“I kind of hope she does.” My heart was pounding with rage. “So basically, he couldn’t get the artwork to turn around and sell, so he sold whatever story he could make up and bought himself some publicity too? As if anyone would care who he was.”
“Basically.”
“Ugh! I’m not even sure that he and Stewart were still in touch.” I peered over George’s shoulder to see the article for myself. All I could make out was the hot pink header; my contacts were foggy from sleeping in them. “Keep reading, please!”
“I’m trying, but it’s hard not to throw up. The rest is just bullshit about how Stu’s ‘friends’ are commemorating him.”
“How? By stealing his shit? Did he mention Willow burning Stewart’s hair? I hope he didn’t leave that gem out.”
“He skipped that, though he did drop Willow’s name since, you know, she’s known in her way.”
“Of course he did.”
“Then he answers the final question about Stu’s legacy by claiming that he and Stu were collaborating on a project together—a thirty-minute comedy—that he’s now shopping to ‘several interested networks.’ ”
I picked up a pillow lodged between me and the headboard and threw it across the room, only I didn’t have a lot of leverage and it landed at the foot of the bed. George raised an eyebrow. “So maybe not the Yankees’ next pitcher.”
“As far as I know, they don’t throw pillows,” I grumbled.
“Anyway,” Stewart bit his lip. “Um, I feel like I’m going to regret telling you this, but—that’s not the worst of it.”
With force, I flipped over onto my stomach and buried my face in the remaining pillow, which smelled like orange-blossom linen spray. I knew because there was a bottle of it sitting on the bathroom sink; it was lovely. I wished I could spray it in Keith’s eyes. “Go ahead,” I mumbled into the cotton and down.
“Okay, here goes: Madison emailed me about Keith’s story. So to find it, I googled Stu’s name . . . and something else came up.” He bit his lip. I was starting to recognize that as a tell. “Are you ready for this?”
I turned onto one cheek, so I could be bolstered by the sight of George’s strong upper arms and angular face. Even his ears were nice. “Why not?”
He passed me his phone. It took me a second to understand what I was seeing: an eBay listing for a Manic Mondays hoodie described as “a crew gift worn by the official Stewart Beasley.” The seller was MalGal1984. I stared at it without reacting for a minute. Then I stuffed my face back into the pillow and screamed.
George eventually coaxed me out of my catatonic state with a combination of kisses down my back and coffee. Also, I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, no matter how traumatized I felt. I knew he had work to do. I did too—if I could get myself to focus. Plus, he was headed back to LA in a few days. I was trying to remind myself not to get too attached.
Not long after, I packed up my things and readied to head toward the elevators. George opened the suite’s door for me and leaned against the door frame, ushering in some intoxicating gardenia-like signature fragrance the hotel pumped through the vents. I turned to face him, “But why are they so horrible?”
“The vultures?” He shook his head. “I think maybe they just want to feel acknowledged.”
“By selling Stewart’s stuff?”
“By feeling like the arbiters of his story. By trying to make the death amount to something material. So it has some silver lining. They’re not happy people.”
“That’s generous.” I raised an eyebrow. “Too generous.” George wanted to see the best in everyone.
I tried to channel Stewart’s reaction, if I’d asked him the same question under the same circumstances, but about strangers: “Because they’re atrocious people without an ounce of class.” That seemed more on target to me.
As I moved to leave, George pulled me back and kissed me. “About last night—”
But I was already retreating down the hall. “Oh, yeah. You owe me a bagel. A salt one. I never put out without being compensated with bread.”
“I already bought you one.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t really count because it was before you had intent.”
“So you think.” He smiled. “But seriously—”
“It’s okay,” I called. “Let’s talk later. Tonight, at the preview for the tribute.”
“Right. Fuck,” he covered his eyes with his palm. “That sounds awful.”
“I won’t take that personally.” I stuck my tongue out, then walked around the corner to the elevator vestibule.
On the train ride home, I couldn’t stop searching through Mallory’s listings of Stewart’s stuff. There were at least ten items posted within the last twenty-four hours: some additional Manic Mondays paraphernalia; some high-end items of clothing listed without Stewart’s name attached. The brands—Alexander Wang, Derek Lam, Martin Margiela—were enough to sell them on their own.
I was revolted—physically nauseous—and angry enough to flatten a city block in my monster fantasies. But there wasn’t anything we could do; the stuff now belonged to them. They weren’t embarrassed enough to even disguise their names. How do you explain to people that they’ve done something wrong when they don’t know enough to feel mortified in the first place? How do you shame someone who feels no shame?
I would have to see the vultures again tonight. We were all meeting at the Institute of Television Arts to preview the tribute gallery before it opened to the public, to make sure everything looked as it should and nothing was misattributed. The curators also wanted to give us a chance to see it without the hubbub of a crowd.
The following evening would be the event itself, and then I would be free of these terrible humans forever. I tried not to think about what that meant in terms of George. He would be going back to California, of course. But I was the new Wren, who didn’t think about consequences like that. I pushed the thought from my mind, shooting Kate a quick follow-up email instead:
Hi Kate,
Just want to make sure you got my message about speaking at Stewart’s tribute tomorrow. I’m sure you did. I just want to confirm that you feel comfortable. I know it might be very difficult. Looking forward to seeing you there, regardless.
Best,
Wren
Chris Harrison, for one, was not pleased about my recent inattention or my absence the night before. When I opened my apartment door, instead of jumping up and sauntering over, he stayed curled up on the couch, wearing a look of scorn on his fluffy face. He was an easy mark, though. He came running as soon as I opened a can of chicken in gravy. I gave him a pet and wished him “bon appétit!” as he dug into the brown muck. Relationship successfully repaired, I dug through my tote and pulled out Stewart’s People’s Choice Award, placing it on top of my white IKEA bookshelf next to a glass dove from my mom. It no longer felt like a slap in the face from Blair—or Helen, by proxy. It had morphed into an inside joke between me and George. George. George. George. George. Could I possibly think about anything else? I grabbed my computer and plopped down on the couch.
Kate had answered right away.
Wren, sweetie, I’m so sorry that I wasn’t quicker to respond. Meryl has been working insane hours these last few weeks—I’m so proud of her activism, but it is time-consuming—and I am, as you can imagine, deeply distracted.
I don’t think I would feel comfortable speaking at the tribute, although I am hoping to be there. It would be hard for me to know what to say and I think anything I did choose would upset my mother.
She and I are not on fantastic terms, to be blunt, so I haven’t yet seen what you put aside for me, but whatever it is, I’m sure it’s perfect. Stewart was so lucky to have you and, now, so are we.
I’m sure it seems odd that I haven’t done more to help with disseminating Stewart’s worldly possessions and planning his
memorial. Hopefully you won’t judge me too harshly. Someday, when we have more time, I’ll explain. You deserve to understand—you’ve done so much in my stead. In some ways, you were the sister he never really had.
Love, Kate
As I stared at the screen in wonder, it seemed to blink back at me. She was “hoping” to be there? I was judging her; I couldn’t help it. I understood what a nightmare Helen could be and I knew that they never saw eye to eye, but to completely bail on your only brother’s aftermath? What could I possibly understand that would change any of this? It was bizarre. And selfish.
I sighed. I needed to figure out who else could speak by this evening. No way was I asking any one of those vultures. Maybe Blair hadn’t auctioned off Stewart’s stuff or burned his lint or sold his story for a millisecond of attention, but—through her competitive energy—she had rendered the whole experience toxic, taken the focus off Stewart and onto herself. They were all awful.
I thought about Stewart—no wonder he was sad sometimes. He was surrounded by assholes. I navigated to his Facebook page, now my go-to procrastination destination. George was going to post the details of the event tomorrow for anyone who wanted to attend and I wanted to share the information with some people too.
Before I could get to that, I noticed another post from the bereft girl from the funeral. Her name appeared to be “Belle Rose.” That sounded made up. Her previous posts—written almost daily like tiny cries for help and invoking her and Stewart’s “twin souls”—had garnered sympathetic comments from friends and even strangers. But it seemed like people had now tired of consoling her. The most recent gem had only won her a few frown emojis. In everyone’s defense, the messages were almost incomprehensible with as many typos as complete words. Who is this girl?
This one started out much like the rest:
Stu, don’t know how to continue w/pot u. i look in the miror + don’t even no muself I still can’t believe your gone 4ever. Listening to this on repete + thinking of u.
Below, she had printed all the lyrics to “Might as Well Be Gone” by the Pixies.
It may not be attractive to admit, but I had been enjoying the inanity of her posts in a schadenfreude kind of way—like reading a seventh grader’s diary. But then I read those lyrics. My stomach dropped and I sat bolt upright. I said, “What the fuck?!” aloud to nobody. Chris Harrison glared at me like I’d offended his delicate sensibilities.
That was Stewart’s favorite song. Everyone knew he loved the Pixies, but that song—it was his private anthem. This girl wasn’t some nutball fan. She knew him. She really knew him.
Before I understood what I was doing, I was typing a private message to her:
Belle,
We don’t know each other. I was—
I stopped myself and edited that.
—am a very old friend of Stewart’s. It seems like you guys had a deep connection too. Is there any way we could meet and talk? I’m trying to know the parts of his life that I somehow missed.
Thanks,
Wren
Instantly, she started typing a message back:
Yeah. I think Stu maybe talked about you once.
I thought, gee, thanks. I wrote:
Yeah. We knew each other for a long time. Would you be down to talk? It seems like you’re struggling.
Sure. I can talk. Not always the best at getting out of bed rt now. But I prolly should anywya.
Great! I mean, not the part about you being in bed. That’s no good, but I really get it. This is so tough. Where are you based?
Staying with my parents on the UWS right now.
Okay, perfect. Do you want to maybe meet at like 3:30 p.m. today?
Sure. City Diner on 90th?
That works for me. See you then.
I wouldn’t have called Belle enthusiastic, but she was willing. I would stop by the tribute gallery in midtown to make an appearance and then run to meet her uptown. Maybe she was only some girl Stewart dated for a second, who got obsessed. But, even if that was the case, at least I would learn something. Who was this person who was so sure that she and Stewart were soulmates, when even I was beginning to doubt the depth of our relationship? Was she delusional? Or was I?
Hours later, on the train to the Institute of Television Arts, my phone binged. George.
Wren. I’m so sorry, but I have to skip the gallery walkthrough. A big client is having an emergency. Studio says she’s in breach of contract and they’re threatening legal action. I need to comb through the contract, talk to their counsel and figure out a resolution. I know this is worst-case scenario, leaving you alone with the vultures, especially after what we discovered this morning.
It was definitely the worst-case scenario, since seeing George had been the only silver lining about attending this thing—and it felt like a bad omen. But what could I do? He had a work emergency.
Wait. He really did have a work emergency, right? He wasn’t making up an excuse to avoid me? After very little consideration, I decided to at least pretend not to be psycho. It’s cool. I’m cool.
Ugh. That sucks. For both of us. Maybe more for me. But I get it. No worries.
See? No worries. So chill.
Okay. Thanks for being cool about this.
What’s the alternative?
I don’t know. Freaking out at me and calling me an asshole for deserting you in your hour of need, especially after last night?
You’re an asshole. For deserting me. In my hour of need. Especially after last night.
Right. Like that.
Wait, what happened last night again?
I smiled, despite myself. Then I made the mistake of looking up. A large, bald man in Carhartt overalls across the car seemed to think I was smiling at him. He grinned back—in all his gold toothed glory—and raised an eyebrow, licking his lips (accidental decapitation during construction work, “Jump Around” by House of Pain, McDonald’s). I averted my eyes.
Anyway, I’m on the train. Not great service.
Okay. Just know that I want to see you. Badly. I can meet you later tonight? Any chance you’ll still be in Manhattan? Or I can come to you in Brooklyn? See your place? Meet the famous Chris Harrison? Before he leaves to shoot the next season of The Bachelor?
I do have some pretty old cashew yogurt and flat seltzer in my fridge. So, I’m definitely in good shape to host.
But do you have a desk? ’Cause that’s really all that matters.
I could just see him smiling his adorable smile—that grammatical dimple.
All right. Stop texting me and get to work, so we have a chance of hanging later.
Sounds good. Keep me posted.
Will do. Wish me luck.
I wish you luck, Wren Pinkus.
I smiled again and almost looked up, but then remembered the man across the way and rearranged my face into a death glare. Sure enough, he was still leering at me. I fixed him with my meanest stare and didn’t blink as he started to get uncomfortable, shifting in his seat. Finally, he stood and crossed to the subway car’s doors long before they opened, opting to hold a pole and face out. He mumbled something—probably “dyke.” I rolled my eyes. Success! A woman around my age across the way caught my eye and shook her head (old age, “Winter Song” by the Head and the Heart, meatloaf and mashed potatoes). #Solidarity.
Feeling pleased with myself, I checked my lipstick in my cell phone camera. Then, satisfied, I scrolled through my email, noticing one from Angeline, the administrator at the Collins Foundation. The subject was: Next Grant Cycle.
Huh. I ho
ped they weren’t doing away with the grant for next quarter. That would be a huge issue for our organization. We relied on it so heavily. We’d have to seek out a whole bunch of new funding to compensate.
I clicked on the email.
Dear Wren,
We could not help but note the absence of an application from Operation Sewage for this grant cycle. As evidenced by our past awards, we have deep respect for the work your organization has done, supplying plumbing to underserved and struggling communities, and do hope that you’ll submit paperwork for the next round, in three months.
Best,
Angeline
I almost passed out on the spot. There had to be some mistake. I hadn’t missed the deadline—it was next week! Panic rose as bile in my chest. I had checked my spreadsheet only days ago. The deadline was next Friday! I scrolled for Angeline’s previous email, opened it and clicked on the attached pdf titled “Application.” Sure enough, the cover page listed an amended due date: yesterday. The application was due a week earlier than in previous years.
Oh God. My hands were shaking. As quickly as I could, I typed out a reply:
Angeline, thank you so much for reaching out. I am mortified. I’m afraid I’ve been grappling with a personal emergency and overlooked the fact that the deadline had changed this year. Of course we intended to apply! The Collins Foundation grant means the world to our organization. It allows us to continue to service these deserving communities, who are very much in need. In fact, Anton is currently in Panama, scouting our next project, a trip which your award helped us fund.
Competitive Grieving Page 25
