“Okay. You do you.” I felt a little bad for poking fun, especially since she wasn’t known for her sense of humor. “Sorry.”
“No worries. Jokes are a common way to cope with confronting the great beyond. We’ve all come face-to-face with our perfect mortality. We need to make space for our fear and sadness.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay.” She shot to standing. “Where was Stewart’s final resting place? I need to be in that space.”
Blair popped up for that—always first with the information. “The den. I’ll show you.” They disappeared into the recesses of the apartment, and I went back to sorting plays.
There were a few from high school: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof with notes for a term paper in the margins; Major Barbara, which I remembered reading in senior English during a section on Shaw; Our Town, which I think we first read in ninth grade. I once saw Stewart play the Stage Manager in a graduate school production of it. He was great.
That play has always been one of my favorites, no matter how many times it gets performed. I opened it to skim. He had highlighted some of the major passages like when Emily returns to say goodbye to the world after she’s died, only to discover how blindly human beings live.
Maybe someone should read from the play during the tribute—or would that be too on the nose? Stewart might have scoffed, even though he loved it. I flipped to the next page and noticed a piece of paper stuffed in the crease like a bookmark. I plucked it out and studied it: It was a prescription for 200 mg of Zoloft. That in itself wasn’t strange. I mean, everyone is on medication these days and Stewart definitely had his highs and lows. I had my own anxiety-fueled dalliances with Zoloft and Klonopin. But the dosage was high. And there was a second prescription, too, for Cymbalta. Why would you need two?
I had this gut sense in that moment that I didn’t know Stewart—at least not everything about him—and it made me feel even sadder and more empty. I stuffed the paper in my pocket. I told myself I didn’t want someone else to find it because it was private, but, if I was honest, I also didn’t want someone else to find it and know something I hadn’t about him.
Feet away, I could hear Blair talking to Keith about Stewart’s art collection. “Well, he really liked contemporary portraiture. I know that because I advised him on what to buy. We always went to the LA Art Fair together. Stu loved art, you know.”
“Well, he’s lucky he had you to advise him. He wouldn’t have had any instincts on his own.” Fucking Keith.
“I was the one to recommend that he buy Elizabeth Peyton early on,” Blair continued. “Now her paintings are worth a ton. This wasn’t the one I recommended, but he wanted it for some reason.”
They were all so sure they knew him—the real Stewart. How come I was the only one doubting my relationship with him? He liked “portraiture”? Really? He was a deeply untalented artist and disinterested viewer. The last time I dragged him to the Whitney Biennial, he whined his way through the galleries and made me leave before I was finished.
I watched the vultures for a moment, absorbing their aggression from a distance like radiation. It was like I could see the thought bubbles above their heads:
I am sadder than you.
I loved him more than you.
I knew him better than you.
My tailbone was sore from sitting on the wood floor for so long. It was hot in the apartment—the heat blasting like it was winter when it was only fall—and my jeans were stuck to the backs of my knees. I stretched my legs out and my arms above my head, looking up just in time to see Mallory emerge from Stewart’s bedroom wearing his favorite Pixies T-shirt. I was so stunned that it took me a moment to realize she was also wearing his gray skullcap. I recognized it because I had teased him for wearing it in warm weather and so far back on his head—such a LA actor move and very Matthew Simonsson. Mallory made her way over to a shelf to my right and started examining Stewart’s knickknacks like she was shopping at a thrift store. “this is cool!” She picked up the Transformer. “ooh, look bri! he has the original megatron! you don’t have this one in your collection!” She began sorting through Stewart’s records, flipping from vinyl to vinyl. My mouth hung open like I was catching flies.
Suddenly, I felt a rough tug on my arm. Startled, I look up to find George standing over me. “Can I talk to you?” he said, through gritted teeth.
“Oh. Um, sure.”
Once I was standing, he practically yanked me across the room. Blair and Keith were still surveying the art collection like a couple shopping for their new McMansion. I craned my neck to see the portrait they’d been discussing: It was of Kurt Cobain. That’s why Stewart had wanted it. Not because he loved portraiture—because he worshipped Nirvana. That made me feel a little better. Or at least a little smug.
George dragged me past the entrance to the den, where Willow was performing a ceremony with a metal bowl. The air had an unpleasant familiar smell. I sniffed and did a double take. Was she taking the hair from Stewart’s brush and burning it?
Watching her reminded me of when my grandfather was in a nursing home with dementia. One day, I went to visit him and caught his born-again nurse, Dolores, wheeling his chair out of a Christian church service. We’re Jewish and my grandfather was an atheist, but I guess Dolores wanted to save his soul. Her heart was in the right place, but he wouldn’t have knowingly signed up for that. Just as Stewart would not have sanctioned New Age chanting in the wake of his death. This was why he had broken up with Willow in the first place. Her orthodoxy didn’t sit right with him. Now, these people were turning his home into their personal playground. They had subsumed his energy. There wasn’t a trace of him left here anymore—only his former stuff dusted in their bullshit and fingerprints.
Apparently, George and I were headed to the bathroom. Once inside, he dropped my arm, slammed the door like a monster was chasing us and leaned his back against it. “Wren.”
I glanced over my shoulder, crinkling my nose. “Was she actually burning Stewart’s hair or did I imagine that?”
“Wren. Look at me!”
I turned to face him. “Yes? What’s up? What’s wrong?”
George’s eyes were wild and his face was flushed. He brought his hands to his head and dug his fingers into his hair. “These people are the worst.”
I felt my shoulders relax. So I wasn’t crazy. I parted my lips to agree, but, to my surprise, a sharp laugh shot from my mouth instead. I started cracking up, softly at first and then hard. The first tears I had shed since Stewart’s death fell from my eyes, but they were tears of laughter.
George looked at me like I had lost my mind, but then his lips curved into a half smile. I couldn’t help but think it: he was kind of cute.
“Okay, okay. I get it. You were right. Blair is a demon,” he was saying, as I caught my breath. “But, Wren, in my defense, I could never have imagined that people could be this bad! I mean, I think vultures as a species should be offended by the comparison!”
I nodded, wiping my eyes. “They’re horrible.”
“First of all, they’re all so obsessed with Stewart’s death, showing up at a moment’s notice so they don’t miss anything. Don’t they have jobs? Or families? Or lives?”
“I mean, Blair must have other clients.”
“Blair! She’s like a super villain!” He leaned in. “And did I imagine it or was that girl Mallory wearing Stu’s clothing just now? Like she just walked into his room, opened a drawer or, worse, dug in his dirty laundry and started putting on his T-shirts?”
That sent me on another laughing jag. George sighed and sat down on the closed toilet. “How did Stewart tolerate these people?”
“I don’t know. I never understood it. I guess he was a sucker for people who worshipped him.” I leaned against the sink, picking up the basil-scented Meyer’s hand wash and sniffing it. It’s my favorite.
“And yes! Willow was burning his
hair! And that guy, Keith? What a dick!”
“I guess Stewart was also a sucker for people who were jealous of him.”
George shook his head. “They’re horrendous. Helen has no idea! How’re we going to get through this process with these animals?”
“Alcohol?”
George ran a hand through his hair. Today, it looked softer, with less product. I had the weirdest impulse to touch it. “Losing Stewart is already so depressing, but this? It’s so gross.”
“Hiding by the toilet is gross or the whole situation?”
He didn’t laugh. We stayed quiet for a minute, processing the day. Finally, George sighed. “What time is it? I’m starving.”
“Me too.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“The bathroom? Or—?”
“The bathroom, the apartment, the building, the whole horrible atmosphere—their whole galaxy!”
“Done.”
Standing, he turned the silver knob and the door opened with a satisfying pop. That’s the thing about new apartments: everything works as it should. Stewart’s life in a nutshell. Unlike my brownstone apartment where, at least once a week, I panicked that I was locked in my bathroom.
Back in the living room, George grabbed both our jackets as I picked up my bag. “We’re going out!”
“oooh, good idea!” boomed Mallory. “are you getting food? i’m so hungry! i’ll come!”
“Nope,” George lied. “Bins. Just bins. For sorting . . . stuff.”
“ah, that’s cool. i’ll just check stu’s fridge! i’m sure he had something yummy! didn’t he have one of those awesome frozen meal plans? are they still being delivered? we should have them redirected to one of our houses! no sense in them going to waste.” Mallory charged toward the kitchen. No crevice of this house would be left unpillaged. “oh, george? will you get extra garbage bags?”
“Sure.”
We ran out the door before anything or anyone else could stop us, the musk of Willow’s ceremony in our wake.
Chapter 21
You owe me big time, Stewart. I’m not sure how I’ll collect, but—for this bullshit and so much more—you owe me.
Chapter 22
Outside, George and I gasped for fresh air like we’d survived drowning. The warm breeze had crisp edges; the sky was blue. It was one of those beautiful New York fall days—perfect for going through your dead friend’s bathroom cabinets!
We paused to bask in our escape, then started walking. “Wow,” I managed. “And I thought the funeral was bad.”
“You did?”
“Just kind of cold. And depressing. Like a bunch of people just staring at this giant coffin.”
“Like a funeral, you mean?”
I shrugged.
“Well, I consider us fortunate. It was nothing compared to an open casket wake.”
Against my will, an image popped into my mind of Stewart’s dead body embalmed and stuffed in his favorite Band of Outsiders suit. “That sounds terrifying! I’ve never been to one of those. Jewish funerals aren’t like that.”
The truth is, I was sort of obsessed with the idea of open caskets. I had been reading up on different funeral traditions, so I could more accurately plan rituals for people. I’d just learned about this “extreme embalming” trend in Puerto Rico, where, for visitations, they’d set dead people up as if they were playing poker or reading magazines or smoking cigarettes or whatever they spent their time doing—as if they were still alive. The families said it made them feel less sad. I thought it sounded like visiting a dead relative at Madame Tussauds. Like people might take selfies.
“Oh, yeah,” George was saying. “I’m a nice Catholic boy, half Irish, a quarter Italian and a quarter Chilean. I’ve got open caskets on all sides.”
I stopped and turned to face George. “You’re part Chilean?”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t really look it.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Un poquito. But barely.”
“Have you been to Chile?”
“Yes.”
“Are you from Chile?”
He looked at me like I was an alien. “I’m from Pittsburgh.”
“And your parents? They’re still . . . in Pittsburgh?”
“Yup.”
“What do they do there?”
“My mom is a law professor. My father is an engineer.”
“Huh.”
“What is ‘huh’?”
“I just thought—”
“You just thought what?”
It was too late to turn back. “I just assumed you were, you know, like an LA version of Stewart.” I wanted to evaporate into thin air.
“Ah.” George cocked his head to the side to display his angles. “Good looking and talented?”
I flushed, embarrassed to my core, and shook my head. “No. One percent and white. With all kinds of legacy.”
“Oh, I see. No. More like middle class—and tan. With legacy in academia.”
I felt like the world’s biggest idiot. I don’t know why I’d assumed that George was Stewart’s twin, moving through the world with unlimited resources, privilege, charm. I’d filed him away without knowing a thing about him.
He was grinning at me like he knew I felt stupid and was enjoying it. Pittsburgh or no, he was still smug. “Can we go eat now? All this talk about dead bodies is making me ravenous.”
The closest restaurant was a corner bagel shop. We made our way toward it as I stared down at the gum-spotted sidewalk, struggling to recover from my humiliation.
George opened the glass door for me. “Are you sure it wasn’t the ‘good-looking’ thing that made you think I was like Stewart?”
I groaned.
Inside, the decor was stark and minimal, more upscale than your average deli. The air smelled of toasted onions and slightly rancid fruit, thanks, I assumed, to their pressed juice bar. While we waited in line to order, I gazed at a display of artisanal donuts in flavors like matcha, pistachio, and hibiscus that no doubt looked prettier than they tasted. We placed our orders: salt bagel with turkey for me; sesame with lox spread for him. I grabbed a Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry soda as he chose some carrot-and-ginger pressed juice, then we sat down to wait. Someone had knocked over the pepper shaker and black granules were scattered on the table.
“Salt bagel, huh? You shouldn’t eat that much salt.”
“No?”
“Nope. It’s not healthy.”
“As opposed to lox spread, which is very low in sodium?”
He smiled. “Yes. Much healthier. Protein in salmon. Omega-3s.”
“Right. What’s going to happen to me without Omega-3s again?”
“You might . . . be Omega deficient.”
“That sounds like a serious disorder.”
“It is. It causes snap judgments, rosy cheeks, and bad taste in bagels.”
My hands flew to my face. Was I still blushing? “It comes full circle.”
“It does.”
“Well, as long as I don’t drop dead from too few Omegas.”
That shut us both up. I cursed myself for making things awkward.
The truth is that it was hard for me to think about anything but death—and my still-pounding head, which, rationally, I knew was from the overzealous heat in Stewart’s apartment. Stewart always liked things warm, but I had never noticed it being this sweltering the countless times I sat on his couch in the den—the den where he died—and watched TV. I wondered again if I had an aneurysm that was about to burst too. Would I collapse and die on the speckled floor of this bagel place? What is it they say you smell when you’re about to have a stroke? Burnt toast? Does burnt everything bagel count?
“How do you know if you’re having an aneurysm?” I asked out loud, unable to let the topic li
e.
George looked confused. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Why? Because our friend’s brain just exploded, and I want to make sure I see it coming if the same thing is about to happen to me.”
“Ah. I think the odds are not good that it would happen to both of you in the same week.”
The guy behind the bagel counter—with a face so shiny and round that it looked like its own tiny sun—called George’s name and he went up to retrieve our sandwiches. As he handed the bagels over, the counter man winked at me. I don’t know what he was suggesting. Maybe he thought we were on a date? I winked back at him.
cause of death: Complications from bagel-induced diabetes.
after-death ritual: Burial.
service: Traditional, Catholic, many relatives.
processional music: “Fernando Pando” by the Virgins.
memorial buffet: His grandmother’s tamales.
I unzipped my bag, searching my wallet, overstuffed with receipts, for cash. I don’t know why I bothered; I never have any. I stuck my hands in my pockets to plum their depths, which was even less likely to be fruitful, and came out with that prescription. Oh, right. I panicked and shoved it into the front pocket of my purse as George returned, bagels in hand.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t have any cash. Can I Venmo you?”
“I got it.” He waved my imaginary money away. “Don’t worry.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I am positive that I don’t mind paying for your extremely inexpensive bagel.”
“I just don’t want you to feel obligated to pay for me.”
“I don’t. I want to pay for your lunch.”
“You do? Why?”
He rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? It’s not 1952. I don’t expect you to put out because I bought you a bagel or something!”
I don’t know why the joke made me nervous. “Right. Totally. Fine.”
“Anyway, it’s the least I can do for doubting your vultures intel.”
“That’s true.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Okay? So, can we eat now and stop talking about your four dollar bagel?”
Competitive Grieving Page 14