Copyright © 2008 by Joan Wickersham
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For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
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Portions of this book have been published in slightly different form in the following: “act of . . . attempt to imagine” as “What About the Gun?” in AGNI, 2004; “act of . . . bare-bones account” and “act of . . . immediate aftermath” as “In the Heart” in The Hudson Review, 1997; “intrafamilial relationships re-examined in light of . . . Munich” as “Munich” in The Hudson Review, 2002; “life summarized in an attempt to illuminate” as “An Attempt at a Biographical Essay” in AGNI, 2006; “other people’s stories concerning” as “The Woodwork” in Ploughshares, 2006; “psychological impact of” as “Psychological Impact” in The Hudson Review, 2006.
Grateful acknowledgment to the MacDowell Colony, where much of this book was written.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Wickersham, Joan.
The suicide index: putting my father’s death in order/
Joan Wickersham.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Wickersham, Joan. 2. Adult children—Psychology. 3. Children of suicide victims—Psychology. 4. Suicide. 5. Suicide victims—Family relationships. I. Title.
HQ799.95.W53 2008
155.9'37092—dc22 2007029299
ISBN 978-0-15-101490-3
eISBN 978-0-547-35074-5
v2.0814
THE SUICIDE INDEX
Suicide:
act of
attempt to imagine, [>]
bare-bones account, [>]
immediate aftermath, [>]
anger about, [>]
attitude toward
his, [>]
mine, [>]
belief that change of scene might unlock emotion concerning, [>]
day after
brother’s appearance, [>]
concern that he will be viewed differently now, [>]
“little room” discussion with his business partner, [>]
search warrant, [>]
speculation relating to bulge, [>]
deviation from chronological narrative of, [>]
factors that may have had direct or indirect bearing on
expensive good time, [>]
pots of money, [>]
uneasy problem of blame, [>]
finding some humor in
ashes, [>]
Valentine’s Day, [>]
glimpses of his character relevant to, [>]
information from his brother sparked by, [>]
intrafamilial relationships reexamined in light of
Munich, [>]
my grandmother, [>]
items found in my husband’s closet and, [>]
life summarized in an attempt to illuminate, [>]
numbness and
Bullwinkle, [>]
chicken pox, [>]
duration, [>]
food, [>]
husband, [>]
psychiatric response, [>]
various reprieves, [>]
opposing versions of, [>]
other people’s stories concerning, [>]
other shoe and, [>]
philosophical conundrums stemming from
first, [>]
second, [>]
possible ways to talk to a child about
family tree, [>]
full disclosure, [>]
not yet, [>]
rational approach, [>]
weapons god, [>]
psychiatry as an indirect means of addressing, [>]
psychological impact of, [>]
readings in the literature of, [>]
romances of mother in years following, [>]
“things” folder and, [>]
thoughts on method of, [>]
where I am now, [>]
Suicide: act of
attempt to imagine
IN THE AIRPORT, COMING HOME FROM VACATION, HE STOPS AT a kiosk and buys grapefruits, which he arranges to have sent to his daughters. They will stumble over the crates waiting on their porches, when they get home from his funeral.
It’s the last week of his life. Does he know that? At some point, yes. At the moment when his index finger closes on the trigger of the gun, he knows it with certainty. But before that? Even a moment before, when he sat down in the chair holding the gun—was he sure? Perhaps he’s done this much before, once or many times: held the gun, loaded the gun. But then stopped himself: no. When does he know that this time he will not stop?
What about the gun?
Has it been an itch, a temptation, the hidden chocolates in the bureau drawer? Did he think about it daily, did it draw him, did he have to resist it?
Perhaps the thought of it has been comforting: Well, remember, I can always do that.
Or maybe he didn’t think about the gun and how it might be used. There was just that long deep misery. An occasional flicker (I want to stop everything), always instantly snuffed out (Too difficult, how would I do it, even the question exhausts me). And then one day the flicker caught fire, burned brightly for a moment, just long enough to see by (Oh, yes, the gun. The old gun on the closet shelf with the sweaters). He didn’t do it that day. He put away the thought. He didn’t even take the gun down, look at it, hold it in his hands. That would imply he was thinking of actually doing it, and he would never actually do such a thing.
Some days the gun sings to him. Other days, more often, he doesn’t hear it. Maybe, on those stronger days, he has considered getting rid of it. Take it to a gun shop, turn it in to the police. But then someone else would know he has a gun, and it’s no one else’s business. He hasn’t wanted to deal with their questions: Where did you get it? How long have you had it? Besides, how long has he had it? Twenty years? Twenty-five? And never fired it in all that time? So where’s the danger? What’s the harm in keeping it around, letting it sleep there among the sweaters? He doesn’t even know where the bullets are, for God’s sake. (But immediately, involuntarily, he does know: he knows exactly which corner of which drawer.)
We have to watch him from the outside. He leaves no clues, his whole life is a clue. What is he thinking when he gets up that last morning, showers, and dresses for work? He puts on a blue-and-white striped cotton shirt, a pair of brown corduroys, heavy brown shoes. A tan cashmere sweater. He has joked to his older daughter that all the clothes he buys these days are the color of sawdust. Might as well be, he said, they end up covered in the stuff anyhow, in the machinery business. So he has shaved, patted on aftershave, and climbed into his dun-colored clothes. He’s gone to his dresser and loaded his pockets: change, wallet, keys, handkerchief. Maybe he thinks he’s going to work. Or maybe he knows, hopes, that in forty-five minutes he’ll be dead. It’s Friday morning. He’s just doing what he does every morning, getting ready.
He may be thinking about it on the walk down the long driveway to get the newspaper. The cold dry air gripping the sides of his head, the ice cracking under his feet as he tramps along this driveway he can no longer quite afford. It is a dirt road, unpaved; in this town, as his wife is always pointing out, dirt roads have more cachet than fancy landscaped driveways. A dirt road means you are private and acting to protect your privacy. Your house cannot be seen from the road. Your real friends, that delightful, sparkling, select bunch, will know you’re in the
re, hidden in the woods, and they will know your dirt road’s ruts and bumps by heart.
Is there something in the newspaper? The front page is the only one in question, since he leaves the paper on the kitchen table folded and unread. More bombings. All this week he’s been sitting in front of the television in the evenings, staring at the news. Silent films of Baghdad buildings, fine white-lined crosses zigzagging dizzily over their facades, zooming in and centering. Then a long moment, just that white cross holding steady; and then the building falls down, no sound, no smoke or flash of light, just caves in. And that’s it. The screen goes blank; the camera doesn’t wait around to gloat. Then another building, another filmed implosion: we’re getting all these places, relentlessly. We’re hunting them down and getting them.
What has he been thinking about this week, watching these films over and over? The silent buildings that simply implode.
The front page of the paper is full of the war. But nothing else that’s major. No market crash. Nothing that would lead, directly or indirectly, to his losing more than he has already lost, which is virtually everything.
Maybe that’s it, maybe that’s what he is thinking, not just on this last morning but all the time: you’ve lost everything, not at a single blow but gradually, over years, a small hole in a sandbag. You see the hole clearly but you have no way to fix it. No one but you has been aware of that thin, sawdust-colored stream of sand escaping, but now enough sand has leaked that the shape of the bag is changing, it’s collapsing. It will be noticed. You will be caught. And then, and then—you don’t know what. You want not to be here when that happens.
He makes the pot of regular coffee for his wife, fills a cup, carries it upstairs to her bedside table. The fact that he doesn’t make his own usual pot of decaf might mean that he’s already decided—or it might mean that he generally makes that second pot when he comes downstairs again. And this morning, he doesn’t go downstairs again. He stands at his wife’s side of the bed and looks at her, sleeping. He looks at her for a long time.
Or maybe he doesn’t look. Maybe he puts down the saucer and goes for the gun and is out of the room before the coffee stops quivering in the cup.
Suicide: act of
bare-bones account
THIS IS WHAT MY FATHER DID. HE GOT UP, SHOWERED, SHAVED, and dressed for work. He went downstairs and made a pot of coffee, and while it was brewing he went outside and walked the long driveway to pick up the newspaper. He left the paper folded on the kitchen table, poured a cup of coffee, carried it upstairs, and put it on my mother’s bedside table. She was still in bed, sleeping. Then he went into his study, closed the door, and shot himself.
My mother heard a popping sound. She was up by then, on her way into the shower. The coffee wasn’t hot; she drank it anyway. When she was dressed, she took the empty cup down to the kitchen. He wasn’t there, but she didn’t think he would have left for work without saying good-bye, and there were no breakfast dishes in the sink. Usually he made two pots of coffee, a big one with caffeine for her and a smaller one of decaf for himself. But the smaller pot was empty, cold, clean. She called his name. She saw the paper on the table, unfolded it, and read the front page.
She went upstairs to her study, next to his, and rummaged in the closet for a tablecloth she meant to iron. She set up the ironing board and called his name again. His hearing was bad; sometimes he didn’t answer when she called. She went and knocked at his study; she pushed the door open.
She found him.
She called Ted Tyson and told him to come over. She called the police.
Suicide: act of
immediate aftermath
I THOUGHT I KNEW WHY TED TYSON WOULD BE CALLING ME AT eight in the morning. My mother had said that he was planning to come up to Boston soon, and I had said he could stay with us. “Really?” my mother had said. “Really?”
“Sure, why not?” I had answered. I was always trying to think of ways to prove to her that I liked him. But I had never really expected him to take me up on my offer.
“Ted!” I said warmly now. “Ted, how are you?”
“I have some bad news,” he said.
“Oh?” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Your father has taken his own life.”
We didn’t say anything in the car, driving to Connecticut. It took three hours. My husband drove, and I looked out the window. Our three-year-old son sat in the backseat, looking at his truck books, murmuring to himself. He had a music box with him, one that my father had brought him from Switzerland. There was a little man inside, dressed in a clown suit. My son kept passing it to me through the gap between the seats; I kept winding it up and passing it back to him, with the little man dancing, his arms and legs flailing loose and wild.
At Waterbury we got off the highway and pulled into the parking lot of a new hotel. We were early; my husband’s stepfather was meeting us at 11:45. We went inside. We wandered through the lobby, along corridors carpeted in undersea green. Men in suits were going into the restaurant. I looked at their faces. My son stood in front of a glass shelf of stuffed animals in the gift shop, looking but not touching.
“Isn’t he a precious,” said the old lady working there. “Isn’t he a love.” She smiled at me. “I have a little grandson just that age,” she said. “He comes to lunch with me every Tuesday.”
“Really?” I said.
“There’s Neil,” said my husband.
“What happened?” Neil asked us in the lobby.
“We’re not sure yet,” I said. “We think it must have been a heart attack.”
We handed him our son’s overnight bag, and we all went back out to the parking lot. We moved our son’s car seat into Neil’s green Rolls-Royce. I watched Neil strap our son in and drive away; the car was so big that I couldn’t see even the top of my son’s head in the window.
When we got back into our own car, I asked my husband if he thought the body would still be in the house when we got there. I looked at the dashboard clock. “It’s been over four hours,” I said. “Four and a half by the time we get there. He’ll be gone by then, won’t he?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” my husband said, clearing his throat.
“What do they need to do?” I said. “Look around. Talk to my mother. Take pictures. Do you think they take pictures?”
“I don’t know.” He cleared his throat again. “Probably.”
My parents’ house was in a cold pocket. The town was in a deep, rocky valley, and their house lay in a dip in the road. A police car sat at the entrance, between the low stone walls, red and blue lights flashing. We turned in and stopped, and the policeman got out and started walking toward us.
“Get out,” I told my husband. “Go talk to him over there.”
I didn’t look at them while they were talking. I looked out my window, at a white opaque patch of ice on the driveway. My husband got back into the car and rolled down the window.
“You can’t go in there yet,” the policeman said. He was talking to me. I looked at his black belt, sagging with the weight of a gun in its black holster. “Your mother’s over at Mr. Tyson’s house. We asked her if she wouldn’t rather be with a woman friend, if there was someone else we could call, but she said no. She wanted to be with him.”
My mother was sitting in a big blue-and-white striped armchair, in front of Ted Tyson’s kitchen fireplace. There was a fire going. There was a plaid blanket over her, and Kleenex in her fist. She held out her hand to me, and I went down on my knees in front of her.
“Oh, the horror,” she said, “do you know? The horror.”
She was shivering. I rubbed her hand between mine; her skin was loose and very dry, like crumpled tissue paper.
“Can you imagine what I went through, finding him like that?” she said.
I kept on rubbing her hand. There were shelves behind her, built into the corner, filled with square glass bottles of Ted’s herb vinegar. He had given me a bottle of that vinegar for Christmas six w
eeks before. Ted was standing at the counter, stirring something on the stove.
“He was at the desk?” I asked my mother.
“No, in the chair.”
“What chair?”
“The armchair.”
“There is no armchair in that room.”
“Of course there is,” she said. “Why would I invent an armchair?”
I couldn’t get it out of my head that he’d been at the desk, slumped over the piles of paper that had killed him. “What color is it?” I asked.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“Where was the gun?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t see the gun. He was sitting in the chair, with his feet on the footstool. His feet were like this.” She stuck her own feet out from the blanket, crossing them at the ankles. “He looked so peaceful. You know how they always say that, ‘He looked peaceful’? Well, he did. I shook him. I kept saying, ‘Paul, wake up.’”
The Suicide Index Page 1
