Fancy people. Guys like Robert Hart, MD.
Fine, Buchanan. I’ll look into it too.
21.
The casseroling begins. That was quick. Sticky notes on our freezer door inform me that a neighbor brought Mexican chicken, packed with Hatch green chilies and soggy tortilla chips, to be baked at three-fifty at our leisure. McAlister’s wife brought some kind of shepherd’s pie thing, and one of Elizabeth’s colleagues dropped off frozen lasagna from Costco, God bless her. A sealed tin of Earl Grey is sitting on the countertop next to bread and cocktail onions. I hear Elizabeth laugh, and I follow her sniffles into the entry hall, where she’s sitting on the floor, knees up, back against the wall. She’s smiling even as she rubs mascara into her face.
“Guess who just walked in?” she says to someone on the line. “Yes. Yes, he’s right here.”
I shake my head no.
“Oh, Emily, I can’t tell you how nice this has been,” she’s saying. “I’m just so glad you happened to be there. I know. I know, we will.” She hands me the phone, saying, “It’s Raymond.”
I shake my head harder and walk away. “I’ll have to call him back.”
“Robert. Wait, Robert.” I hear her tell Emily or Ray or both, “Damn. He just raced to his office. I think he might have a work call. Exactly, exactly. Well, shoot. Of course. I’ll have him call Raymond when he’s done. Oh, believe me, I will.” She laughs about something, offers an effusive good-bye, and comes to find me when she’s off the phone. “What on earth?”
“I cannot deal with him right now, Elizabeth.”
“He said he’s been trying to reach you for days. Thinks his texts aren’t going through?”
I nod and say, “I’ll try him in a bit,” as I turn on my laptop and pretend to be doing very important things. “What were you doing talking to Emily? Why were you crying?”
Elizabeth tucks her chin. “Seriously?”
“But why were you crying to her?”
“Ray called looking for you. He said you gave him my number ages ago, in case of emergency. I told him you’ve been overwhelmed these past few days, and then I told him why. He was shocked, obviously. Then he asked how I am, and I don’t know what came over me, but that question made me want to bawl my eyes out. I don’t think Raymond was prepared for that, though, so he handed the phone to Emily, and—Jesus. I can’t believe I’ve never really gotten to know her. She’s kind of awesome, huh?”
“Why are you so soft on the Harrisons all of a sudden? You hate Ray.”
“I don’t hate him. I’ve never hated him. I just thought he was a pig.”
“He is.”
“Well, now I think he must have a good side I haven’t met yet, since Emily chose him.”
“You don’t have to sell me on them. I’ve known them for ages, remember?”
“I liked talking to her. I told her we’d try to go to their Memorial Day thing this year. Why haven’t we ever gone?”
“You’re romanticizing them because you’re emotional. They’re fine. They’re not all that great, and we always have Memorial Day plans, so don’t worry about it.”
She winces. “Well, it felt nice to talk to someone.”
“Well, talk to me, then.” I open a document, pretend to care about its contents. “Let me finish this and I’ll be right in.”
Elizabeth shakes her head and closes the door behind her. I probably should offer to sit with her now, but the choir in my head is still singing. The moment the door clicks shut, I open one of those incognito tabs on my browser—knowing that incognito has its limits, making a mental note to scrub my search history after my obsession wanes—and look up the term that’s been haunting me ever since hanging up the phone with Walsh. Behind every polite greeting with every patient who passed through my office today, the only thing on my mind was coroner’s investigation.
I hit enter and dive deep: coroner’s inquest, autopsies, cause of death, proximate cause, worst-case scenarios I’ve avoided entertaining until now. If Nick told anyone about how I fucked with his head—and he could have called or visited or emailed someone the minute I walked away—then his reason for climbing to a “death trap” and leaning his weight against a rotten banister could fall to me. The district attorney could bring action, in theory. In reality. Press charges. Wrongful death. What the fuck.
I scrub my browser, clear my cache, dump my electronic trash. Double-check my downloads for stray materials concerning amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or stem cell regeneration treatments south of the border, or message boards about fidelity and infidelity—cybercesspools of whining men with addictions to negative feedback.
I return to my family with positive feedback, a positive outlook: a shining example of life going on. The casseroles keep coming. The questions, too, but no information. Wednesday into Thursday into an argument with my son about Nick’s funeral upstate.
“It’s going to be tough to clear the whole day with work,” I tell Jonah.
“Unbelievable,” he says. “You do realize that Nick was my best friend. He was my roommate, and he died in our backyard—your yard—just days ago. This isn’t optional for me and Elizabeth. We’re leaving at seven tomorrow morning, with or without you.”
Elizabeth speaks for me, saying, “Your dad will be there, Jonah.”
I breathe through it. “Of course, Son. Whatever I can do to support you.”
So now I’ll have to ask Simone to cancel my appointments and reschedule two dozen patients, a burden she’ll add to her growing list of complaints. She’ll be even bitchier about delaying our meeting.
Jonah heads upstairs, and I tell Elizabeth, “We’ll need to book a room in the Catskills. Last minute. Won’t be cheap.”
“I’ll do it,” she snaps, but she’ll regret it. We’re going to be the spectacle. Nick was staying with us. People know this. They’ll ask questions. Who’s to say Nick kept his tryst with Elizabeth a secret? Who’s to say he didn’t tell someone about the diagnosis. I say softly to Elizabeth, “People are going to want to know about our relationships with Nick. Some of them will have heard about us already.”
She doesn’t flinch. She just says, “It’s not about us, Robert.”
“Maybe not, but it affects us, and I hate funerals, Elizabeth. I hate going when they’re for people I love, let alone someone I hardly knew. I’ll be there. It’s settled, but it’s stressful.”
“How inconvenient for you,” she says.
“We’re going, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” she says. “We are.”
22.
The drive to Bovina takes five hours, but we leave a little late, so we’re only a little early for the one o’clock funeral, pulling up to the area Interfaith Center at twelve forty exactly. Jonah slept in the back the whole time, and Elizabeth read, and I drove. In the trunk is a duffle bag filled with Nick’s things. How Jonah plans to deliver it to Nick’s aunt without making a scene is beyond me, but he insisted, and I relented, so here we are.
In the sanctuary beyond the foyer, an organist plays “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.” My mother got that one, too, by request. Mounted on either end of the room are signs with arrows pointing toward curved corridors. The arrow pointing left reads, Chapels. Prayer Rooms. Classrooms. Men’s Room. The one pointing right: Library. Altars. Exit to Meditation Garden. Ladies’ Room. And in the middle, the tributes. There was no visitation, and an open casket was never in the cards, not with a body as badly decomposed as Nick’s had been, so in lieu of a formaldehyde-soaked cadaver covered in grease paint, we are forced to acknowledge phantoms tacked to corkboard: a portrait, a diploma, a handwritten letter to God. Beside the guest book are scrapbooks stuffed with blue ribbons, newspaper clippings, notes and Polaroids, class pictures, photo booth strips, report cards. Garish flower wreaths and headshots hang from easels by the door.
“I didn’t know Nick swam competitively,” I say to Jonah.
“In high school, yeah. Turned down a couple scholarships, I think.”
<
br /> “Why did he quit?”
“Wanted to, I guess.”
I shake my head, thinking of lost potential, and Jonah walks away to make small talk with an usher. Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I step aside to let the person pass, but when the person says, “Hey,” I feel my worlds collide even before turning to match the voice and face.
“Jesus, Raymond. What the hell are you doing here?”
He’s wearing a suit, and Emily is next to him, wearing a black dress. She takes my hand, squeezes it gently, then hugs me around my waist. “We’re so sorry, Bobby.”
Over Emily’s shoulder, I ask Raymond again, “Seriously, what are you doing here?”
“We heard about what happened. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Yeah, but why are you here?”
Emily releases me and returns to Raymond’s side. “We came to support you,” she says, earnest but maybe defensive, too.
I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“We wanted to,” Raymond says, just as Jonah rejoins our party. He hugs Emily as Ray says, “This is what friends do.”
Instead of correcting him in public, I ask, “Can I talk to you in private, please?”
Jonah, whose arm is still wrapped around Emily’s shoulder, whispers, “Dad.”
So I whisper back, “Stay out of this, Son.”
Ray follows me down the left-arrow hallway, saying, “Bobby, we didn’t mean to upset you,” and he follows through the first open door, too, into this private chapel. “You’re going through some real shit, man, and you don’t know these people. We didn’t want you to feel isolated and, well, frankly, I’ve been worried.”
“You should have called first.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve called you half a dozen times. I’ve texted.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Ray stuffs his hands into his pockets. “What the hell is going on?”
“What do you mean? I found a dead body in my bushes and now I’ve got to convince a bunch of strangers that there’s no place else I’d rather be. That’s what is going on.”
Ray shushes me. “Dude.” He whispers, “Know your company.”
No one else is in the chapel, but he’s right. This isn’t the place. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, okay? It feels aggressive.”
He laughs. “Aggressive?”
“Inappropriate.”
Raymond raises his voice. “Who are you right now? Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a guy who uses words like ‘inappropriate’ to talk about loyalty.”
“Ray—”
“I always show up for you, Bobby.”
“That’s true,” I say, desperate to de-escalate.
“So? Do you need me to say it?”
“Say what?” From the belly of this building, the organist begins to play “Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” yet again. Nausea I’ve been suppressing all week starts to creep. My belly feels like a snake nest hatching, and all the snakes are crawling up my innards and esophagus, trying to escape through my mouth. I gag, clear my throat, try to cough the snakes away.
Ray says, “One minute this kid is living with you and possibly sleeping with your wife. The next he’s smashed in your yard. And all I know is that somewhere between A and B, you vowed to get rid of him.”
I say, “Stop,” but the word sounds strange. My words sound strange. The snakes.
“If you’d have picked up the phone, we wouldn’t be here, but Emily said you wouldn’t talk to me.”
This air is too thick, the light milky. Behind Raymond, a ceramic dead Jesus shines on the wall. “What did you tell Emily?”
“Emily loves you, Bobby.”
“Nick killed himself. He was depressed. He had problems, but he didn’t—he wasn’t doing that other thing. Forget it, please. I picked up on something, but I interpreted it all wrong.”
“I understand.” A stained-glass skylight spits primary colors on Ray’s face. “Like, a lot. That’s why I’m here. Because I picked up on something too, and I sure as hell don’t want to interpret it wrong.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I’m your friend. You can talk to me.”
Raymond isn’t just my friend. He’s my brother, and I love him, but he isn’t listening to orders or silent treatments. He’s forcing me to resort to the cruelest sting. “You don’t know me,” I say, burning my throat on the words, choking on snakes and words. “You think you know what’s good for me, but this is proof that you don’t have a clue. To be honest, it’s freaking me out, Ray. I feel like you’re obsessed with me, like you’re stalking me, and it worries me.” I cough. “I’m uncomfortable. Maybe that’s what you’re picking up on.”
My oldest friend shakes his head, but as a show of disappointment, not a response.
“Nick was Jonah’s friend,” I remind him. “That’s the end of the story.”
Raymond turns away, taunts me, turns back to say, “I’ve always defended you. When people talk shit, I tell them, ‘You don’t know the real Bobby.’ When they say you’ve changed, I stand up for you, but maybe they’re right. Maybe you are just a prick nowadays.”
“I’m not a prick.”
“Give Jonah my condolences.” Then, “Elizabeth, too. Oh, and just so you know, you can’t trick me into fulfilling an abandonment fantasy. You’re a prick, but we’re stuck together, so don’t pity yourself over this. Call me when you can be decent,” he says, and leaves the chapel.
The ceramic dead Jesus sinks back into the wall, color-dull. Taking a seat in the closest pew, I drop my head into my hands and try to breathe. Breathe. Daydream of stretching out and sleeping on this dark wood, so tired and sick of fielding questions, of shaking hands and being civil—of being civilized, for that matter—when I’d rather break furniture or nap on it. My head won’t quiet. If only it would quiet.
I smell Elizabeth’s skin before feeling her hand on my shoulder. She thinks I’m bored, or crying, or verging on a breakdown, or breaking down, so I sit upright and smooth my sport coat, saying, “It’s okay, Lizzie,” and I smile to keep from doing those other things. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
She takes mercy on me. Or maybe she just wants to avoid a scene. Either way, she sits beside me and withholds words, questions, judgments, advice. For this, I’m beholden to her. Just as I coaxed her out of the pantry, she’s building me up for Round Two. She kneads my shoulder in the affirmative, Mickey to my Rocky, and I don’t mind, because she believes in me and deserves a strong man, so I lace my insides tightly inside. Even in the grit—perhaps especially here in the grittiest, ugliest, most tragic and wretched For Worse—we are Better. ’Til death do us part.
23.
Naomi Miller is a sweet lady and broken one. Through chatty friends and neighbors, I learn about her sister, who was Nick’s mother, who really did die of ALS, and about how Naomi carried Nick’s family after that. Before Nick’s dad took his own life, he named Naomi as Nick’s legal guardian. She was the one who helped Nick move into the dorm room he and Jonah shared. Naomi was the one who cosigned Nick’s loans, managed his debt, and so, I’m told by friends and family, she wasn’t just next of kin. She was practically a second mother. Aunt, mother, executor of his estate. Gracious hostess, gone to pieces.
We follow a caravan of cars from the funeral parlor to her house for the reception. It’s a nice house. Nice yard. On her walls and mantel, photos of Nick illustrate a happier, brighter boy than the one I met. Laughter, team photos, candid shots. Uncomfortably plain.
I say to Elizabeth, “I don’t get it. Didn’t he grow up in the system?”
“The system?”
“Yeah. Like, foster care. Juvy.”
Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “What?”
“He made it sound like that.”
“No he didn’t.”
But he did. He talked about fundraisers for special camps serving unfortunate teens. He sold himself as a literal charity case, dark and bro
oding, but all along, his home base had windows in every room and calico curtains on every window and flowering crabs behind every curtain. His history was dreadful, but he lived it in a sunlit box that smells like butter and brown sugar and mountain air, with an aunt who displays photos of him in silver frames. He was on the swim team. He had friends. I say, “He told us he was homeless this summer.”
“He said he hadn’t made plans,” Elizabeth reminds me. “He didn’t say there was no home on the planet where he could go. Besides, this was only home for a few years. He moved here from Ohio, and now his bedroom is Naomi’s craft room. I can’t blame him for wanting to hang out with Jonah rather than sleep next to pipe cleaners and mosaic tiles.”
“How did you know that, about his bedroom?”
“Nick told me. Come on. Let’s get the mingling over with.”
I cringe at her acknowledgment of pillow talk with Nick, but stuff it away as we wait in single file for our turn to fill porcelain cups with bitter coffee from an industrial-sized carafe, probably borrowed from a church or rec center or Rent-A-Center. We link ourselves to a chain of people who apologize too much, who say, “I’m sorry, you first,” every time they reach for the same thing as someone on the opposite side of this narrow buffet. We load our plastic dessert plates with cheese cubes, finger sandwiches, sugar cookies, and peanut butter balls. We fall in line.
“It doesn’t make sense,” someone says, because that’s all anyone can say, as though being alive is easier to understand than life ceasing to exist.
He was doing so well.
He must have been suffering so quietly.
Was he seeing anyone? Was he sick?
A man’s booming voice rises from the crowd to say, “That guy would know.”
I should walk directly to the porch where all those old, deaf people wouldn’t bother me, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I look, and yes, the big man in the corner—big like Navy SEAL, not Santa Claus—is pointing to me. I saw him earlier, mingling with a few boys around Jonah’s age. Not quite old enough to be their father, not young enough to be one of them.
Man of the Year Page 18
