Gretchen exhaled. “Okay. Drink?”
“Yes, please.”
I led her toward the bar without having to search out its location—far left across from the piano. When we were teenagers, Stewart’s parents had an annual New Year’s Day party. Helen found New Year’s Eve depressing, so a gathering the following afternoon was her compensation. That event was festive and tinsel-filled: hungover people, casually well-dressed in cowl-necked cashmere and winter white, enjoying hair of the dog.
There was no tinsel today, of course. Still, this felt jarringly reminiscent of those parties—the hardwood floors just as waxed, the light fixture still like a flapper’s fringe, the Hockney painting just as bright. The unforgiving light of overcast skies fell through windows lined with draped silver treatments. Friends and family mingled amidst modernist pieces—chairs, tables, vases, clocks—that looked like characters. The women of the older set wore dark suits and dresses with mandarin collars and broaches; the men wore bespoke jackets with exposed stitching. They seemed more comfortable in this setting and their funeral attire than their younger counterparts, who shifted in conservative black.
People chatted quietly in clusters, sipping white wine, eating crudités off cocktail plates. Uniformed waiters passed hors d’oeuvres. Very civilized. Too civilized. I spotted a tray of blinis with caviar and made a mental note to tell Stewart that I’d predicted the catering menu. I knew he was gone, but I guess I still felt I was carrying him with me.
Gretchen followed my line of vision to a tray of what looked like pâté canapés. “In Germany, at funerals, they serve this sugary cake called a zuckerkuchen,” she said. “Everyone stuffed their faces with it when we traveled back after my great uncle died.” Gretchen has a German mother and a Jamaican father, which accounts for her stunning height and hair—and the fact that she’s impossible to miss.
“Was it good? The cake?”
“It did the job as far as emotional eating goes.” She crinkled her nose, accepting a mini cheese puff from a passing waiter. “Something just feels wrong about all these teeny tiny bites.”
There was so much I didn’t know about death and the diverse rituals meant to help people heal. “What was it like otherwise? A German funeral?”
“Like a regular old American Christian one,” she shrugged. “But with more bratwurst. And German speakers.”
“Right. I guess that makes sense. Have ever you been to a Jamaican funeral?”
“Yup.”
“What’s that like? The same?”
“No way,” she smiled. “That’s a party!”
Snippets of conversations trailed us as we edged past guests. “You know Linda,” said a tiny woman with dyed-burgundy helmet hair and enough diamonds to topple someone less formidable. “She didn’t develop chronic illness until late in life, but it was the role she was born to play.” An older man with bushy eyebrows and a bowtie was holding court with what I assumed were tolerant younger relatives. “You know, I had malaria four times!” he bragged. “And the last time, I actually died.” No one mentioned Stewart. The dead elephant in the room.
At the drink station, Gretchen and I were waiting for the bartender’s attention, when a woman beside me nudged my arm, smiling kindly, “Excuse me, sweetie? Would you mind passing a napkin?” I complied, smiling back, until I looked down and noticed the mismatch between her reconstructed forty-five-year-old face and her eighty-year-old hands. I covered my surprise with a cough and hoped she thought I was choking back tears. I felt like I was in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
I was just recovering from that exchange when I was startled by a tap on my shoulder. Jesus, I was jumpy. I turned to find Blair, Stewart’s publicist, standing behind me. Lord help me.
Gretchen gestured that she’d grab our drinks, while Blair dragged me to the side.
“Wren,” she said, frowning, eyes moist.
“Blair.”
cause of death: Stroke. At Dry Bar. Ninety-two years old. After reading a client’s bad press.
after-death ritual: Burial. In only the most exclusive cemetery. Monogrammed coffin. Does Louis Vuitton make caskets?
service: Traditional. Dramatic. To provoke deep, unironic sadness.
processional music: Celine Dion. “My Heart Will Go On.”
memorial buffet: Canapés not unlike the ones here. And hostess napkins. Lots of hostess napkins.
Despite my disdain for Blair, the sadness in her face moved me. Both our eyes welled, but hers overflowed. And, just like that, mine dried up.
She hugged me, long and hard. I started to feel like she would never let go—and, after a while, I really wanted out. The lace of her white eyelet blouse was scratching my cheek; her sweet perfume was making me carsick.
Finally, she released me and we took each other in. I’ve never thought Blair was nice to look at; there’s something unforgiving about her face—her wide, angular jaw, her close-set, hawkish eyes, her thin lips. Even her smile expressed more hunger than happiness. This harsh light wasn’t doing her any favors: She wore too much foundation. Her highlighted hair, which lay in uniform waves well past her shoulders, was too yellow. She looked drawn and tired—and the way she was leaning toward me made me want to take a step back.
Because Stewart died, I reminded myself. She looks drawn because Stewart died.
I tried to think of something kind about her. I focused on the delicate gold xo studs in her ears. They were sort of pretty.
In my defense, I would have shown more generosity of spirit if I thought she was a good person, but her appearance was like an expression of her inner ugliness. Blair was Stewart’s college theater friend. Once a wannabe actress (who realized she couldn’t stomach the rejection), she had transitioned into publicity with Stewart as her first client. He had been fond of her, applauding her “loyalty” to him, but even he had to admit that she was challenging. Hanging out with her was like being trapped in a middle school girl’s bathroom—with the second most popular girl in the grade. No matter how friendly she acted, she couldn’t help eyeing you like prey. When she smiled, it was hard to tell if she was amused or reveling in the ways you were unwittingly humiliating yourself.
Blair had always been civil to me, recognizing, with that razor-sharp focus, that I was a permanent fixture. Stewart valued me, so she pretended that she did too. That was a punishment in its own way: she always behaved as if we were more intimately acquainted than we were, in together on some terribly girly secret.
“You know Stewart,” she would smirk, as if to say, “No one knows him like we do.” I often felt tempted to remind her that I’d known him for two decades longer. But I’m not petty like that. Out loud.
Now, tears hung on her eyelash extensions like raindrops on barren branches. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I know.” What was there to say? “Poor Stewart.”
“Poor all of us! He was just the kindest, most wonderful person.”
I nodded. Because that’s what you do at funerals. Even if you don’t agree.
I thought Stewart was wonderful, for sure. He was brilliant and amazing, and I already felt so alone in this crowd without him. But kind? That seemed like a reach. I could think of a snarky thing he’d said about every person I recognized in this room, especially Blair. I didn’t value him for his sweetness, so much as his intelligence, humor, and kindred spirit. I swallowed hard, absorbing a wave of disbelief. I wished he was standing next to me, elbowing me in the side.
My temples throbbed. How long did your head hurt before an aneurysm gave way and your brain went to pieces? An hour? A day?
“How are we going to live without him!” Blair wailed. I snapped back to attention as she broke down sobbing, her face dropping into her well-manicured hands. Perfect neutral nails. Some stackable diamond rings she’d bought for herself (like me, she was single).
I patted her
shoulder. Because that’s what you do at funerals too. And, no matter what I thought of her, she was hurting. “I know. I really do, Blair.” She loved Stewart, and he would have wanted me to play nice. “I already miss him so much.”
“Me too.” She looked up at me, brushing her smooth hair away from her face. Tears dripped down past her pronounced chin. I handed her a napkin from the bar. This was turning into a regular thing for me. Napkin girl. “I mean, I knew you’d understand,” she continued. “All these people think they knew him, but not like us—”
She gestured to everyone else in the room. I felt confident that many of them knew him as well. His mother, for instance, who I spotted at a distance in conversation with some guy I didn’t recognize—brown scruffy hair, crinkly eyes, five o’clock shadow, cute, about my age. I looked away, desperate to continue any conversation if it saved me from talking to Helen. Blair snorted loudly. Like Miss Piggy.
“Life is going to feel different now, for sure,” I said.
“It is! Because, Wren, you know Stu! He and I talked every day, basically. I knew every single detail of his life. He and I were so close! So. Close.”
“Right. Totally. So. Close.”
“I know you guys didn’t talk as much as we did, but you were so close too.” Ah. There she was, the woman I knew. Let the pissing contest begin! “But I’m telling you, he didn’t do one thing without running it by me. Like, every time I get a text now, I think it’s him, asking for advice like normal. I’m just so brokenhearted. I mean, I’ve spent my whole adulthood with him, you know? We just connected—emotionally, ambitiously, intellectually.”
Intellectually? I dropped my hand. I had a flashback to Stewart pushing his imaginary glasses up the bridge of his nose: “Blair thinks Fifty Shades of Grey is great literature.”
She took a step toward me now, so we were only inches apart. You could just feel her ready to pounce. “Had you talked to him lately? I know you guys sometimes lost touch for periods.” Dig.
“I talked to him two days ago.” I wasn’t about to share the details of our last conversation. Those were mine. No one else was going to own them. And I needed to change the subject to anything else, since I was starting to feel like kicking Blair’s competitive ass. That seemed inappropriate in this setting; the living room rug was very white. “He didn’t mention anything about feeling sick,” I said quickly, moving on. “I wonder if he had any idea that something was up?”
I’d been thinking a lot about that: Is there a build up to an aneurysm? Like, do you feel tired for the days leading up to dying? Or do you just get a headache and boom! I guess, like Kate, I wanted to understand Stewart’s last moments.
“Definitely not!” Blair snapped, drawing me out of my head again. “He would have told me if he felt bad! He would have asked me to bring him a cayenne wellness shot from Earthbar or somewhere.”
“Right.”
“The show was on hiatus. I’m pretty sure he was like sleeping a lot and taking it easy.”
“You’re pretty sure?”
“Oh, well, I mean, I hadn’t talked to him in a couple weeks,” she mumbled. “I was out of town with another client. Stu wasn’t responding to texts, so I knew that meant he was either really busy or resting up. ’Cause he always answered my texts.”
“Unless he was really busy. Or resting up.”
“Yes.”
The truth comes out. She hadn’t talked to him in ages. She didn’t know any more than I did. Now talking to her seemed like an even bigger waste of time.
“Oh, God!” she groaned again loudly, catching me off guard and drawing stares from nearby mourners. I offered an apologetic smile-frown to those whose gazes lingered and took a giant step back. Blair didn’t seem to notice. “I can’t believe I’ll never get a text from him again! I just can’t stop crying. I—”
“Hi, ladies,” interrupted a voice from above. We both looked up. Keith was standing over us, doing a performance of compassion. His oblong head was tilted to the side, chapped lips squashed together, beard quivering. God, he was a terrible actor. He couldn’t even do a decent impression of grieving his oldest friend. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he felt some legitimate sadness. But he delivered his condolences entirely to Blair because—Hollywood publicist.
cause of death: Liver disease.
after-death ritual: Cremation. Because, drunk at a Korea Town karaoke bar on one of Stewart’s birthdays, he told me he wanted to be scattered from the top of one of the world’s tallest buildings, so he could be “caught by the wind.” I suggested he be scattered from the world’s shortest building instead, so he could be conveniently “caught by a garbage bin.” He did not find that amusing.
service: He’d want a big, well-attended, theatrical affair. A small one at a dingy chapel would be more fitting. Maybe attended by some of the young acting students he’d coerced into fucking him. He was so #MeToo.
processional music: “Born To Be Wild” by Steppenwolf. ’Cause poser.
memorial buffet: Cold coffee and Danish.
Fucker.
Maybe I was being harsh.
He leaned down and brushed his crusty lips against my cheek, leaving the stench of stale cigarettes and Drakkar Noir (or some other cheap cologne for thirteen-year-olds) in his wake. It took everything in my power not to pull out hand sanitizer and spray my face.
“Hi, Wren.”
“Hi, Keith.”
“It’s been forever.” Like I’d been deprived.
“It has.” I gritted my teeth. “How have you been?”
He sighed—long and loud. “I’ve been better. My Snackables commercial is about to start airing nationally, but it’s hard to feel happy about that today. Now I’ll never get to share that with Stu. I know he would have been ecstatic.”
I doubted that.
Keith laid a hand on Blair’s shoulder. “Hi, Blair.”
“Um, hi . . . sorry, remind me of your name?”
“It’s Keith,” he whined. “We hung out with Stu at the Chateau a couple of years ago when I was in town for pilot season? And, like, a few times before that. Don’t worry. I know it’s hard to keep anything straight today.”
Blair looked from his face to his hand on her arm and crinkled her nose. For a blissful moment, I thought she might swat him off, affronted by his insubordination. But then he said the magic words: “I know how close you and Stu were. This must be particularly hard for you.”
Suddenly, she was nodding. “We were so close,” she groaned. “I mean, so close. I just can’t believe it. How am I going to live without him?” With a wheeze, she started weeping again. Keith pulled her in close, a hand on the back of her head. You wouldn’t catch my nose that close to his armpit.
He glanced at me over her head, forehead lined like ruled paper. “Tough day. Tough, tough day. We all have to band together and support each other now.”
I dry-heaved.
He seemed to be peering over my shoulder, so I twisted to follow his gaze and realized I was standing in front of a framed portrait of Stewart and Kate. Stewart was probably ten years old. Gawky. Adorable. Wide smile. Crisp, white button down. Glasses. Glint in his eye. Kate was an early incarnation of that teenager I remembered. She looked pissed, stuffed into a navy blue velvet dress with a rope belt. Probably Ralph Lauren or something of that ilk. Something beautiful that a kid would hate.
Keith pointed to the photograph, his hand forming a gun. “Oh. Stu, old pal. You always used to say, ‘Keith. Dude. You inspire me.’ But the truth is we still had so much left to learn from each other.”
Blair croaked out another moan and sobbed harder into Keith’s shoulder. You had to be impressed by his commitment to performing the scene while Blair blew her nose on his sleeve. That suit was going to need a serious dry cleaning. Or a spit shine, knowing cheap-ass Keith.
I thought, Stewart woul
d have died to see this. Unfortunately, he already had.
Actually, an aneurysm didn’t sound like a bad alternative to witnessing this display. Thank the lord, Gretchen sensed my peril—or maybe, I imagined, Stewart used his heavenly influence to intervene. Either way, at that moment, my living, breathing best friend appeared at my side with a fifth of Scotch. Neat. How I like it. How Stewart liked it too. “I thought you might need this,” she mumbled, looking from Keith to Blair and back to me with eyes wide.
Keith reached out a hand. “Keith. Farber. Old friend to Stu. And colleague. In the film biz.”
Gretchen bit her lip to suppress a smile, then took his hand and shook it firmly, “Gretchen. Wren’s college friend. We’ve met before.”
“Apologies. It’s a difficult day. I’m . . . not myself.”
“How unfortunate for us all.”
“Yeah, true. I’m amazed that I’m holding it together.”
She stared at him. “Unbelievable.”
“The turnout? I know, right? I’m surprised too. I didn’t think this many people actually liked Stu.” Keith caught himself mid smirk and ironed out his face. “I mean, I know how beloved he was, of course. But it was short notice. Typical Stu.”
“Yes, sudden death is so inconvenient that way. No save-the-date!” Gretchen grabbed my hand and squeezed. Hard. “Hey Wren, can I steal you for a sec?”
“Yes. Yes, you can.” Please God.
She pulled me toward the center of the room, hiding us behind a trio of older men in heated debate about superyachts. “Well, he’s worse than I remembered!” Gretchen raised both eyebrows in mock horror. “Who knew that was possible? Stewart really knew how to pick ’em.”
“He sure did,” came a voice from behind us—dry as hell. We turned to find Jimmy wearing a crooked, sad smile. He was like a giant teddy bear, meaty in his older age, eyes clear and brown. I exhaled. I was so happy to see him.
cause of death: Lights out while playing poker at his Florida old-age home.
Competitive Grieving Page 5