Man of the Year

by Caroline Louise Walker

  “You’re a doctor, right?” the man asks. “Wasn’t Nick staying with you?”

  Balancing a plate full of finger food with one hand, I raise the coffee cup in my other hand as salutation. “That’s correct,” I say. “Nick was our guest. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Robert Hart.” The living room shines attention on me, and I abandon hope of a quiet exit. “We’re heartbroken. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  A sixty-something lady with a salt-and-pepper crew cut says, “Saddest thing ever.”

  The big man says, “Sad and very, very weird, to tell you the truth.”

  The salt-and-pepper lady introduces him. “This is Hank Skillman. He runs a summer program Nick just loved.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Outward Bound?”

  “Onward and Upward,” Hank corrects. “We were a huge part of Nick’s life.”

  “Yes,” I say. “We’ve heard about you. Big fish.”

  Elizabeth jumps in. “Of course, we can’t imagine how you’re feeling, Hank.” She looks around the room. “All of you knew him so well for so long.”

  A middle-aged guy seated on the piano bench talks about the sports his kids played with Nick, and a woman in a business suit adds, “He was a wonderful team captain.”

  “I used to babysit Nick,” a girl announces. “My parents were close with his parents.”

  Elizabeth sits between the babysitter and suited lady, but my snake-in-the-throat shimmies, so I excuse myself to avoid vomiting on their round-robin eulogy. To the nearest stranger, I ask, “Bathroom?”

  The stranger’s mouth is full of food, but he nods and points to the foyer, so I carry my plate and cup into the entrance hall, where I bypass the narrow door to the powder room and walk up the stairs instead, desperate for a square inch of privacy, but the door at the top of the stairs is locked and someone says, “Just a minute,” when I jiggle the doorknob. Moving along, roaming the hall, entering the first open doorway, setting my plate and cup on the nearest table, dropping my head between my knees, breathing deeply. The pit in my gut settles, and I realign, open my eyes.

  Dowels are mounted on the wall, displaying rolls of kraft paper and colored foil. A sewing machine stands atop a fitted cabinet with unmarked drawers on either side. Acrylic cases stacked along the edge of the desk are labeled by bead type or sequin shape, wire gauge, and thread color. Wrinkled patterns cut from parchment paper are pinned to a strip of corkboard bolted to the wall. So this was Nick’s room, once upon a time. Now Naomi Miller makes jewelry and Christmas tree skirts in here.

  Someone knocks on the open door. “Robert?”

  I turn to see the big man. “Hank, was it?”

  “That’s right.”

  This time, I shake his hand. “I am so sorry. For your loss.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry if I snapped at you down there. Out of my head over this thing.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m just confused,” Hank says. “Something had to have happened.”

  “People do terrible, out-of-character things when they’re depressed.”

  “Yeah, but Nick had it under control. Makes me think he stopped taking his meds or something, but that doesn’t make sense, either. None of it does.”

  Meds. Interesting. I file this information away and say, “You couldn’t have foreseen this. None of us could. He suffered silently.”

  “So what?” Hank snaps. “We had a pact. My kids pledge to reach out if they ever get the urge to hurt themselves or someone else. They’ve all been to hell and back, but they have tools. Nick didn’t call anyone.”

  “Maybe reception was bad.”

  “Seventeen kids and three staff are on that list. None of us got messages. He didn’t try hard enough.” He steps closer. “Tell me something else. You ever hear of him using drugs?”

  “What?”

  “I probably shouldn’t say anything.” Hank sits down and starts playing with zigzag scissors. “Might just be for family.”

  “What might be for family?”

  “Something in the autopsy.” He flexes the pinking shears in his hand. “You didn’t hear that from me.”

  I swallow. “The autopsy’s back? I didn’t know.”

  “Why would you? You hardly knew Nick.”

  “I mean, I knew him.”

  “Believe me, you hardly knew him.”

  “Of course.”

  “Those cops won’t tell, anyway. They only talk to get information.” Percussive snip-snip. “Hey. One more thing. Is it true you knew how dangerous your roof is?”

  “Yes. That’s why it was off-limits. Nick knew that.”

  “Yet somehow he was there.” Hank puts the scissors back where he found them and stands. “You probably shouldn’t worry, though. I keep telling Naomi to go ahead and file a suit, that it’s the insurance company that takes the hit, not you. She gets all sensitive about it, but she’s starting to come around, now that she knows she’d be suing you in name only, really. That’s what insurance is for, right?” Without pause, he says, “Well, I should go,” and doesn’t bother looking at me, let alone saying good-bye, when he leaves me alone in a room full of glitter and brass tacks.

  24.

  Elizabeth is on the porch, listening to college kids tell stories about Nick: how they knew him, how he changed them, how much he’ll be missed. At the edge of nearby brush, the fireflies flash mating calls. Before Elizabeth can ask where I’ve been, I mouth, “Later,” and she nods, which is fine by her, it seems, since she’s engrossed in the conversation, clicking beer bottles with strangers and calling them by name. I’m half asleep in my head, and still a bit punch-drunk from my run-in with Hank Skillman, so I’m relieved to notice the slight flare of Elizabeth’s nostrils, the subtle pinch of her brow bone as she suppresses back-to-back yawns. I cover my mouth and yawn, too. Jonah smacks his neck and says something about the mosquitos, and just like that, Nick’s buddies are gathering their empty bottles and bringing them inside to leave by the kitchen sink. Jonah’s searching for the recycle bin, but Naomi tells him to leave it.

  “For once in my life, I’ve hired help to deal with dishes tonight,” she says, prompting a round of affirmations from the women. Men straighten their ties and search for their wives’ handbags.

  Naomi Miller holds one of my hands and one of Elizabeth’s and makes us promise to call her if we’re ever back in the area, and she hugs us hard but holds me back to say, “You have a wonderful son, Dr. Hart.”

  “Robert. Please.”

  “I hope you’re very proud. Devoted, sensitive, so very smart. Majoring in English, yes?”

  I nod, although this is the first I’ve heard of it.

  “He was a wonderful friend to Nick. You know, I’ve been thinking about how much Nick must have been suffering”—she flutters one hand by her face, waving off emotion—“and how maybe he never would have beaten those demons, no matter what, but maybe he was able to hang on longer because of his friends. Maybe Jonah made it possible for me to have a little more time with my Nick. I’ll forever be grateful for that.”

  I pat her hand. “It was far too soon.”

  She nods. “Treasure your child.” Looks me in the eye. “Do that, please.” Her nose flushes. She blinks in triple-time. “I’m so sorry. How can a person even cry this much? Where does it come from?” She wheezes out a tiny laugh.

  I say, “Your brain is producing leucine enkephalin. It’s normal. It’s what happens when we cry. Your body is making a natural painkiller to help you survive this, and it’s washing stress hormones out of your tear ducts. Those tears are coming from the part of you that wants to heal.”

  She drops her hands away from her eyes, and she is smiling. “Thank you,” she says, and she composes herself and encourages us to get some good sleep for a safe drive back in the morning but hopes we’ll consider eating at her favorite diner, where the pie is outstanding. “Oh, and Robert? I think you might ha
ve an angel in my Nick. He’ll be sitting on your shoulder, keeping an eye on you for the rest of your life.”

  I shiver. “Good night, Naomi.”

  • • •

  We check into two rooms at a twee bed and breakfast, but Jonah joins me and Lizzie in our room for Toblerone and half of Con Air on TV before disappearing across the hall. We all need rest, to hit reset so we can extricate ourselves from a web of mourners—so many people with quiet lives, picking our brains and sharing exclusive parts of themselves, deciding we qualify for inclusion simply by virtue of having known the permanently Excluded. They’ve left us drained to the bone, marrow-dry.

  Sleep sweeps into the room, but before it can take me, I remember what I meant to ask Elizabeth. “Did you know Jonah is an English major?”

  “Mm-hm,” she moans, sleep-thick. “Good night.”

  I wrap my limbs around her curled-up body—the little spoon to my Big Dipper. Me: Ursa Major. The Great Bear. Elizabeth’s hair smells like an ashtray, thanks to the smokers on Naomi Miller’s porch, but this doesn’t stop me from burying my face in her neck and breathing myself to sleep.

  Naomi

  Sorry has begun to change. The shape of the word—the word itself—feels slippery and gross. There’s nothing firm about sorry. It’s oily or something. Soapy. People keep throwing it at me, but I feel nothing. Soap bubbles out of their mouths that pop in the air, and then there’s nothing but air and soap film.

  Are they giving me permission to blame them for having families while mine returns to the cosmic chopping block? Do they feel like they did something wrong? Did they do something wrong? Is my nightmare their fault?

  No. They’re not that powerful. If they were, they’d be gods, and everyone keeps telling me God has a plan, so is this my sorry friends’ plan? Of course not. It’s just a convenient time to get religion—to concede power to the mass of dark matter at the center of our universe. The Great Unknown. The big black hole that keeps sucking up everyone I love, that keeps sucking and sucking all the love from my life without any reason or plan.

  “Naomi,” says my old friend Mia, “tell me what I can do to help.” She’s fluffing pillows so she can feel useful, so she can feel better about herself.

  “Not a thing,” I say. “Really.”

  She is relieved but doesn’t show it and makes me promise to call her if I need anything, and I promise even though I won’t call, which she knows. So she goes too, and now no one else is here but the hired help rinsing cake plates in the kitchen.

  Hank Skillman shouldn’t have harassed that poor doctor. People like to point fingers so they can place blame, because it’s easier to hate someone than to contemplate mortality, but Dr. Hart has been through enough. He had to deal with the aftermath of life leaving a body. That’s a terrible burden. I should know.

  Hank shouldn’t have planted all these questions in my head, either. About the phone calls, the pact. Now I’ll always wonder. That’s a terrible burden, too. But then tonight, before he left, the way he pulled me aside to tell me what Dr. Hart told him? That the accident had been foreseeable? I preferred not knowing that. “I got him to admit it,” Hank said, like he’d run some sting operation. Now I have to decide what to do with the information, which is a burden, too.

  Up until now, every time Hank said, “You should sue,” I could say, “Ah, but Palsgraf versus the Long Island Railroad,” and he’d concede that the law was on Dr. Hart’s side. A person cannot be held responsible for an unforeseeable accident that occurs on his property. I figured that out right away. If the accident was foreseeable, though—reasonably foreseeable—well, I guess that would change things. Everything. And like Hank keeps reminding me, the whole point of homeowner’s insurance is to cover accidents, and I owe the Harts nothing, and I’m all alone now and need to take care of myself. He’s not wrong.

  I pay the lady in my kitchen and tell her to take all the cookies she wants. She slips the check into her apron pocket and begins filling a gallon ziplock with dessert. I say, “I’m going to bed now. Just lock the door behind you.”

  She doesn’t mention the Universe’s plan or the healing power of Time. She doesn’t spit words like soap bubbles out of her mouth. She just says, “Good night, Naomi,” and now I’m sure I undertipped her, and I feel terrible, but not bad enough to write another check.

  On my way up the stairs, I pass a lineup of photographs on the wall. Becca and Marco and Nick, my parents, some aunts and uncles who’ve also died or fallen out of favor. Everyone gone. This is how it happens, I guess. People just live until they don’t, and at some point someone’s left to tell the story, but no one cares unless you’re famous, and we’re not famous. So then, we’re gone.

  Becca probably could have been famous if she’d had any talents. She had that thing about her that made people pay attention, but she never used it to her advantage. The most ambition she ever showed was with her hypochondria. Hard work, being so nervous. She was always asking doctors to run tests for deficiencies and syndromes, but things changed when she met Marco. She said he made her feel better in a general way. I called him Rasputin behind his back.

  When she phoned and asked if I was sitting down and told me she had ALS, I was almost relieved, because it was too absurd to take seriously. She started in on a wacky set of symptoms, so I got out of my chair and started emptying the dishwasher. I was about to suggest she stay away from the internet when she said, so I went to see the doctor and he sent me to specialists and Naomi, I have ALS. Then I did drop the plate I’d just taken out of the bottom rack. It shattered into three big pieces and a thousand splinters, breaking apart like an iceberg I’d seen on a nature show. And still I didn’t sit down. I just stood there in the middle of the mess and listened to my sister explain what was going to happen to her body and when.

  I was very sorry then. Sorry like a boulder, not a bubble. I’d wasted so much time with resentments that worked like poison. My latent, passive, malignant hate didn’t make my sister sick, and it didn’t kill her husband or son—my beloved nephew, oh my God, what have you done?—but it did taint the decent years that could have been really good years, and now everyone is dead and all I have are memories of decent years tainted by hate followed by loving years tainted by death, which isn’t a whole lot to live for.

  Decent years tainted by hate, and for what? I should have been happy for Becca. Mother and Daddy were the ones who thought she was too good for anyone—which on the one hand speaks to how high their standards were for her. On the other hand, it shows why Marco never stood a chance. When Becca left for that seminar in Montreal and came home with a Canadian boyfriend, I was excited for her at first.

  She said, “He’s really different, Naomi.”

  And I said, “When do I get to meet this really different guy?”

  She said, “Soon,” but it was months before he came over for dinner, and by then, our parents had poisoned my opinion with their criticism. I thought it was in service of love, the way I tolerated and even indulged Mother and Daddy’s disapproval. It felt noble, this skepticism I adopted, this loyalty to their judgment. I offered blind faith for no better reason than because they’d had sex and made me. Now I have no way of trusting whether the thing I call love isn’t hate in disguise.

  I’ve spent years trying to figure out why our parents’ venom was so potent. My best guess is that Mother and Daddy weren’t shielding Becca so much as themselves. If they’d accepted Marco as good enough for Becca, it would’ve meant Becca wasn’t as special as they believed—or worse, that their assessment of Marco had been wrong, and they hated being wrong.

  But I was shielding myself, too, because if I’d accepted that my parents were wrong, I would’ve realized they didn’t know what was best for us, and if they didn’t know best, then no one had the answers. I wasn’t ready to be that alone.

  How unbearable the world must have been for Nick. Why didn’t he come home? He didn’t even call to say good-bye. How angry and alone he must have
felt.

  How selfish and stupid I must have been, believing he was doing so much better.

  So now I’m wondering: Why didn’t he call Hank or the boys on that list? It is peculiar. Hank is right about that.

  But wondering can make a person crazy, and I can’t afford to lose my mind on top of all these other losses. It would be a shame to go mad analyzing and overanalyzing Hank’s questions, spinning them into theories, hunting for blame, feeding my hate, searching for clues that will be revealed in the coroner’s report soon enough, anyway. Let the experts do their jobs, Naomi. They’re authorities. They’re the law.

  Laws and rules and systems. Precautions, protections. Ever since we were little: be good girls, listen to Mother and Daddy, marry nice boys, obey the law. Trust the men in charge for no other reason than because they’re in charge. Trust your parents because they made you. Trust that the Universe has a Plan. Trick yourself into believing that a plan makes things better, that these laws, rules, and systems serve the Plan, which we’ll never understand, so don’t bother asking questions. It’s a mystery, isn’t that marvelous? Don’t spend much time wondering, or you might go mad.

  My body is centered in the doorframe: heels in the hallway, toes in my craft room. The moon is waning but bright. Jars of glitter twinkle in its light. This had been Nick’s room. When he went to college I indulged a stupid fantasy, believing that if I built a sanctuary for my creativity, I might actually finish the projects suggested in Martha Stewart magazine and Redbook and Domino, and then maybe I’d stumble upon a skill worth developing into a hobby. Then I’d have a hobby. In other words, then I’d have a reliable distraction from the ache, and it would live down the hall, just as Nick did when he distracted me, so gently, from my feral grief. The Ultimate Ache.

  Nick said, Go for it. He swore he didn’t mind, so I swapped out his bed for a Singer, never dreaming he’d think, There’s no place for me now. Never dreaming he’d keep that thought to himself, or that maybe, to him, I was just a lady—another person in charge, expecting blind trust—and not a home, which is what Nick was to me.