The Collectibles

by James J. Kaufman

  Reverend David Barrett rose, turned, and faced the audience. He ran his hand over what hair was left on his head, looked out over the room through thick, black-rimmed glasses, smiled warmly and for a few moments said nothing. He then opened the memorial service with a prayer, followed by warm sentiments about Joe and Ashley.

  “It was not long ago that we were gathered here in shock and grief for the passing of Ashley Hart,” Reverend Barrett reminded everyone. He spoke of their obvious love and devotion, how caring and sensitive each was, not only to each other, but through their generosity of spirit and contributions to the community of friends and loved ones, all of whom they reached in one way or another. Preston was struck by how Reverend Barrett continuously referred to Joe and Ashley together, in essence combining them.

  The Reverend finally finished and said, “And now, we will hear from a few close friends.” Preston was jarred by the word “friends,” immediately feeling annoyed at himself. I should be up there speaking. But I don’t think I can do it.

  Reverend Barrett called selected people, who came forward to the small lectern. It was as though they picked up Reverend Barrett’s theme, or perhaps in their minds Joe and Ashley simply could not be separated. Preston was surprised that this was not the case when it was Ashley’s father’s turn. He spoke eloquently about Joe as a husband, son-in-law, friend and former Navy commander. One comment especially struck Preston: “Joe treated my daughter and the death of my daughter, not surprisingly, with honor and dignity. What made Joe unique was not only his sense of duty, but his humor and his humanity. Men like Joe are certainly not common.”

  Red spoke briefly, clearly upset. When he finished, he turned to Joe’s casket, raised his right hand to his head and gave a slow, final salute.

  As each person spoke, the common thread was how generous Ashley and Joe were, how they cared, and how they now finally could be resting together in peace. A few spoke of personal experiences they’d had with one or the other, and some tried lamely to interject humor. It seemed all bases were covered.

  As each man and woman spoke, Preston felt another heavy weight on his chest. He was not certain exactly what he felt, but he knew the list included remorse, regret and guilt. Remorse for what he and so many others were losing. He was sure that many would not at first, or maybe ever, know the extent of their loss. But Preston knew that Marcia would not forget Joe, even though she had never met him. Hell, he’d saved their marriage and the man she loved.

  Then there was regret. To begin with, the regret of having Joe gone. And for not getting to meet his last two collectibles before Joe died. To develop a relationship with each of them, help them. And for Joe to see, or at least know, that it was being done. At the same time, he was well aware that Joe had never once asked him how he was doing with his commitment, how he was getting along with the collectibles. He imposed zero accountability upon Preston and gave him 100 percent faith and trust that he would keep his word. Preston wondered if that was why Joe’s Navy buddies held him in such high respect. He already knew the depth of feeling that Tommy Greco, Johnny, Missy, and Corey had for Joe, and their connection with him. And he knew he would find the same with the other two.

  And guilt. Good old guilt. Something Preston had sidestepped for years but had fostered in others with a passion. Guilt was a tool in his toolbox, a capital M in his manipulation of others. Preston knew well the value of well-administered guilt, the assistance it had provided in shaping and molding conduct and enhancing his ability to control the behavior of others. He knew how it could help him get what he wanted and, to him, it had been natural to use it. After all, he had learned from two masters. He watched his mother and father use guilt in a million ways. He remembered well how his father controlled him in the same fashion, could hear his father’s words, “What do you mean, you are not going with me to the mountains, Preston? How can you not go? You know that I have set aside this week for you and me to be together. You know how much this costs me. You know that I had to twist your mother’s arm to get her to go along with letting you go with me, knowing the dangers of being up there. Don’t you want to be a man? Are you afraid of the bears? Are you afraid you won’t be able to cut it?”

  Preston had quite naturally learned the art of administering guilt. Only he’d raised the bar, used it as an art form with his department heads and managers. When they didn’t respond fast enough to his emails and text messages, he fired off rebukes, demanding to know why he was being ignored, intentionally forgetting that his messages were not even hours old. He knew his employees were afraid of being fired, and more importantly, he knew that they would feel guilty about letting him down, inasmuch as he continuously played on that theme. He’d extended the same treatment to his friends when they wouldn’t visit him at his house, or play golf at the country club. “What do you mean you’re not coming? Marcia and I were really hoping to see you. What do you mean we can’t play a foursome this Friday? We were counting on that.” But in the last year, the guilt tables had slowly turned. He increasingly felt the guilt himself, and he hated it. He hated it enough to try his best not to let others feel what he did. He understood that he was gaining, growing, that it was working.

  Preston was suddenly jarred into the reality that the service was over, that the last of those chosen to speak had said their kind words, and Reverend Barrett was standing before the assembly again, about to close the ceremony. Preston looked up to the top of the room, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Joe.

  He saved my life as a kid, he saved my life as a man, and he taught me how to live the life he saved. I promise, Joe, I will remember you for the rest of my life.

  A large man in his late-forties wearing a white shirt, gray tie and black jacket with gray trousers high around his waist and carrying a large manila envelope and easel in his left hand stood up and walked down the aisle to the podium. Reverend Barrett was as surprised as everyone else. Preston wondered who he could be. The man approached the podium and set up the easel directly to his right, facing the crowd.

  “My name is Harry Klaskowski,” he said in a booming, clear voice. “I have known Joe for many years, and I have only two things I would like to say today. First, Joe and I had a lot of good times together. Second, he’s the reason I’m alive.” Harry then took a photograph out of the large envelope and placed it on the easel. There was a soft murmur and audible gasp in the room. The picture showed Joe on the bridge of his boat looking forward with a relaxed smile on his face and an expression of hope in his eyes. The sun was shining down on him. Harry said, “I thought you might like to see this picture.” With that, he returned to his seat.

  So that’s Harry Klaskowski, Preston thought. What a good guy. I’m going to enjoy getting to know him.

  Then Tommy Greco, sitting behind Preston in the back of the room, abruptly stood up.

  Oh, God, here it comes, Preston thought. Tommy walked as only Tommy could, in a burst, straight to the end of the aisle, up the two steps to the podium, head bent slightly to the side like he was about to whack anybody who stepped in his way. He bent the mike over with his large, beefy right hand, and with his hand still covering the mike, looked up briefly and then down again.

  “I want to say something here about Joe. Nothing is certain about nothing, if you know what I’m saying. And this problem with Joe going is no exception. Who would have thought it? What’re the odds of a guy like this catching it like this and bam! It’s over. I have to tell you, I was shocked when I got the call from Alice. And why him, for Christ’s sakes? Of all the guys, he never did nothing to nobody, except try to help them out. That’s all he ever done. His whole damn life, if you’ll excuse my French.” Then Tommy looked out over the people and jabbed his pudgy right index finger straight at them. “I’m here to tell you, Joe’s going upstairs. If anybody’s getting in, it’s him, you get what I’m saying? I lay it nine to one, he gets in, and I’m not afraid to say it right now. I love you
, Joe.”

  Preston felt the muscles in his throat tighten, and he tried to fight the tears. He was holding his own in the battle until he realized Tommy was not quite finished.

  “And there’s one more something I want to say. This is not pertaining to Joe directly, but in a way it is. I want to thank you, Joe, for Missy, a classy lady, and for Preston. He was a real case in the beginning, but I have to tell you, he’s got a heart. And that’s all I have to say.” Then Tommy in one continuous series of movements climbed down the stairs, wiped his eyes, walked down the aisle and straight out the back of the room and outside.

  Next Johnny stood. He was so short most people couldn’t see him, but he pushed his way out from his seat on the left, and waddled down the aisle to the podium. He climbed up, but his head still was lower than the top of the podium, and there was no way he could reach the mike.

  It was apparent that everyone but Johnny, Alice, and Preston felt awkward about the situation, and most verbally wondered who in the world this weird little man was.

  None of this seemed to faze Johnny. After all, he had lived with it all his life. Besides, it was Joe who’d convinced him that it didn’t matter what people thought about the way he looked, that what mattered was how he acted and how good he was. Joe had taught him to smile and laugh along with the people who laughed at him, to just keep doing his job, and it would work out, and it had. But Johnny apparently wasn’t accustomed to speaking to a group of people. He was sweating profusely, the perspiration dripping through his new dress shirt, a shirt Preston had taken him to buy, and through his jacket, too. The room was silent. After a while, he spoke in a soft, low voice.

  “My name is Johnny. I wash dishes. Do it good. Joe a friend of mine. Joe loves Johnny. Joe talks to Johnny – that’s me – like there was nothing wrong with Johnny . . . with me. Joe has Buck,” Johnny said, looking back and down at Buck, who, hearing his name, perked up his ears and looked at Johnny.

  “Buck a friend of mine, too. Buck loves me. Johnny takes care of Buck. Buck takes care of Johnny, too. Bad man afraid of Buck. Buck don’t like bad man. Johnny takes care of Buck, Joe. Don’t worry, Joe. Johnny takes care of Pressdon, too. Pressdon not bad, Joe. Pressdon doing better now. Don’t worry, Joe. Johnny be okay. Johnny, oh . . . Johnny, . . . I . . . going to school. Joe gone now. Not like movies. Joe not living anymore. Joe died. Bye, Joe. Johnny loves Joe.” And with that, Johnny waddled back to his seat and sat down.

  Reverend Barrett looked over the gathering, seeming to sense there were others who wanted, needed, to say their goodbyes to Joe.

  A tall, slender woman in her late-twenties who had been seated in a middle row on the left side stood and crossed over to the aisle. She wore a black tailored suit with a white pearl pin. She looked as elegant as Preston had ever seen her. She took her place at the podium and adjusted the mike with poise.

  “Good evening. My name is Melissa Scarlatti. First, I want to thank Reverend Barrett and all those who spoke today for their kind words about Joe. I want to thank Mr. Klaskowski for his words and the wonderful picture he took. And I especially want to thank Tommy and Johnny for what they said and how well they said it. There are no words that can adequately express my feelings at this time. I have had a lot of difficulties in my life. I won’t go into them now, as I don’t believe this is the time or the place. But I will say that Joe Hart is the reason I’m here today. He took an interest in me, guided me, protected me, and taught me more about life than anyone else ever has. He cared about me. And he did that at a time when no one else did. That kept me going. I’ve seen a lot of guys, and I know something about how they act. I also know something about how they feel and what they really want. Joe was unusual. He was the real thing. He never took advantage and he always treated me with respect.”

  Missy stopped and glanced around the room at all the people watching and listening to her. In a barely audible voice, she went on. “Joe could have had any woman he wanted. He sure could have had me. There was a time after his wife died that I made sure of that. But not Joe. I loved him, and I think he knew that. He’s the only man I know that not only knew that loving someone and being in love were not the same thing, but who also respected the difference.

  “After his wife died, I was trying to encourage him to move on, you know? Go on with his life. I figured he was still young, and he needed a woman. But Joe loved his wife. That was it. He said something to me about that that I never forgot. I wrote it down.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. “He said,” as she read the paper, “‘that’s one mountain I don’t want to come down from.’ There will never be another like him. He was the most unselfish man I ever met. Also, Joe had a way of looking around the corner and into the future. He knew Tommy, God love him, would look out for me. And just like Tommy and Johnny said, I, too, want to thank you, Joe, for Preston. Tommy’s right, he’s got heart. I’ll never forget you, Joe, as long as I live.”

  With that, Missy stepped down from the podium, walked down the aisle with her head high, and took her seat.

  Way to go, Missy, Preston thought as he reached over and squeezed Marcia’s hand.

  Barbara Johnson, Corey’s daughter, walked slowly up to the podium and introduced herself. She explained that Corey wanted Joe and the others to know that he was here, but unable to speak. She explained how much Joe had meant to her father, how he always treated her dad with respect. She added that Corey was quite fond of that other gentleman, Mr. Wilson, and that she appreciated his coming by, too. Then she sat down.

  There seemed to Preston to be a special feeling pervading the room, a quiet and an energy at the same time. His gaze moved up from Reverend Barrett and over the organist to a large window in the right-front side of the room. The sun was setting, and it cast a strong beam of warm light through the window and on Joe’s finely finished wooden casket. After a moment of silence, Reverend Barrett stood, looked out over the group, raised his arms, and gave the Benediction.

  Immediately thereafter, the guardsmen holding the flags marched to the middle of the aisle, turned, lowered their flags, and strode to the back of the room. The three from each side walked in unison to the casket, carefully picked it up, turned it, and carried it slowly through the aisle and out of the funeral home to where the hearse was waiting. Buck walked behind the casket, never taking his eyes off it. After that, Red followed with Alice at his side. There was not a dry eye in the room.

  As the Navy pallbearers and sailors marched by Preston, followed by Buck, Preston could feel his hot tears falling on his hands. Marcia took Preston’s hands in hers. He looked at her through his tears and with an incredulous smile on his face, he said, “That son of a bitch. I’m the sixth Collectible!”

  James J. Kaufman

  An attorney and former judge, James J. Kaufman has published several works of non-fiction. In The Collectibles, his debut novel, Kaufman draws heavily from his experiences in law, the world of business, and interaction with people from widely different backgrounds. The founder and CEO of The Kaufman Group, Ltd., he assists companies world-wide to meet challenges, restructure, and flourish. Kaufman lives with his wife, Patty, and his golden retriever Charley, in Wilmington, North Carolina. He is working on The Collectibles screenplay and a second novel. Visit the author at jamesjkaufman.com. For additional copies of this book or other information regarding The Collectibles, please email the publisher at downstreampublishing@gmail.com or write to Downstream Publishing at PO Box 869, Wrightsville Beach, NC 28480.

  Author photograph: Patricia Roseman

  The Author with Charley, his golden retriever, who passed

  to Rainbow Bridge December 2012

  GENERAL BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  FOR THE COLLECTIBLES

  1.Preceding Chapter One, the novel contains a quote from Montaigne, Of Friendship. What is the relationship between this reference and the characters and situations in which they fi
nd themselves?

  2.What were your thoughts when you first read Montaigne’s words, and did your thoughts change after you finished reading the novel? If so, how and why did they change?

  3.Joe Hart distinguishes himself not only by his leadership, but by a rare humanity that compels him to reach out to others who could be viewed as different from him. In what ways have you reached out to others you would consider different from you? How did it impact you? The other person? Is there a person or group of people to whom you would feel particularly uncomfortable reaching out? Why?

  4.Preston, driven from an early age by fear of being a financial failure like his father, makes critical choices. How do you feel about his inherent fear? Is it reasonable? How are his choices impacted by this fear? Are the choices sound? What fears have challenged you? How have you overcome them? To whom did you turn for support?

  5.What are the differences between Joe and Preston at the beginning of the book? Do they change by the end of the book, and if so, how and why?

  6.If you were Joe, would you have helped Preston? Why or why not? Why do you think Joe decides to help him? Have you ever been in a situation in which someone asks for you help and you were reluctant to give it? How did you respond? Under what circumstances do you believe it’s okay not to help?

  7.Could you have made the three promises to Joe: to tell him everything, to tell him the absolute truth, and in the future to do something for him no matter what it was? Why or why not?