Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  Is there any chance that I might submit an application today? I know that’s out of the ordinary, but we have such a longstanding relationship. Perhaps you could forgive us this one error? Is there any way?

  Best,

  Wren

  I stared at the subway ads for Fresh Direct and awaited a reply. I am not someone who prays, but I found myself repeating please, please, please! in my head, begging someone—I don’t know who—for salvation. I had never made a mistake like this before, but this one was so egregious that I knew Anton would not be able to forgive it. On the train, the Wi-Fi service was going in and out as we rattled from station to station. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, I begged.

  Angeline would help me, right? We had worked together for years. She knew me! The editorial assistant’s prompt response landed in my inbox as we pulled into the Rockefeller Center Station at 47–50th Street. Crowds bustled in and out, as I sat—away from the fray—and clicked it open without breathing:

  Dear Wren,

  We are terribly sorry about the mix-up. Yes, we were forced to switch the application deadline this year to accommodate our bi-annual board meeting, which happened a week earlier, as well. Unfortunately, our board has already assessed the applications submitted and has come to decisions about awards. It would be unethical, and also impossible, to add another application to the pile of contenders.

  Please do submit for the next cycle though. Again, we have great respect for your organization and wish you all good things.

  I’m sorry for any personal issues. We send our best to you and yours and hope that you’re safe and well.

  Best,

  Angeline

  That was it. No recourse. I dropped my head into my hands. I thought I might throw up. I tried to take a deep breath.

  When I sat up and looked around, I noticed that both the scumbag and nice woman across the way had disappeared. But I wasn’t surprised. Even though I hadn’t seen them leave, I had felt their exits in my bones, the same way I knew that I was about to be out of a job.

  Chapter 39

  Stewart. Remember how I was the responsible one?

  Chapter 40

  Two stone gargoyles flanked the stairs up to the entrance of the Institute of Television Arts. As I started up, my phone vibrated—my mother trying me back. I pressed Decline. I had to try to hold it together.

  Just inside the glass doors, under high ceilings, an imposing guard sat helping some new arrivals at a steel security desk (embolism, “Even Now” by Barry Manilow, Christmas ham). The predictably stark, white walls were hung with photos of TV legends: Lucille Ball, Bob Newhart, Carol Burnett, Burt Reynolds, James Gandolfini, Tina Fey.

  I examined their familiar faces, as I worked to calm myself down. So I had no job. That’s okay. I’d find something else, right? Someone would hire me despite the tremendous gaff? First, I had to get up the guts to tell Anton before the foundation publicly announced the grant recipients. I was flooded with dread.

  The Collins Foundation award was yet another thing I had taken for granted. Obviously, my mind was on other things: Stewart, the vultures and, let’s be honest, George. I knew I’d been slacking off. I was just having so much trouble focusing. If I’d been honest with myself, I could have told Anton that I was having a tough time and needed a week or two off. I could have passed the Collins grant off to a coworker, Beatrice or Mark. No one would have begrudged me that. But that ship had sailed.

  The guard finished assisting the people in front of me and sent them on their way with an efficient wave. “Hello. How can I help you today, young lady?”

  “Um. I’m here to . . . my friend . . . Stewart Beasley.” I couldn’t find the words to explain my presence. “I’m sorry. That was really inarticulate. I’m not myself today.”

  The man’s brow crinkled in concern. I pictured him having daughters and multiple grandkids. “That’s okay, dear. Are you here like the others? To preview the tribute gallery for the late Mr. Beasley?”

  The late Mr. Beasley. Very distinguished. “Yes. Thank you.”

  The guard asked to see my ID, then handed me a green-and-white “Guest Pass” sticker. As I accepted it, pressing it to the outside of my jacket, he said, “You lost someone. Be easy on yourself. It’s normal to feel out of sorts.”

  A lethal combination of self-loathing and self-pity threatened to overflow. “Thank you, sir,” I managed. “That’s very kind.” I wanted to climb behind the desk and stay with this giant teddy bear of a man instead of heading into the gallery. I would tell him all about the career I fucked up and the friend I lost and how confused and alienated I felt. And he would understand.

  But that was not to be. I nodded goodbye sadly.

  As if the universe wished to demonstrate the diametric opposite of this wonderful human, Blair stood feet away in the lobby. She was frowning and jabbing at her phone like it had stolen her boyfriend. I tried to slip past, but got caught. “Wren!”

  I pretended that I hadn’t noticed her. “Oh. Blair. Hi. I was just heading to the gallery. I’m a little late. The trains—”

  “Yeah,” she huffed. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward an open doorway, off to the right. I would have shaken her off, but I was too stunned. Once inside, I saw everyone was milling around, unconcerned about the time. It didn’t look like I’d been holding anything up. I yanked my arm free.

  “Where is George?” Blair barked.

  “He can’t make it.” I rubbed my skin where her hand had been.

  “Right. Of course. Fantastic. He couldn’t have let me know that or anything!”

  “What’s the difference?” Apparently, at least in Blair’s mind, this event had become her show. She glared at me and was about to answer, maybe bite my head off, literally, but a middle-aged woman with short spiky gray hair and nerd glasses interrupted us. “Hi! I’m Fernanda. The curator for the gallery here. You are?” She extended her hand, revealing a silver cuff bracelet and some chunky rings. I liked this lady on sight. There was something familiar about her. (Dementia, “Black Bird” by the Beatles, knishes, cucumber salad, cookies, the works.)

  I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Wren.”

  “Ah. Very nice to meet you. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you for organizing all of this on such short notice.”

  She waved that off. “I’m Brazilian and Jewish. I’m culturally conditioned to dive right into commemoration after death. Short timelines.”

  I thought maybe I’d add churrascaria meat to her funeral menu.

  “I understand you’re assigning the personal speaker,” Fernanda continued. “Have you decided who will be participating? It would be great to have them come thirty minutes early tomorrow, so we can coordinate the order and let them get accustomed to the stage.”

  “That makes perfect sense.” Why did I feel like I had failed at this too? Because I had. I ran a hand through my hair. “So, I was hoping that Stewart’s sister Kate would be speaking, but she, well . . .” I stumbled.

  “I understand. Sometimes it’s just too upsetting for the family.”

  “So I need to determine who it will be instead.”

  “Just pick someone!” Blair snapped. “It’s not that hard.”

  I spun around to face her. “What is your deal today? I will.”

  “My deal is that the event is tomorrow and you were asked to do one thing. And you’re like lording it over everyone.”

  “Blair. I’m not your fucking assistant. Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Not to worry!” Fernanda raised her hands to stop us. “As long as we know who it’s going to be thirty minutes beforehand and have the correct pronunciation of his or her name, we’ll be good.”

  Blair was shooting daggers at me. I wanted to shout obscenities in her stupid cow face, but I de
cided to act like an actual human being instead. I was afraid of what I might say if I opened the floodgates anyway. “Thank you, Fernanda. For all your hard work. I’ll make sure that happens.”

  “Great. So in the meantime, take a look around.” She swept her arm through the air to indicate the rest of the space. “Make sure everything looks as it should to you. We think it’s come together quite nicely, but you never know when we might have missed something—a detail that only Stewart’s close friends and family would notice.”

  I took her up on the invitation, if only to get away from Blair, and stepped away. The gallery was comprised of one large square room with several glass cases on pedestals. Videos were playing in a dark adjoining enclave—maybe Manic Mondays episodes on a loop? It was clear that visitors were meant to travel left to right based on the wall text describing Stewart’s background, but I decided to work backward. The story had a happier ending that way.

  The first glass case held Stewart’s Emmy, for one thing, as well as some Manic Mondays stills and the core elements of his costume—namely an ironic T-shirt that said “Slurpy’s” in green letters. There were signature props, as well, from episodes that had won accolades—the fuzzy dice from his character’s car, the fridge magnet that looked like a police officer and repeated, “step away from the refrigerator!” when the characters got too close. A cushion embroidered with the words, it’s not me. it’s you, which had inspired a romantic arc on the show.

  When I had first watched the Manic Mondays pilot during a small get-together at Stewart’s New York apartment, I thought it was funny, but not different than other single-camera comedies about a bunch of messed up twentysomethings in delayed adolescence. But the show had caught on like wildfire. The cast was magic together; the writing was stellar. Right away, it had become a cultural cornerstone, attacking issues like gun control and sexual harassment without ever having that “Movie of the Week” feel. Mostly, it was very, very funny.

  That night it premiered, Stewart and I wound up in the kitchen at the same time, refilling our drinks in those pretty etched glasses.

  “So, do you think this is it?” I asked. “Everything you’ve dreamed of? The big break?”

  And he said, “God, I hope not.”

  I was thrown. “Why?”

  “Because. I want to keep searching forever. I don’t ever want to find ‘the thing.’ That means you’re done.”

  Now, I found myself trying to remember the exact look on his face in that moment. I was already having trouble recalling certain details about him—like his hands. What did they look like again? Were they nice? Ugly? Big? Small? I could barely recall. Maybe I’d find a picture of them here.

  Slowly, I made my way around the room. Fernanda and her team had done a lovely job tracing his entire life’s trajectory; I moved back through theater in New York to graduate school to high school productions of Anne Frank and, yes, Grease. (Keith made the wall as the nerd.) Video interviews played on a flat-screen in one corner. As I watched Stewart talk, I was entranced by his mannerisms, like that habit of pushing invisible glasses up the bridge of his nose. It was just so him. Stewart. Gone. You are gone. This is a tribute to you.

  Madison hurried up beside me. “Oh, good! Wren!” She was stuffed into a dark-purple belted dress—something buttoned up and Anne Taylor–like—with a matching headband. I felt an unexpected wave of affection for her, a dolphin in a sea of sharks.

  “Hi, Madison.” I kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay!” She beamed as always. “This is amazing, but so sad!”

  “It is.” I allowed my eyes to scan the walls, relic to relic, photo to photo. “I can’t believe he’s gone. And I can’t stop saying that. Still. I think I may never stop.”

  “I know.” She frowned, looking like a doodle someone might draw to approximate sadness. “I’ll let you look around. I’m sure you have people to greet.”

  I didn’t bother mentioning that I was avoiding everyone.

  “But before you go, I wanted to say thank you.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “Oh! Madison, for what?”

  “Well,” she lowered her voice and leaned in, “I was a little uncomfortable during that conversation with Keith. You know, about the artwork. I appreciated that you and George supported me.” She smoothed her hair, obviously nervous about revealing any negative feelings about the group of friends.

  “Not at all! Anytime. The artwork was going to the family. He should have respected that!”

  “Yeah.” She looked at the ground. “Only it didn’t.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The Elizabeth Peyton he wanted. Blair told Helen how much she admired it, so Helen told her to take it. You know, Helen just doesn’t want to deal with any of it. She’ll say yes to anything right now. I tried to convince her to wait on some of these bigger items, but she won’t listen.”

  I shut my eyes. I don’t know why I was surprised by anything anymore. Of course, Blair was as bad, if not worse, than the others. She had stolen that artwork right out from under Keith—no shame—and taken it for herself. “I didn’t know that.” I tried not to care. Let them tug-of-war over the stuff. It wouldn’t bring Stewart back, I told myself. But a wave of anger had taken hold; I looked down at my hands and realized I was shaking.

  “So I just wanted to say thank you.” Madison looked up at me from underneath her bangs. “For not being—well, you know. Thank you for not making things harder.”

  “Of course. I really didn’t do anything.” I meant it. As she walked away, I tried to take a deep breath, let go, and just focus on the exhibition.

  I figured I’d tackle that adjoining room last—after I made my way through childhood. Maybe I’d be ready for some Manic Mondays, after all.

  Toward the end (or the beginning, depending on how you looked at the show), the walls were hung with adorable pictures of Kate and Stewart framed in black, looking goofy and young, limbs tangled around each other on Halloween. I was searching for that photo of me and Stewart post–Robin Hood, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around.

  “I heard you don’t have a speaker yet.” Fucking Keith.

  “Nope.” Dirt bag. I would have loved to confront him about the article, but Fernanda was standing nearby and I didn’t want her to think I was a problem. Instead, I ignored him, turning immediately back to the wall, scanning it for the photo.

  “It’s short notice, but I’ll do it, if you need me.”

  When hell froze over. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  “It’s fine. I can make the time.”

  I tore my eyes off the wall and looked at him. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll keep it in mind. But I think you’ve already said your piece.” Dick.

  He looked surprised. I guess he’d expected me to say yes.

  “But—”

  I was about to turn back to the wall, when I heard something like a mumble off to my left. Keith and I both swiveled to find Brian and Mallory standing beside us like a two-headed monster. They were a foot too close. Brian was apparently saying something.

  “What did he say?” Keith demanded.

  “speak up, honey! he said he would like to be the one to speak at the tribute.”

  Keith and I exchanged a confused look. For once, we were in agreement. I wanted to take Mallory and Brian’s heads and slam them together.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “yes. why not, keith?”

  “I don’t really think public speaking is Brian’s thing.”

  “he’s actually a beautiful public speaker. you don’t know because you don’t ever listen to anyone else.”

  “Hey, don’t attack me!”

  They started to argue. I decided to tune them out as best I could. I was hanging on by a thread. I turned back to the wall, scanning again for the pictu
re of me and my dead friend. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I sighed. What choice did I have?

  Blair was standing by the entry with a clipboard, who knows why. Maybe she thought it made her look important. I could see Stewart’s ring glistening on her finger like a shiny fuck you. Her blond hair was militantly beach waved and shellacked, too uniform to evoke anything windblown. She was missing the point, as usual.

  I walked up to her. “Hey.”

  “Sorry about before. I’m just stressed with organizing everything by myself.”

  I couldn’t care less. No one asked her to take over. “Right. I just wanted to let you know that there’s a photo missing. Maybe Fernanda and her people missed it?”

  Blair crinkled her nose. “Which photo?”

  “The one of me and Stewart—you know, after that school play? You took it that day when we first organized everything to put it in the exhibition pile?”

  “Oh, that.” She waved it—and me—away with her hand and looked back down at her clipboard, moving onto the next thing. “I never gave it to them.”

  “Wait, what? Excuse me?”

  “Yeah. I felt like it wasn’t that good a picture. It’s probably in a stack somewhere at Helen’s now.”

  My mouth dropped open in outrage, my face pulsing with white hot anger. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  She looked up at that. “Sorry?”

  I knew my voice was raised; I was making a scene, but I didn’t care anymore. “What gives you the right to make that call? That was important to me! It’s a part of Stewart’s history. You can’t just erase it because it didn’t have the right lighting! Or, more importantly, because you weren’t in it. Let’s be honest.”

  “Wren, control yourself. It’s not personal. The photo just wasn’t right.”

  “It’s not personal? It’s not fucking personal? What could be more personal than this? Stewart is dead! This is his tribute. You knew how much I wanted that picture. You kept it from the curatorial team and then didn’t even bother to hold it for me! God forbid you acknowledge someone else’s relationship with him!”