Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  Or should I just grab your platinum and diamond cuff links and sell them on eBay? Who am I kidding? With this crew, those are long gone.

  It’s all so absurd.

  Is an object really supposed to keep you close to me? Is that how to keep you real?

  Chapter 32

  I was waiting outside for Jimmy when he texted me to say he’d be late.

  Not sure how delayed. Go in without me.

  So much for our united front. I wish I could say I was surprised. He certainly hadn’t turned out to be the partner in crime I’d anticipated after the funeral.

  I walked through the building’s glass doors. That same doorman was on his phone again and barely looked up. Stewart wasn’t receiving the same level of service as at his mother’s uptown building. Down here, they were too cool to try that hard.

  On the elevator ride up, I was texting Jimmy to hurry, when I got a text from Gretchen bailing too. She had too much work to finish but would check in on me later. None of this seemed auspicious.

  So I stood on the threshold of Stewart’s apartment alone, my arms crossed over my leather jacket in a kind of self-hug. Knocking didn’t seem right. I tried the knob and it turned. Inside, I saw immediately that the “event” was in full swing. So much for an 8:00 p.m. start. So much for a somber gathering.

  The vibe felt like some twisted art gallery opening: Mallory and Brian—each wearing an old trucker hat of Stewart’s—were cozied up on our dead friend’s couch with Manic Mondays mugs and a half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table in front of them. Modest Mouse was playing over the speakers—at least a Stewart-approved band. Blair and Willow were huddled by the floor-to-ceiling living room bookcases, which had been cleared out and were now stacked with categorized items that were up for grabs. Willow’s hand on Blair’s shoulder and Blair’s head dipped in tears suggested that the yogi was playing therapist again. Keith was in a corner talking emphatically to Madison, his arms waving. I hadn’t realized that Helen’s assistant would be here. As intense as she was, I was happy to see her. Maybe she would bring order to this chaos. Maybe people would be on better behavior in front of her.

  No one noticed me walk in. With relief, I spotted George standing by the marble kitchen island, drinking Lagavulin, Stewart’s and my favorite Scotch. He looked lazily in my direction as if he’d known I’d been there all along and hadn’t bothered to greet me. Taking a swig of his drink, he said, “You’re dressed up.”

  “No, I’m not!” I heard myself snap. Damn red lipstick.

  “Okay, then.” He raised his eyebrows. “Where’s Jimmy?”

  “Late.”

  “Ah. Is that why you’re grumpy?”

  “What makes you think I’m grumpy?” I exhaled, pulling my jacket off and throwing it over the back of a chair. “Yeah, that’s part of it. Among other things.” I gestured to the surrounding scene.

  He took another swill of his whisky, finishing the rest, and began pouring again.

  “Save me some.”

  He grabbed one of several clean glasses from the counter—etched tumblers I’d always loved, no doubt one of Helen’s selections—and doled out a hefty pour. I raised my glass, “To Stewart.”

  “He would have crapped his pants to see this.”

  We clinked glasses, then stopped to watch the others. I caught sight of myself in the entryway mirror—a circular art deco thing. I did look dressed up, more than I’d intended. I was wearing tight black jeans that riffed on motorcycle pants and a fitted black sweater. My hair was in shaggy waves. I’d spent real time on it, since I couldn’t get it together to accomplish anything else. With the lipstick, it seemed somehow wrong.

  I felt a rush of wind, or maybe just a bustling energy, as Madison hurried up to George and me. In her defense, she wasn’t the first woman to sprint away from Keith. She was clearly uneasy, her eyes darting from object to object, around the room. “Hi, Wren. Welcome. I’m glad to see you.” I felt like she really meant it.

  “Hi, Madison. It’s good to see you too.” She stood in front of us, rocking back and forth on her feet—toe to heel, heel to toe. She was white-knuckling her phone. I lowered my voice and leaned in, tipping my chin, “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah. I’m fine, I’m great. I mean, I didn’t realize . . . I guess they . . . Keith, well, he didn’t understand. But you know the family came and they had to take what they wanted.”

  George had been resting against the counter, but, at that, he stood straight up. “Madison, what are you saying? Was Keith demanding something that the family took?”

  She waved it off, but her face told a different story. “He was just upset. I guess he didn’t know that the family would claim all the art. He says he thought he might get a particular piece that reminded him of Stewart. He’s sure Stewart would have wanted him to have it and that Blair said it was his and is now reneging. I told him he was free to email Helen, although I wish he wouldn’t. She has enough on her plate without . . . well. She puts up a tough front, I know, but she’s a grieving mother. She’s barely left the house since . . . She’s in pieces.”

  “That’s unacceptable.” George slammed down his drink with a clank. I almost told him to be careful; the glasses were so delicate. But he looked mad, and I didn’t want to get in his way. “I’m going to talk to Keith.”

  “No, no, no!” Madison shook her head. “It’s okay. I’m sure he didn’t mean to snap. We’re all on edge, these days.”

  “That’s no excuse for getting aggressive with you.” George was pissed, his jawed clenched. I liked this side of him. This was one way in which he and Stewart were different. Stewart’s sense of justice wasn’t that strong. He would have cheered Madison up, but he would not have defended her.

  “Was it a valuable work?” I asked. “The one he wanted?”

  “The most valuable of the bunch,” she nodded. “Stewart’s collection was mostly from emerging artists, but do you know the portrait artist, Elizabeth Peyton? This is a seminal work for her. It’s a painting of Kurt Cobain.”

  “Of course it is.” I felt sick to my stomach. “And did Keith say why it had so much sentimental value for him?” I shot a pointed look at George, and he growled.

  Madison shook her head, lips tight. She looked deeply freaked out.

  I flashed to the other day, when Blair was describing how much the value of the work had increased since Stewart bought it. Keith obviously went home and googled the approximate sale price. There was his sentimentality for you.

  “I was just planning to make sure everything was set up, bring over some last items from Helen and then leave to go to a dinner with friends, but now I feel like maybe I should stay.” Madison peered over her shoulder at the vultures, like one of them might attack her—or Stewart’s memory.

  Mallory was telling some story, loudly as usual. “i was like, ‘no! not the purple one!’ ”

  George shook his head, resting a hand on Madison’s upper arm. “We’ve got this. Don’t worry. You can go to your dinner.”

  She gazed up at him, adoringly. “Thank you, George. I don’t know what I—what any of us—would do without you.” She put her opposite hand over his, so that her claddagh ring was on full display. If she had a hulking Irish boyfriend somewhere, she wasn’t thinking about him right now. She glanced at me. “You too, Wren.”

  “Thanks, Madison.”

  “Alexa, off, please!” commanded Willow from the middle of the living room. The music continued. “Alexa! Off!” Apparently, Willow’s voice was not discernible beneath the din of Mallory’s storytelling. The song played on. “alexa!” the yogi yelped. “I said, off!”

  The music stopped and so did all the talking. Everyone glanced up to see what was happening. The bohemian goddess was standing at the center in a tie-dyed maxi dress with a giant, sweeping cardigan over it, one with an open weave like a hammock. “Hi, e
veryone! I think we can now get started with our peaceful parting ceremony! If you can all gather in a circle here, I’ve cleared a space.”

  George dropped his hand from Madison’s shoulder. She watched it fall mournfully like a long-distance boyfriend boarding the plane home. I swear I heard her whisper, Come back.

  “Here we go,” George muttered, oblivious. He grabbed his glass, refilled it (though it was pretty full) and headed toward the middle of the room, where the group was beginning to convene.

  “We’re sitting on the floor?” Blair. Of course. In her cropped white jeans.

  “Yes. To stay grounded,” Willow explained. Blair nodded, but, when Willow looked away, she rolled her eyes conspiratorially at Keith. Assholes.

  Peripherally, I saw Madison grab her wool trench and slip out. I wanted to yell, “Yes! Save yourself!” Instead, I chugged my drink like a shot, my chest burning. What a waste. That’s not how you drink Scotch this good. But I hoped the inebriation would get me through this crap without punching someone—unless it inspired violence instead. I was fine either way.

  “C’mon, guys! Just head over here and sit on the Oriental rug!”

  I refilled my pretty glass, then walked over and settled in a space between George and Mallory. The rug was Turkish, in fact. I knew because I remember when Stewart picked it up. He was shooting a small part in some Chris Pine movie in Istanbul. He loved it there. When he came home, he went on and on about how he would take me back there with him someday, how I would love the food and the vibe. I had visited with my parents as a kid once, but I didn’t remember it very well—just the haunting prayer bells that reverberated throughout the city each day.

  I ran my hand along the rug’s textured surface, woven in muted blues, greens, and creams with a shimmering golden thread that hinted at the magic carpet. Suddenly, I missed Stewart so much, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of my body, like when I once slipped on slick stone steps as a kid and landed on my back. But even then, Stewart had been there to pick me up and sit with me while my breath returned.

  I wanted to tell someone. I turned to George, but he was staring intently at the floor. Why was he being so weird?

  “Everyone take a deep inhalation,” Willow was saying, “and then we’ll begin.”

  “What about Jimmy?” George said.

  “Jimmy?”

  “Wren might want to wait for him.” I don’t know why, but it sounded like George was mocking me.

  “It’s okay,” I said to the group. “I don’t think this would be his speed.”

  “He’s too cool to say goodbye to his oldest friend?” George challenged.

  “I don’t think it’s about that. If he could have gotten away, he would have. He’ll be here later.” And not wanting to hurt Willow’s feelings, I added, “He didn’t know how late he’d be at work; he said not to wait. I think we’re good.” I shot George a dirty look.

  Willow nodded. In front of her, she had laid out an embroidered prayer mat with several crystals and a few rocks bearing words like freedom, truth, and bliss in hexagonal formations. She pulled out a small blue glass bottle with a spritzer on top. “Is anyone allergic to lavender?”

  No one was. Willow began walking around the circle, asking permission and then spraying the mist in a cloud above each person’s head.

  “As Blair so rightly pointed out, using an actual diffuser or incense in the apartment might create a mess like the other day, so I brought this little mister. It’s just rose water with lavender essential oil—to create a sense of balance and calm.” From the other side of Mallory, I heard Keith snort.

  Willow arrived in front of me and I nodded that she was clear to spray. The mist settled over me in tiny prickles and, I have to admit, it smelled and felt good.

  “this is fun!” Mallory boomed. “is this a buddhist ceremony? i’ve been really interested in buddhism since i found out about my korean heritage!”

  Blair suppressed a smile at Mallory’s inappropriate exclamation, one side of her mouth tugging upward in a mirthless grin. She was such a bitch.

  Willow finished her rounds. “Everyone good?”

  “can i see that really quick?” Mallory said. “i kind of want one to use on the train when it smells nasty! so smart, right?”

  Ever ethereal, Willow glided over and handed the bottle to Mallory with a smile. “It’s great because it comes with multiple tops—one for mist, a roller for applying to chakra points and then you can open it up fully to pour out and mix with coconut oil and apply directly to the feet. That’s the most powerful entry point for aromatherapy.”

  Mallory held the bottle up in front of her. “i can’t get it to spray!”

  “Oh, yeah. Careful. Sometimes it gets stuck and then—”

  There was a loud spritz, and Keith let out a scream like he’d been attacked. “My eyes! You sprayed my fucking eyes! mallory! What the fuck!”

  “oops.”

  “Oh, dear!” Willow ran for the kitchen. “Hold on, Keith! I’m coming!”

  “Sorry,” chirped Alexa from the Echo at full volume. “I’m having trouble understanding you right now! Here’s a station that plays ’70s folk music!”

  “alexa! stop! no one is talking to you!” Willow shouted. She grabbed a bowl from a cabinet and filled it with water, then ripped a paper towel off the roll and rushed back over to Keith. He was folded over his lap with his hands covering his face. “Don’t worry! It won’t do any damage, but it burns like hell. That can’t feel good.”

  “It’s like great-smelling pepper spray!” I said a little too cheerfully. “Probably less calming in this application.” I stole a glance at George and smiled. He raised his eyebrows, then looked away.

  In my head, I sent a secret thank-you to Stewart, wherever he was, for bringing me that moment of levity. And for mildly injuring Keith, who was a piece of shit.

  Willow set Keith up with a wet paper towel like a cold compress against his eyes and the bowl in front of him for more water, as needed. Pure comedy. She stood up. “Okay! Everyone good? Let’s begin!”

  “sorry!” Mallory said. I assumed the sentiment was directed at Keith, but she was looking out at the circle, so it was unclear. She leaned over to me and said, in what I imagine she thought was a whisper, “the thing got stuck, you know?”

  I nodded, then pointed to Willow, who was beginning, and brought a finger to my lips.

  “Okay. Nothing like a small trauma to bring us all together. Everyone grab hands!”

  Keith snarled as Mallory reached for his hand, which was occupied, holding the damp compress to his face. I swear he almost smacked her.

  “Oh, right! Not you, Keith. You’re exempt!” our leader continued.

  Mallory grabbed my hand instead. Hers was hot and sweaty. I wouldn’t have expected anything else. I looked down and noticed an old lanyard bracelet of Stewart’s hanging at her wrist. Some girl—maybe Rachel Amari, actually—had made it for him in middle school. Was there anything these people wouldn’t take?

  I turned to George, who offered his hand, palm up. I don’t know why I was hesitant to take it. As soon as I did, and he closed his fingers around mine, I felt a warmth spread through me—one that made me want to let go and hold on forever at the same time. Gotta love Lagavulin, I told myself. George winked at me like he could read my thoughts. Then he lifted his glass with the other hand, took another sip and set it back down. “Shall we?” he said to Blair, taking her manicured fingers in his own. Blair looked at him over one raised shoulder and practically batted her eyelash extensions. What was it with the women here? Was everyone so hard up? Sure, George was cute and gainfully employed—and funny and smart and kind and single—but he wasn’t perfect! Suddenly, I felt stressed out and I wasn’t sure why. I cleared my throat, shifted on my butt, and waited for Willow to begin.

  “Close your eyes, everyone, and take a moment
to find quiet. Look deep within and find a center of calm there.”

  I looked deep within and found that I needed to pee. Damn. Oh well. Better hold it.

  “Okay. This is going to be more brief than my usual moon circles because Blair pointed out that people might not want to commit quite that much time, so not to worry. Short and sweet.”

  It sounded like Blair had been a buzzkill as Willow tried to organize this thing. The ceremony wasn’t my scene, but Willow was trying to put something nice together—and also find her own catharsis.

  “We’re going to begin by asking the Source to remove our egos from the room.” That seemed like a gargantuan task for this Source guy.

  “Now, we’re going to chant ohm three times, together.”

  I have always liked chanting ohm at the beginning or end of a yoga class. It sounds so harmonious no matter who sings the sound. When I hear that, I get why people believe in something more than just happenstance and chaos.

  Oooooooohm. Ooooooohm. Oooooohm. Even now, it brought a kind of calm to the space.

  “Okay. Everyone open your eyes. Sorry. Not to discriminate. Everyone who can, open their eyes, open their eyes. Not you, Keith!” Willow smiled benevolently at all of us. She really was beautiful and well-intentioned. I could understand what Stewart saw in her. If you didn’t mind a little sanctimony—which he shouldn’t have because he had some of his own—she was a catch. “I want to thank you all for taking the time to be here to remember our friend. We live busy, complicated lives and it means so much that you’ve taken this moment to pay homage to this beautiful soul who we all loved.”

  Maybe this wouldn’t be that bad?

  “To begin, we’re going to go around and each share our most significant memory of Stu, so we can support each other in our shared pain and meet each other where we are in our grief.”

  This was going to be horrible.

  Now I had to listen to them all share their stupid memories? Hear about the Stewart they wanted to remember through the filter of their own self-important narcissism? Good times.