacks too? I could pick up truffle popcorn? Chips and salsa? Also, will we be taking items home with us? Should we bring empty totes? Can’t wait to see you all! - MAL & BRIAN

  7:57 p.m.

  Mal, that is so sweet, but I don’t think beer is really appropriate as it will be early afternoon. It’s not a party, right? Love you, honey. xx - Blair

  7:59 p.m.

  Okay. You’re so right, B. My bad. - MAL & BRIAN

  9:14 p.m.

  George, thank you for the honor of joining you at our beloved Stu’s physical space one last time. I know we will all feel his presence there though his soul is en route elsewhere. I’ll bring some sage to clear out his spirit and encourage the crossover. Mal, I have some Kava-infused supplements, if you’d like to take something for anxiety in lieu of alcohol. I’ll bring them too. Have a blessed day. Love & Light. - Willow

  9:15 p.m.

  Willow, if you’re bringing sage to burn, please remember to bring matches in case Stu doesn’t have any. That said, I’m not sure if burning herbs is a co-op code violation, so perhaps consider a sage mist spray or diffuser instead? You’re so thoughtful! I’ll let Helen know that we’ve got this under control. xx - Blair

  11:03 p.m. [only to me]

  No way I’m going to this fucking thing. Not on your life; not on Stewart’s death. - Jimmy

  To say that I was disappointed about Jimmy bailing was an understatement. I was desperate for solidarity, especially from someone who remembered the same Stewart as I did. I had fantasies of unearthing relics from our childhood together amidst Stewart’s things and finding shared comfort in tears and laughter. But I knew better than to try to convince Jimmy to come. He was immovable when he made a decision. Stewart knew that better than anyone. I had seen him try to argue, cajole, flatter, threaten, and shame his gentle giant of a pal into everything from lip syncing to De La Soul at a seventh-grade talent show, to dressing up as Austin Powers and Mini-Me for Halloween, to attending Morgan’s Josie and the Pussycats–themed birthday party, promising they would “make it fun.” (Stewart never wanted to miss a celebration.) Jimmy always shot him down.

  Instead of responding, I forwarded the thread to Gretchen without comment.

  She answered right away:

 
FML. Well, actually FYL. These people should be euthanized. Love ya! - G (Seriously, sending you love. How are you handling everything? Have you cried yet? Who is George?)

  Just another spoiled sycophant suckling at Stewart’s pseudofamous teat.

  Well, that’s vivid. But don’t mince words. How do you really feel?

  Needless to say, when I awoke the next morning, I was not looking forward to the day.

  As I sat at my computer, checking my email, my mother tried me again. I ignored the call and instead texted that I’d try her later. I knew I was taking avoidance to the next level, but I just couldn’t deal.

  After staring at the log of her “missed” calls, I let my gaze fall on a framed photograph that I kept on my desk: It was of my parents and me—at maybe five years old—in a Nigerian village. This particular artist-in-residence position involved both my parents teaching reading to Nigerian children. I don’t remember the trip that well, having been so young, but I have a couple distinct memories of sitting on a dusty porch with village kids, eating some version of jerky. I looked happy in the photograph. We all did. It had been so long since I’d been somewhere that different. It seemed like a thousand years ago.

  I got dressed and left the house, stopping at my corner bodega for a bruised banana and coconut water. I hadn’t done my usual grocery shopping that week for obvious reasons. And, anyway, I loved the couple who owned the store. Today, the wife was working alone. As she rung me up, she scrutinized my face. “You’re tired?”

  I nodded. “It’s been a long week.”

  “Take care of yourself,” she shook her head. “Cold weather is coming.”

  cause of death: Rheumatism.

  after-death ritual: Cremation with last rights by monks.

  service: A celebration, attended by countless relatives.

  processional music: “Wind Beneath My Wings” by Bette Midler. Unexpected, I know, but she once told me that she loves Beaches when I mentioned that I was going home to watch a movie.