“Zip your jacket, spunky. Give it a few minutes, and you’ll be fine.”
“I am fine.” Luke gritted his teeth and fidgeted on the cold metal of the chair.
“Put more conviction into your acting. Make me believe you’re not freezing your ass off.”
“That’s hard to do when I’m freezing my ass off.”
“Which may be why The Great White Way didn’t work for you. Not that it wasn’t always a one-in-a-million shot, but if you can’t even pretend you’re not cold for fifteen seconds, how can you make me believe that you could be anything else?”
Luke huddled around his coffee cup like a campfire until his body stopped shaking. Except his shoulders, which made Tom smile.
Jay was always cold in the shoulders too. You’re so like him. You have his eyes, his hair, his posture. I could squint and swear you’re him. It stunned me for a second when I stood face-to-face with you yesterday.
He deliberated telling Luke this, but decided not to. The boy had likely been reminded a hundred times during the viewing how much he resembled his father. And he’d hear the same thing a hundred more times today.
“Tell me about New York?” Tom offered, curious as to what lies Luke might create.
“Actually, I have questions I was hoping you could answer.” Luke met his eyes.
“With pleasure.”
He should’ve anticipated that Luke would have questions. Whatever Jay had told him, there must not have been time to address any confusion. And depending on what he wanted to know, Tom knew he was the only resource for certain details. As much as Jackie was aware, there were gaps that could be filled by Tom alone—he’d been there.
It was moderately entertaining when Luke unzipped his jacket and revealed the red plaid book. The boy pushed it forward on the table.
“This fucking thing?” Tom ran his hand across the cover—the motley Scottish terrier playing bagpipes under a gold-emblazoned year. “It’s an ugly son of a bitch, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Luke replied.
Tom opened the book and flipped through the pages. As he turned them, he let the forgotten memories return. He hadn’t seen this book in years. A copy was at home, alongside three other editions, but he hadn’t taken it down since putting it on the shelf when he moved into the high-rise. And it’d been even longer since he’d gone through the photos. It seemed an old-man thing to do. Yet here he was at the end of his life, sifting through his youth and enjoying it more than he might’ve had he not been on cancer medication spiked with THC.
“There’s me. Orchestra.” Tom pointed to a photo of two dozen teenagers crowded onto three rows of bleachers. He was in the last row, the walnut-colored scroll of an instrument visible behind the shoulder in front of him. “I was first chair in violin my junior and senior year.”
“Were you?” Luke leaned forward, moving his chair closer.
Tom nodded, continuing to comb through the pages. “It was good, but not great. I prefer the piano. I auditioned for both programs at Julliard to double my chances. But thank God I made it with piano. I don’t think I would’ve been happy with anything else.” He wondered if this might catch the boy’s attention. Luke would be a special kind of idiot to not realize that Tom’s connections in the music world might benefit him.
If you ask me, I’ll do it. I can’t guarantee you a place there, or wherever you want to go, but I can ensure you get a callback. Jay wanted you to make it of your own merit; but I don’t have a problem giving you a leg up.
But that Luke didn’t ask pleased Tom, and he knew would’ve satisfied Jay as well. Maybe he didn’t want the help; he wanted to make it himself. It was an attitude Tom respected.
“Is my dad anywhere else in that book?”
“No.” Tom pinched several sports pages together and passed over them. “Jay didn’t do extracurriculars his senior year.”
“What was he like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what type of person was he?”
Tom looked up from the book as he was about to flip by the sophomore photos and into his own year. Luke fiddled with a red class ring that was as recognizable as the ugly yearbook.
No, he wouldn’t have told you how it was for him. If he’d had an infinite amount of time, it was still a sensitive subject. But it’s touching that you intuited how hard it was for him and want to know. Perhaps you’re less selfish than everyone thinks.
“Before or after?” Tom returned to paging through faces. He wondered how many of his classmates were dead.
“Before or after what?”
“Before or after he came out. He was a different person before the spring of 2004, when he decided everyone could go fuck themselves, and he was going to concentrate on escaping alive. To most people, it was a complete changeover when he came clean and stopped being as the person everyone else thought he was.” Tom located his junior photo and laughed again. “Was I ever this young?” He brought the book close to his face, tilting it to the side. “Or this awkward?”
“What do you mean he ‘came out’? ‘Came clean’?”
Tom’s gut seized sharply as he lowered the yearbook. His stomach had that tight feeling it did when he’d been vomiting for hours.
For the love of God, please tell me you didn’t, Jay. Or rather that you did—that you told him.
“Was my father gay? Is that what this is?”
“Not that I’ve been aware.” Tom swiped through the first half of the senior class of 2005. When he reached the correct page, he read the elegantly scripted names in his head. He looked at each face on both pages. He turned the page and analyzed the faces behind it. And then he read all the names again.
“He’s gone.”
“You’re not back far enough, Tom.” Luke reached across and leafed four or five pages farther.
“That son of a bitch.”
Somehow, there Jay was. In the same blue gown as the rest of the class. His name in the same font. In front of the same motherfucking slate background. How had he done it?
Tom moved the pages between his thumb and first finger. They were a different texture. It could be missed, but they were lighter, glossier. And the pages preceding and following Jay’s page were of the same higher-quality paper. He turned the book on its spine and examined the binding. The yearbook was comprised of fifteen sections of folded paper, all professionally glued and stitched at their crease into the cover’s spine. It was subtle, but the eighth section was out of alignment. Tom set the yearbook back on the table.
“I know it’s fake.” Luke’s gaze slowly ping-ponged from him to the book, and his shoulders stopped shaking. “I want to know why.”
Tom cleared his throat. “What did he tell you?” Luke’s look of confusion said it all. “How did you know to call me? Why did you call me?”
“I didn’t call you. My brother-in-law did.”
“Oh, my God.” Tom put his hands to his forehead, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes until they ached. This was why the voice on the phone had been different. But please say he knew something, even if he hadn’t made the call. Tom took down his hands. “Do you know who I am? Did Jay tell you anything about me at all? Anything?”
“Your name is Tom DuBelle. You went to school with my dad. You were his friend.”
“All things I told you. What did he tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing,” Tom chuckled to keep from yelling. He rubbed his temples as he pushed back his chair and stood. “I have to go.”
“Where? Why?”
“Home and because I don’t belong here.”
“But you can’t go. I need you to tell me what he’s been hiding from me!” Luke caught the sleeve of his jacket. “Please, Tom.”
Tom stopped but pulled away his sleeve.
“It’s not my responsibility to tell you. Your dad should’ve told you. But since he didn’t see fit to, if you have questions, go to your mom.”
“What if she doesn’
t know?”
“She does.”
“What if she won’t tell me?” Luke grabbed his sleeve once more.
Tom turned fully and looked him up and down. Again, he was struck by the resemblance, and his chest ached. Luke could’ve been the young man in the yearbook. He could’ve been Jay, standing there and asking another favor. Years later, now Jay asking him to stay. Begging him to stay. Tom blinked several times and pushed aside his inclination to give in to the specter. He glared, and his eyebrows furrowed.
How could you do this? Put me in this position? I’m dying, Jay! It’s not fair to me! You’ve never been fair to me! And it’s too late for you to demand anything else!
“How will I find you if she won’t tell me?” Luke pulled his sleeve timidly.
“If she won’t tell you, you don’t need to know.” Tom jerked away and stormed to the door. “And don’t try to find me. I don’t exist.”
As he left the restaurant, he placed a large enough bill on the counter to amply compensate the waitress. She was across the room, but he responded to her nod with a wink, notwithstanding his fury.
This is where the boy gets his selfishness from. You could’ve told him at any fucking time. But no, you go die a quick, painless death and leave your good friend Tom to clean up your mess! Time and time again, you fucking screw me over!
Luke came through the patio doors, the yearbook under his arm, and Tom wanted to spit on the floor. He might’ve, if the waitress hadn’t been so kind to him. He slammed the door and left before Luke could approach.
Chapter Eight
Ginger woke that morning for the first funeral he’d handle without his father-in-law in the wings for assistance. Instead of standing at his side, Jay was center stage in the box. Ginger felt multiple roles weigh heavily on him.
First he was the collected professional, capable of wading through the most difficult situations and solving every crisis. A businessman used to the gore and unassailable anguish of death, he could detach and manage it all. He was a conductor, a drum major. He’d lead everyone with ease.
Ginger had carried out this part hundreds of times, with rare exceptions. And for those extenuating circumstances, there’d been Jay to depend on. With him gone, Ginger had no backup. There was no one to pick up the pieces if he fell apart. Luke could remove bodies, be an extra pallbearer, play the piano if the audio system went haywire. But for the most important tasks, he was of no use.
What if we lose the baby?
It’d been this possibility which startled Ginger from his half sleep at four in the morning. He took several full breaths to subdue his panic.
Every single body that comes in is mine now. I can’t pass anything. What if it happens again? I can’t do it. I can’t! I couldn’t even hold him.
He cupped his hand over his mouth and pretended to breathe into a paper bag. Nice and steady. No reason for alarm.
Beau hadn’t been able to hold the baby either, though they said she should. The doctors said they both should hold him. And rock him. And sing to him. And take pictures of him. Bond. As if they were going to bring him home and place him in the crib, dress him in the tiny clothes. As if they were going to see him smile and watch his eyes sparkle when they entered the room. Hold him. Rock him. Sing to him. As if he were alive. As if he’d ever lived. As if he weren’t a lump of flesh. They were told that performing these actions with the dead infant was normal.
But they’d been too upset to play fantasyland. Beau had turned her head and folded her arms. She hadn’t wanted to see him at all.
After they’d pressed the still bundle into his arms, Ginger pulled back the blanket and immediately wished he hadn’t. The sight of the swollen, red face remained branded into his consciousness. It was really more purple than red. A dark shade of plum that was too ripe, and the skin had appeared thin enough to rupture at the lightest touch.
“Here.”
Jay had swept in to rescue him as Ginger was about to drop it. He’d taken the bundle and cradled it in the crook of his arm like it wasn’t ugly and dead. He’d looked at it without disgust and smoothed his hand over the baby’s forehead. It was the only loving touch the dead child had received.
“He has red hair.” Jay had tucked the blanket around the head. It might’ve been a loaf of bread.
Ginger had shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor in shame. He hadn’t noticed hair. There’d just been purple. The God-awful purple. He’d seen a dead baby. Many of them. He embalmed them. He cremated them. He placed their contorted bodies in Styrofoam containers. But he’d never seen any like this. Or maybe he had. He couldn’t remember. Nothing he’d been confronted with had paralyzed him in this way.
“One of you.” Beau’s voice had come thin and uneven from the other side of the room where Jackie sat at her bedside. “Get it out of here. Now.”
“Are you sure—”
“Yes, Dad. Get it out of here.”
“What do you want us to do with—”
“I don’t care! Just get it out!” Beau had cut him off, yelling through her tears. “All of you! Get out!”
Ginger hadn’t known if “all of you” included him. He hadn’t wanted to go or be part of the “us” who’d be taking care of the dead infant. His dead infant. His dead son. He hadn’t wanted to see it again. He couldn’t touch it.
“Stay.” His father-in-law had provided the answer he’d needed. “I’ll take care of him, Ginger, unless you want to.”
The compassion in Jay’s eyes told him it was okay, and he wouldn’t be regarded as weak for not handling the body. His expression said he’d already known how Ginger felt.
He’d mouthed “thank you” and gone to Beau’s side. As Ginger held his wife, Jay left the room with the dead baby in his arms.
Ginger knew the body had been placed in the refrigeration unit. Jay wouldn’t do anything until he was given unambiguous direction, and it took Beau a week to decide she wanted the baby cremated. There’d be no ceremony of any kind. What was there to remember? Enduring constant discomfort for nine months in the anticipation of his arrival? The excitement of collecting toys and decorating the nursery? The playful debates over names or who the sonograms resembled?
“Or how about being told he was healthy? Hearing his heartbeat, feeling him fucking move? That’s a great memory. Let’s build a funeral around that. One minute he’s fine, and then he’s dead.”
That's how it was with all death—one minute you were fine, and then you died. But Ginger had known she was aware of that. It was comparable to how he couldn’t bear seeing the baby regardless of having handled hundreds of disturbing bodies. Old hat took on a new light when it became personal. Or rather, it brought new darkness.
“If you want to have a fucking ceremony over it, Ging, I don’t care. Build a shrine. Get a Goddamn jazz band to march through the streets. Send it to sea in a Viking ship. I don’t want any part. Burn it. Don’t embalm it. And if there’s anything left, use one of those white Chinese-food boxes in the stockroom. Shove it in a casket with whoever goes next. Don’t waste a burial plot. Or a name. Just get rid of it, and forget it happened.”
And Jay had been a Godsend not only due to physically handling the body, but he hadn’t been immune to Beau’s callousness. He showed no hurt or disapproval, assuring Beau her instructions would be carried out. But later that day, when Ginger was alone, Jay sent him a text message requesting his help at the funeral home.
When Ginger had arrived, he followed Jay’s opera music and found him leaning against the crematorium. The machine wasn’t on, but the door was raised. And before the open door stood the gurney upon which rested a standard, full-length box. But Ginger knew the box wasn’t completely filled.
“She’d tell you not to waste a good box. To use a shoe box. Or a paper grocery bag. Or to stuff it in a burlap sack and toss it in like drowning a bunch of cats.” Ginger had tried to chuckle.
“I know it’s hard, but try not to judge her too harshly. It’s
devastating to want something desperately, and have it taken or kept from you,” Jay said. “I speak from personal experience when I say that.” He’d pushed himself away from the crematorium. “No one knows how fiercely I wanted my children. And how angry I was at everyone around me who had what I wanted. Trust me; be glad she’s sniping and angry. There are worse things one could feel.”
Ginger would’ve asked more, but his father-in-law had continued. “However, there’s no reason you shouldn’t have a say in what happens. Beau said she didn’t care. Tell me what you want to do.”
What did he want? Did it matter if the body was cremated without ceremony, any remains stored in a cardboard box under an inventory number? He hadn’t been able to hold the baby, but did he want to pretend it hadn’t happened? No, these elements were all important to him.
But Beau is more important.
“I want you to do what she asked. Take care of him as she said.”
Jay hadn’t seemed dissatisfied with the answer. Had the man ever been disappointed in anything?
“Do you want to see him one more time?”
“No,” Ginger answered quickly, images of the purple face skidding through his brain.
“Do you want to put him in?”
“No.”
“Do you want to close the door?”
“No.”
“Do you—”
“Dad.” He’d touched Jay’s arm. “I know what you’re doing. It’s appreciated. But please, you handle it, and let me stand here. That’s all I feel I can do.”
Ginger had watched him push the cardboard box inside the crematorium and place the metal chip with the number on its inner ledge.
Just a number.
The door lowered, and Jay adjusted the machine’s dials before he looked to Ginger. His finger hovered over the button. Waiting.
Ginger nodded and the machine rumbled to life. Jay stood by his side in silence, his hand on his shoulder as they listened to the breathing dragon.
I could’ve stood shoulder to shoulder with him someday. Instead, he’s in there. Burning. And I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t be nonchalant and fake like I don’t care. He felt the heat behind his eyes. He didn’t live. He didn’t breathe. He might as well have never been. How can you be attached to what was only a fucking figment of your imagination?
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