The Dead Celebrities Club

by Susan Swan

  Can we come in? Meredith asks. What choice do I have? I am about to hear one of the tiresome pep talks my cousin gives her students, the type of well-meaning litany that ends in promises I will be unable to keep.

  I’m going to come right out with it, Meredith says after I usher them in. We’re holding a funeral service for Davie. We don’t care what you say, do we, Caroline?

  Caroline’s condescending smile makes me wince. I have thought this over carefully, Dale Paul, she says, and I believe a funeral is the best course of action right now, even though you may harbour the conviction that Davie is alive …

  Stop right there. What do you mean may harbour? I saw him at the funeral!

  Esther said you claimed to see Davie. But you have no proof it was him. Meredith frowns. It was probably just a boy who looks like Davie.

  You see, darling … Caroline pauses breathily. Denial isn’t really helpful at this moment. Your family is suffering from the loss of two of its members.

  You don’t know what you’re talking about! Either of you! And I don’t want to hear anything more on the subject.

  Suit yourself, Meredith says huffily. But don’t say we didn’t tell you about it. She turns to Caroline, who throws me a worried look, and they walk out the door. Meredith will get over her hissy fit. Point being, she lacks the tenacity for a long-standing feud. And if she is the same old Kis I know and love, she will apologize for making me feel bad.

  17

  Tim Nugent

  TIM SHAKES ESTHER’S hand at her front door, feeling awkward. Did he accept the invitation to the family powwow to impress Meredith? Oh, he knows the answer to that one.

  He is getting too involved with the Pauls, and woe to the ghostwriter who takes sides against his subject! But it’s hard not to support Meredith, who, for too long, has been the neglected member of the family. So here he is in Esther’s home helping to plan a memorial against Dale Paul’s wishes. Meredith told Tim about the boy in church who looked like Davie, but she has decided it was a coincidence. If it was Davie, Meredith thinks he would have declared himself to them.

  Esther is a plump woman with the same wild, fair hair and pale, freckled complexion as her son. She lives on the main street of Port Washington in one of those Yankee houses with two storeys at the front and one at the back. In the front hall, Tim notices the Yousuf Karsh photograph of his schoolmate. Karsh has captured Dale Paul’s deep-set eyes under their imposing brows and the way his old friend’s glossy black hair fits the contours of his large head like the pelt of mink.

  Doesn’t he look creepy? Esther asks when she catches Tim staring at the portrait. She steers him into the comfortable living room. I wish I’d never met him.

  Oh, Esther, Meredith says as she follows them in.

  Esther and Dale Paul had been an unlikely match, Tim thinks as he sits down on the Montauk sofa next to Meredith. It feels good to be by her side. Natural even. He is five inches shorter, almost half a foot, but as he often reminds himself, he is broad and fit enough to take on any man or woman.

  Esther sits across from the two of them, apologizing because she doesn’t have money for a real fire. The brick hearth, Tim notices, is stacked with faux birch logs. She begins to complain about the traffic noise outside, and moves on to a heating bill that Dale Paul is refusing to pay. Tim feels himself twitch with impatience.

  Dieter appears with a silver tray and three mugs of tea. Meredith has told Tim that Dieter and Irene share Esther’s modest quarters, but her house isn’t humble, in Tim’s opinion. Esther must have some money or she wouldn’t be able to afford household help. He thinks of his old arguments with Dale Paul. You can’t alter the fact of your family or your skin colour, Tim would tell his school friend. But we can change our sense of entitlement. These conversations would end with Dale Paul shouting at Tim that he wasn’t going to apologize for his family’s wealth.

  Remembering their disagreements makes Tim frown.

  Dieter notices the scowl on Tim’s face and gives him a friendly smile as he heads off to the kitchen. Davie killed himself for a reason, you know, Esther says the moment Dieter leaves. He wanted to get back at us.

  He was angry with his father, Meredith replies. He has been for years. I don’t think he was mad at you. My guess is no.

  I can’t say he was very nice to me toward the end.

  He may have felt ashamed of himself, Meredith says. That he caused you to worry.

  It must be nice to have all the answers, Esther retorts.

  I have no answers. Meredith shrugs. But I do teach young people. You learn a few things from them.

  Esther turns to Tim, her face flushed and irritable-looking. You could have saved Meredith from teaching those silly girls, you know. I always thought you two should have got married. What happened that day wasn’t your fault …

  Tim throws Meredith a helpless look. Should I leave and let you two discuss the memorial?

  To his horror, Esther begins to sob. I know you don’t like me, Tim, and Meredith thinks I’m a bad mother, but I never expected Dale Paul to go to jail. And then my son … it’s all so horrible …

  Meredith doesn’t meet Tim’s gaze. Esther, I’m so sorry, Meredith says. It truly sucks.

  18

  Dale Paul

  IT’S TIME TO leave. I avoid looking at the packed boxes of Meissen china in the dining room and the Sheraton chairs that Dieter has stacked as a favour to my cousin. I have already kissed Meredith and Caroline goodbye. Caroline lowered her eyes when she saw me in my prison uniform.

  Outside, Martino apologizes for shackling me. I look back at the house. Meredith and Caroline are watching from the kitchen window. They look sad. I smile faintly and nod, and Meredith points at a dented Volvo cruising along Half Moon Lane. The car slips out of sight behind a hedge. When I glance back at the house again, Meredith and Caroline are gone.

  I climb into the front seat with Martino’s help, and we drive slowly up to the handsome twelve-foot gates, which open at the right moment, thanks to my cousin pressing the release switch at the house. Suddenly, Martino begins to swear; the Volvo that passed us on the road is parked across my driveway. Before I can tell Martino who they are, Sofia Rigby helps a crippled old man out of the car.

  I take a breath.

  The human wreck standing in my driveway is Ted Rigby, the last person I want to see. I haven’t talked to him since the summer night he hustled me anxiously into his office. There, spread across his desk, I spied the financial statements about the retirement community in Laverne, North Carolina.

  What am I going to tell the others? Ted asked.

  The truth, I replied. Our funds aren’t doing very well right now.

  You don’t understand, he retorted. I’ve lied and said our investments are taking off. I had to keep them off my back, Dale Paul. And now this! Ted groaned as he gestured at the papers on his desk. Maybe we should tell them we’ve invested in high-risk stocks.

  A wheelchair squeaked outside Ted’s study. Mother. Sure enough, the door opened and she poked her head in.

  Darling boy, she said. I’m tired. Can you take me home? She noticed Ted’s face and asked, Is something wrong?

  Your son and I are worried about a financial matter, Ted replied.

  Well, if anybody can fix it, Dale Paul can. He’s a wizard, you know. She locked eyes with Ted. I don’t have to tell you that, do I?

  No, you don’t need to tell me that, Ted replied generously.

  Mother’s faith in me touched my bad, old heart. The next day, I doubled down on gold. What with so many countries devaluing their currencies, gold was a no-brainer. It could rocket up to six thousand five hundred, maybe ten thousand dollars an ounce. Then the price of gold dipped unexpectedly. We lost everything.

  19

  SOFIA MUST HAVE wanted me to see Ted in his full cancer regalia, because my old friend is without
a coat to protect him from the wind. A breathing apparatus covers his throat, and a sinister-looking plastic sack has been hooked in an ungainly fashion onto his belt.

  When she is satisfied I’ve taken a good look, she starts pulling some-thing out of the Volvo. As Martino and I watch, stupefied, she holds up a large framed photograph of our sons by the Plandome Club pool. The sight of Davie’s face makes me feel light-headed.

  She walks briskly forward while poor Ted waits by their Volvo, looking mournful.

  You want to talk to them? Martino asks. I nod yes, and Martino rolls down my window. I’m sorry about everything, I shout, thankful Sofia can’t see my shackled hands. She looks up at me in confusion. In the background, Ted is making horrible croaking noises, and I have to listen carefully to understand what he says.

  You see, Sofia, Ted chides. He didn’t mean to hurt us.

  She pulls a face at her husband and turns towards the van again. Dale Paul, take a good look at our boys! She holds up the framed picture. You ruined their lives!

  Beside me, Martino asks, You okay with this?

  I shrug. Martino climbs out of the van and walks over to Sofia, who is clutching her photograph like a vampire charm. Martino takes her arm and says, Ma’am, I have to get my prisoner back to jail. If you will move your car …

  She pushes his hand away and tries to climb onto the front of our vehicle.

  For a long, dread-filled moment, the vehicle bucks and heaves. Is she off her rocker? Martino hisses through the open window. I am shocked and cannot answer. Ted is staggering toward Sofia, his plastic tubes flying. In what must have been a rare burst of adrenalin, he manages to pull her off. Martino waits until she struggles to her feet; then he climbs back in and guns the accelerator, driving across the lawn to avoid their vehicle. From beneath the van’s wheels comes the tinkle of breaking glass. We have run over her photograph. When I look back, she is bent over the shattered portrait while Ted stands staring after the van, an expression of disbelief on his face.

  20

  BACK AT ESSEX, I can’t stop thinking of Ted’s face as we drove off. Naturally, I feel unhappy about his distress, but what can a jailbird like me do for a man who is dying? Should I offer up the usual platitudinous guff to a battle-worn general who fought in the Middle East and downed gin highballs with Esther and myself on hazy summer evenings? Who watched our boys gambol about the pool in wet bathing suits? Possibly yes. I begin a letter to him:

  Dear Ted:

  There is so much ground to cover I don’t know where to begin, but I am sure you must know how downhearted I feel over the news of your illness …

  I tear up my letter. There is Sofia to consider. Why did she bring poor ailing Ted to see me? And then, to act as if I were the sole reason for their troubles! I did not cause Ted’s cancer or talk him into the investments we made together. He asked for my help and I gave it, and then he went out of his way to make our plan work, so why, pray tell, is it all my responsibility when I was doing what I could to help? People like Sofia don’t understand there is no gain without risk. They assume the stock market is a rainbow with a pot of gold at the end. That’s their problem. She and Ted loved me when I made them money and despised me when I didn’t.

  21

  Tim Nugent

  TIM HEARS THE rumble of the voice first, then he sees the back of the strange hairless head: Earl, his school chum, is crouched on a stool at the airport bar in Nassau. Earl’s hooded eyes catch Tim’s in the overhead mirror, but Earl looks away quickly and Tim hopes they can get away without saying hello. The day before, Tim flew down with Meredith and Caroline for Davie’s memorial service in the old chapel on Paradise Island, built out of coral by Dutch settlers in 1784. Esther had flown down with one of the Paul aunts, but Esther and the aunt left the same afternoon.

  After the ceremony, Caroline and Meredith and Tim stayed on at Dale Paul’s beach house. Around midnight, Meredith came to Tim’s bedroom. He wasn’t sure what to do until he saw her look of anguish, and then he held out his arms. After she fell asleep, Tim stayed awake until the sunrise lit up the tops of the palm trees. Now they’re leaving Nassau, going back to their lives, and Earl is not a person they want to see. But Earl has slid off his stool and he is walking their way, lumbering along with his strange side-to-side motion. Tim has never known what to make of Earl’s condition. It was said to be the result of a malfunction in a tiny genome in human DNA, a rare microscopic event. Tim has read a study that claims something in your genetic coding can go awry, resulting in an abnormal physical difference that has never appeared before. The study suggested that global warming is causing these accidents to occur more often, but the link to environmental damage hasn’t been proven and there are times when Tim thinks “the condition” is a scientific put-on that Earl uses to manipulate other people.

  Nugent, Earl cries just as a calypso band on the PA system breaks into “Yellow Bird.” You’re limping. Got a gimpy leg?

  Tim can feel himself blush. He had thrown his right leg over Meredith’s thigh to gain purchase on her longer body and now his groin muscles are painfully sore.

  Okay, don’t tell me. Too much tennis? Earl gazes at Tim with his cowled eyes. And you’re with the lovely Meredith. What are you guys doing here?

  We came down for a memorial service. For Dale Paul’s son, Tim replies.

  Oh, yeah. That’s horrible.

  Yes, it is, Tim says. Did you stay in town?

  Atlantis, Earl answers. A hell of a place. All those sharks in aquariums. Dale Paul still own that shack on the beach?

  He’s selling it, Tim says.

  Too bad. And look. You got Dale Paul’s beautiful girlfriend with you. How are you, dear?

  I’m well, thank you, Caroline says coldly. Like Meredith, she has no time for Earl.

  Earl’s friend stops watching the overhead television and turns toward Tim. A big man with a thick neck and genial, wide-open face, he is often in the news discussing the need for cuts to federal prisons.

  Tim offers his hand. Tim Nugent.

  Oh, I know who you are, the man snaps. You’re a friend of that guy who ripped off our vets.

  Tim, Meredith interrupts. We need to catch our flight. Giving Earl a severe look, she nods at Caroline and the three of them start the long walk to their departure gate.

  22

  Dale Paul

  I’M IN THE television lounge, watching Oprah interview a guest, when I realize the overweight codger sitting next to her is Mickey Rooney, one of our deathbed ten celebrities.

  Mickey, as America’s most famous child star, you’ve had a longer career than most people in show business, Oprah says, smiling. What helped you to ride the ups and downs?

  No comment. He smirks, and for a moment I see the cocky kid in the Andy Hardy reruns that Davie and I used to watch.

  Well, I’m glad it worked out for you, she answers suavely. You’ve been married eight times. Can you tell the audience your secret?

  Stupidity, Rooney replies. You gotta keep hitting your head against the wall.

  Oprah laughs obligingly. You’re ninety-two. How does that feel?

  Just dandy, Oprah. He squints at her through his close-set eyes. I got diabetes. My house is a worthless shit hole. And I am a victim of elder abuse. Maybe you read about me testifying to the senate committee about my relatives? Looking suddenly aggrieved Mickey Rooney starts playing with his coffee mug. He appears to be trembling from rage or sorrow.

  Oprah gives him a worried smile. Mickey, can you tell the studio audience what your stepson did to you?

  The camera lingers on the actor’s squashed nose, his warthog cheeks, his puffy body in an unkempt track suit, and suddenly Rooney is on his feet yelling. Something has gone awry. Then Rooney seems to remember where he is and shoots the audience a look so paranoid it sends a chill down my spine. That’s when I understand: he is high.

&nb
sp; Rooney stumbles toward the camera, his piggy eyes opened wide, and the screen suddenly switches to an insurance ad for elderly drivers.

  Having a larf, mate? Derek puts a hand on my shoulder. He drops down beside me, and I tell him about Mickey Rooney.

  Was he shaking? Derek says.

  I think so, yes.

  He’s chasing the dragon, mate. Maybe he’ll be the first of the deathbed ten to pop.

  23

  IN THE LAW library, I look up the term chasing the dragon in the dictionary of American slang. As far as I know, crack and heroin are versions of the same thing, but it seems chasing the dragon refers to inhaling vapour from heated morphine while crack comes from the cocoa bush.

  The dictionary also notes that crack addicts often overdose by accident. The thought of Rooney taking an overdose distresses me. My boy and I spent wonderful hours watching his old Hollywood movies. Davie especially loved Mickey Rooney in The Simpsons episode “Radioactive Man.” Shutting down a little voice that says, Don’t do it, you fool, I set off for the computer studio to write the actor a letter.