Helen and Ted, looking a bit dazed, stood off to one side greeting people. Kate stood nearby. The family wasn’t speaking to or looking at each other, but I guess, in their way, they were supporting each other by being there. Kate held Meryl’s hand. She caught me looking their way, smiled, and mouthed “thank you.” I wasn’t totally sure for what. I smiled back. I would definitely call her to talk once the dust had settled a bit, now that I knew the truth and we could have an honest conversation.
Belle was leaning against a far wall. As far as I could tell, she still hadn’t changed her clothes—same army jacket. Keith was talking at her, his hand planted on the wall above her head, but she wasn’t making eye contact as she answered him. Smart girl. She looked in my direction and we nodded at each other.
I noticed Morgan Tobler and a man I recognized as her husband from Instagram pictures, as they lifted cups of wine from a passing waiter’s tray. I made a mental note to find her later and say hello.
In the meantime, George and I made our way over to Helen, waiting patiently for her to finish talking to an overstuffed older couple—he with a comb-over, her with a new face. (Plastic surgery mishap, something by a symphony, catering from Café Boulud.) I was no longer nervous to face Helen. After the evening before, there was no pretense left. She was just a human being, doing her best to stay standing.
As the couple moved away toward the gallery, Helen’s eyes rested on me and then George, then on our clasped hands. A small tightening of the lips was the only indication that she’d noticed anything. Was it a smile or a frown? How much did she know about Stewart’s designs? “Hello, dears.” We dropped hands, as she gave us each a kiss on the cheek. “The exhibition looks lovely.”
“They did a beautiful job,” I agreed. “I’m looking forward to checking it out with more time now.”
George nodded. “I can’t wait to see it.”
Helen tipped her head in the gallery’s direction. “Go look.” We started to move away, but then she put a hand on each of our shoulders and we turned back to face her. “Thank you both. For everything. Please don’t be strangers.” She tried to smile, but her eyes were flooding.
“Thank you,” I said. “For creating the most spectacular human being.” I meant it.
She held my gaze until the last moment, as she turned to greet another attendee. George and I walked away toward the exhibition.
“Yo! Georgie!”
Some spray-tanned bro in a boxy suit was motioning George over. He waved and smiled, then gritted his teeth in apology to me. “Benny. From my office. He’s the absolute worst. Total dick. All the stripper stories. I’m happy to introduce you, but I don’t recommend it.”
“Thanks for the warning.” I was definitely not in the mood. “I’ll be in the gallery.”
I made my way through the crowd and into the show. People were examining the photos and relics, discussing them. It was like a gallery at the Museum of Natural History, only instead of “Primitive Man,” we were learning about Stewart. It occurred to me that people might have liked to see the People’s Choice Award, after all. Oh well.
I went in chronological order this time, starting with the wall text: “stewart beasley was born in 1984 in new york city to helen and theodore . . .”
When I got to the childhood display, I was surprised to find my photo—the one of me and Stewart after Robin Hood—mounted and prominently featured. Well, I wasn’t exactly proud of my outburst the day before, but it seemed I’d been heard.
“Madison was able to find the photograph at Helen’s this morning.” I turned to find Blair standing beside me, ever orderly in a short, dark floral shift dress and heels. Her hair was, per usual, styled into symmetrical waves. The amount of money she spent at Dry Bar could fund a small country. She smelled like too many flowers. “Fernanda agreed that it deserved prominence whatever the quality, being the first example of Stewart’s love of the theater.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I wasn’t sorry for the day before, even though I’d lost my temper. I couldn’t let go of the way she’d behaved throughout this whole process, and I still had no doubt of why the photo had initially been omitted—even if she couldn’t admit the truth to herself. “I’m glad,” I finally replied. “It means a lot to me to have it here.”
We both remained there, looking straight ahead, as people bustled past us, murmuring and remembering. She said, “There’s no proof of our relationship.”
“Sorry?”
“You have photos and yearbooks and trips and whatever to point to. On record, I just seem like Stu’s publicist.”
I turned to face Blair in surprise. She was looking at me too. “But that’s not the truth. Our relationship wasn’t ‘surface.’ ”
“Okay.”
“You look down on us. You think you’re above it all. But we haven’t done anything wrong. We’re just doing our best to mourn him.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
“We all miss him. We all relied on him.”
Before I could censor myself, I snorted, “For what? VIP access to parties?”
Blair narrowed her eyes. “I can get that myself, thank you.” She cocked her head as if trying to decide if I was worth the oxygen. Then she took a step toward me, leaning in. “You probably don’t know the details and probably don’t care, but deciding I wouldn’t be an actor was rough on me,” she said quietly. “I was in terrible shape—depressed, sad. I was threatening to move home to Minnesota to live in my parent’s basement. And it’s not even a finished basement.”
“But is there a Ping-Pong table? Because I feel like that’s really the determining factor.”
She was undeterred. “It was Stu’s idea that I try my hand at publicity and—despite the fact that I had literally no experience and he was taking a big risk—he put his career in my hands.”
“Okay. So?”
She raised a hand to silence me; I felt like it silenced the chatter around us too. “And when, during college, Brian couldn’t move back home after graduation as planned because his mother had remarried this horrible, abusive man, Stu offered him a bedroom for as long as he needed. He stayed for almost a year.”
I had forgotten that. “That’s true, I guess, I didn’t remember—”
“And when Mal wanted desperately to go to grad school for costume design, but didn’t feel confident enough to apply, Stu walked her through the application process from start to finish because he’d done it for his MFA. And, when she didn’t get enough financial aid, he helped her get a part-time costume assistant job on a soap in New York—no strings. And he continued to help Brian and Mal financially from time to time because neither one of them has family support or comes from money. That’s probably why they’re panicking and selling his stuff on eBay.”
I rocked on my feet, shifting my weight. I hadn’t known that. “You think anyone makes time for Keith?” Blair continued, her voice sharpening. “Could stand listening to his god-awful bullshit? But Stu did! And he even tried to help him get cast, lord help him. That’s why Keith was ever ‘out in LA for pilot season.’ Stu called in favors and hooked him up with a junior agent. That’s why!”
Blair crossed her sinewy arms and stared at me—like it was a dare. Like she’d dropped the mic.
“So what’s your point?” I shrugged and crossed my arms too. “Stewart did favors for all of you? And you’ll miss the perks?”
“You don’t get it, Wren,” she hissed. “And, sorry, but I kind of feel like you never have. We didn’t just rely on him for those acts of kindness. We relied on him to believe in us. When no one else did. That was his true gift. And he believed in you, too, Wren. The only difference is, you didn’t believe him when he did. And now I think you’re pissed that you missed out.”
I felt the weight of that like an anvil to the chest.
I was struggling to find higher ground and failing. I fel
t like a sanctimonious ass. All I could think was, I am a vulture too—and maybe the worst kind. I didn’t hoard his stuff or assume control of his death, but I stole away with the parts of Stewart that I wanted to own and refused to admit that anyone else had a right to his memory—or a different memory. Of course, these people had every right to claim Stewart as their loss; he had offered them so much. And, unlike me, they had allowed him to play the hero and help the underdog, something that I now realized made life meaningful for him. They allowed him to feel like something other than an empty vessel.
Maybe their mourning wasn’t just about his fame. For them, he was this great beacon of hope. And they were trying desperately to hold on. I couldn’t excuse all their behavior and I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t excuse my own either. I exhaled. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes. I hear you.”
She seemed to relax, her shoulders dropping from up under her ears. She adjusted her dress. We were silent for a minute.
I’d been so busy judging Stewart—and feeling pissed at him for choosing these people who seemed so despicable—that I’d missed the obvious. It wasn’t fragile ego that drove him to keep the vultures around; it was tolerance. He could see their gaping weaknesses and he felt for them. Because he had what he saw as shortcomings too. Also, narcissists are good friends to choose when you don’t want anyone looking too closely at you.
I figured maybe I should try to show some tolerance too. This one’s for you, Stewart. “And Blair,” I said finally. “For what it’s worth, if there’s anything I’ve realized over the course of the last week or two, it’s that it really doesn’t matter what other people think. It’s only about what you know. The rest you can’t control. We’re each grieving the Stewart we knew at our most seminal points with him—not the one from last week. We’re grieving who he made us.”
She flushed, then looked up as if gathering strength. “But that’s just the thing: I don’t know anything,” she said to the ceiling. “I can’t remember one conversation we had really. It’s like my mind has just gone blank. I’m starting to feel like maybe I invented our whole friendship!”
It was the most honest thing Blair had ever said to me. I even felt a modicum of empathy for her. Despite the painting; despite everything. I realized this must have been how Stewart saw her—vulnerable. Now, she wanted anything that the rest of us deemed important, so she could simulate closeness to him. “Blair. Stewart loved you. The truth is, he loved all of you.” I had no idea how or why, but he had. I didn’t say that part out loud. “He always said you would do anything for him.”
I saw her absorb that. “I would have.”
“He knew. And that’s all that matters.”
“I just feel so empty.”
Me too. I exhaled a rattled breath. “I think that’s loss,” I said, realizing only as the words spilled from my mouth. “It’s not the crying or the sadness or the organizing of funerals and tributes or the stuff you keep; it’s the time in between when you miss the person and wish you could have them back. It’s the absence of someone you love—the times you wish you could give them a call and then realize . . . you can’t.” It’s the black hole. I missed my friend so much in that moment; I stared at that photo of him—those buck teeth. “I think we’re all just trying to feel close to him in the best way we know how. Mallory and Brian do it by hoarding his stuff; Willow forces us into her ceremonies; and Keith—” That stumped me.
Blair frowned. “I’m pretty sure there’s nothing redeemable about Keith.”
I giggled; she did too. “I’m glad you saw that. I was worried you guys might be . . . you know . . . hanging out.”
“Oh, God no! I’d rather be alone forever. He was just an available shoulder to cry on, but he pretty much moved on when I told him I couldn’t represent him. I mean, he would have to actually be in something for me to do PR, you know? That’s why I made sure he didn’t get that People’s Choice Award. The idea of it creeped me out, like he’d sleep with it at night or something.”
We watched Keith from afar, still trying to win Belle’s attention.
“I can’t believe Stu is gone forever.”
“It’s unfathomable.”
A couple of Stewart’s costars from Manic Mondays walked through the entrance to the gallery then. They waved to Blair and she snapped back to attention, waving back. “I should go. Duty calls. I’m back to LA tomorrow, but I’m in and out of New York all the time. We should go get a gel mani or something sometime.”
There was no way in hell, no matter how deep we buried the hatchet.
“You know, Wren, you and I are actually a lot alike,” Blair said, flipping her hair over her bony shoulder. “However hard it was, we’re not like the others; we handled this with class. I think that’s why Stu loved us best.”
Before I could disagree, Blair was pushing her way through the crowd toward Stewart’s celebrity friends. I sighed, then remembered that I was here for a reason. I needed to find Fernanda to give her the speaker information.
Back in the now crowded lobby, the hum of conversation had amped up. I noticed Mallory and Brian standing in a corner, dwarfed by the bedlam, small and unsure, clutching each other’s hands like life rafts. Now, I saw them through Stewart’s eyes: insecure, alone, wounded birds. His acceptance meant everything to them; it made them feel acceptable. He didn’t keep the vultures around to make himself feel good. He helped them because he could—because in their relationships, he could be the strong one. The one who had it together. The straight man.
I was so busy seeing them as if for the first time that I barely noticed a tall woman in a tweed trench nudging past me. “Wren!” Gretchen grabbed my hand. Jimmy stood beside her; he winked at me sheepishly.
“Gretch! I can’t stop now. I just realized the time. I need to find the organizers!”
She leaned in so I could hear her above the din. “Okay. But are you still mad at us?”
Us. It made me smile, despite myself. “No! Go forth and be . . . whatever you guys are!”
Jimmy snorted. “See? She’s fine!”
Gretchen ignored him. “Are you looking for George?”
“No! Why?”
“Because your parents just got here and your mother asked me which one was George and, first of all, I don’t even know! And Jimmy is useless with faces. But, second of all, more importantly, why does your mother even know about him? What happened to not using your friend’s death ‘as an excuse for a fling’?”
I raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a fling.”
“Ooh,” She pursed her lips. “Now, I’m really intrigued.”
So much had happened; it had been days and a millennia at the same time. “Long story. For later.”
Gretchen mock pouted. “Fine. Go mourn your friend and whatever. But I want the details ASAP! I’m your best friend too, you know. And I have the benefit of still being alive.”
“Shhhhh.” Jimmy shook his head, covering his eyes with his hand and suppressing a grin. “Dude. That’s so inappropriate. You’re worse than I am.”
She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “What? It’s a joke. Levity in times of sadness, right?”
I left them happily bickering and wove toward the entrance to the auditorium. As I’d hoped, Fernanda was standing by the closed doors. She was wearing something asymmetrical and Japanese, like she was wrapped in gray origami.
“Ah, Wren! Thank goodness!”
“I’m so sorry. There are so many people here. I couldn’t find you!”
“The turnout is impressive.” She surveyed the crowd. “I hope you’re pleased.”
“Very. Stewart would have been too.”
“So I just need the name of the person who will be speaking on Stewart’s behalf today.” She popped the cap off her pen and readied to write on an index card.
“Right. Wren Pinkus.
”
She looked up at me. “That’s you.”
“It is.”
“Okay, then. Fair enough. I’ll tell them to open the doors. I look forward to hearing your words.”
I found George waiting patiently at the back as everyone began to file into the auditorium. He shook his head. Apparently, I’d dodged a bullet by avoiding his coworker.
“Nightmare?”
“That guy is the worst.”
“That’s a distinction in this crowd. Myself included.” I leaned my head against his chest and sighed. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Is it enough money—what Stewart left me—to travel a little? Like he suggested?”
George nodded. “Is that what you want to do with it?”
I was on the fence. My immediate impulse upon reading Stewart’s letter was to give the money away, donate it (and I knew I probably would). I didn’t want to benefit from his death. But, as much as I hated to admit it, what Blair said had resonated. I hadn’t let Stewart help and inspire me like he’d wanted to when he was alive. His letter said it was his last chance to fight for my bigger dream. The money aside, maybe it was time to pursue something larger. Travel. Try for grad school again. Make a run at the stairs. “Well, since I don’t have a job anymore . . .”
George opened his eyes wide. “Wait, what?”
“You know how we kept wondering how everyone was keeping their jobs despite spending so much time obsessing over Stewart’s death? Well, I may have overlooked a major detail and lost mine.”
“Are you serious?” His forehead crinkled in concern. Maybe Stewart was right about George needing to loosen up a little. I could already see him strategizing, questions forming in his mind: Was there legal recourse for keeping the job? What were the grounds for the firing?
“Yup. But my boss was pretty cool about it, considering the enormity of the error. He said he’d been thinking I was ambivalent about the work lately and this seemed like proof. I agreed. So I’m tying up loose ends and then I’m done in four weeks.”
Competitive Grieving Page 31
