I gave her a skeptical look. "That doesn't mean for sure the feeling won't come back," I said.
"It does with me."
"Sally, you were still drinking in the days after it, though."
"I didn't say I solved all my problems," she said. "But now that you mention it, I haven't had a drink for two weeks, and you know what? I've lost three pounds because of it. If I'd known sobriety was such a great diet I would've stopped drinking years ago!"
She laughed and I looked at her. It was a genuine laugh, I could tell, not one performed for my benefit. Hell, maybe she was going to be all right after all.
"Will you do me a favor, though, Sally?"
"What's that?"
"I'll honor your request not to say anything on one condition. If you find that things start to go bad for you again, you call me. I want you to feel like you can do that."
"I already do," she said.
"Good."
"Will you forgive me for making that pass at you?"
"I already have."
"Good." She smiled.
Later, as I drove back into Manhattan, there was only one thing I was asking myself: What was it with me and suicidal people?
TWENTY-FIVE
Tracy was crying.
I walked into our loft, turned the corner of our foyer, and saw her sitting there alone on the couch, her head in her hands. I took a seat beside her, saying nothing.
"He's dead," was all she could get out.
"Who?" I asked, as if I didn't know.
Tracy sniffed repeatedly and tried to catch her breath. "Tyler."
"You're kidding me!"
"They think someone broke into his apartment when he was asleep."
"Oh, my god, I don't believe it."
Tracy started to cry louder. If grief was an engine, disbelief was its pistons. "I know," she wailed. "I don't believe it either!"
I put my arm around Tracy and tried to console her. The Good Husband. I had fully anticipated having to endure this moment. What I hadn't anticipated was that it would be happening so soon after the fact. The grapevine was fast but not that fast, not even in the age of the grapevine.com. There was no way the word could have spread so quickly. Sit tight, Philip, the answer is sure to come.
A half a box of tissues later….
"She sounded so sad," Tracy said.
Thus began the story. Tracy and her artistic eye had finally gotten around to paging Tyler. However, from there the evolution of events hadn't progressed as I'd expected. Tracy's page had not fallen on deaf ears.
"Who sounded so sad?" I asked.
"Tyler's mother."
"His mother?"
"Yes. She's the one who called me back when I paged Tyler. She's the one who told me."
"Wow," I said. There was no need to pretend with that reaction. Tyler's mother? In the years that I had known him, dating back to Deerfield, I'd never heard Tyler say as much as one word about his parents. On the other hand, no one, including myself, had ever thought much to ask.
Said Tracy, "His mother told me that they found out two days ago. Tyler was discovered dead in his apartment. He lived by himself, so they don't know yet how long... I mean… when it actually happened. The landlord found him. Tyler was late on his rent, so the landlord had gone to see him. Anyway, Tyler's parents went to the apartment after the police notified them. His mother found his pager. I guess she held on to it."
"I can't believe she would call you back like that," I said. "She doesn't even know you. Hell, she doesn't even know me."
"That's the thing. After I told her who I was and how you went to school with Tyler, she just started talking, telling me how both she and her husband were so blown away by the whole thing and how the police don't seem to have any leads. She was thinking that maybe by keeping Tyler's pager on she'd get a chance to talk to one of his friends, you know, find out if maybe Tyler was in some kind of trouble."
"Is that what they're thinking?"
"I don't know. I guess with his history any-thing's possible."
"I still can't believe it," I said. "We saw him, what, like a couple of weeks ago?"
Tracy nodded and reached for another tissue.
"I guess that's the thing with life… why you can't take it for granted," I said, looking to initiate some closure on the conversation, or at least move beyond the initial shock. It was too late for Tracy to go shopping, so I knew there'd be more of the ordeal with which to contend. Though I didn't realize how much more until Tracy broke some more news to me.
"The funeral is tomorrow morning," she said. "I told Tyler's mother that you and I would both be there."
What?
I nearly choked on my own tongue. She couldn't be serious. Quick, Philip, make up an excuse. "Oh, no, did you say tomorrow morning?" I said, sounding my somber best.
"Yes, ten o'clock. Why?"
"I'm meeting with the Brevin Industries people all morning. You remember how I mentioned that case to you." I looked at my watch. "There's no way I can cancel it at this hour."
Tracy's eyes said it all: disgust. "Perhaps you weren't paying attention before," she said, accenting every syllable while gradually raising her voice. "Somebody killed Tyler — he's dead! — and all you can think about is your stupid fucking meeting tomorrow?! Jesus Christ, Philip, could you be any more of a self-absorbed asshole?"
No, I suppose I couldn't.
"You're right, I'm sorry," I said sheepishly. I wanted to be careful not to push it. I sank back on the couch and resigned myself to the unthinkable. There was no way around it. Like it or not, I was going to Tyler's funeral.
"Where's it being held?" I asked.
"It's in Westfield, New Jersey. Tyler's mother gave me directions. She said it's about half an hour out of the city."
I got up, and Tracy wanted to know where I was going.
"To call Gwen… reschedule the meeting in the morning," I explained.
"Thanks," she said, easing up on me a little. "I know you weren't exactly the best of friends with Tyler, but his mother assumed we'd be there. I couldn't say no."
"I understand. You did the right thing."
I went into the den, closed the French doors behind me, and plopped myself down on an ottoman.
Fuck.
TWENTY-SIX
Tracy was in her bra and panties, holding up two black suits against her body. "Which one says I'm grieving the most," she asked me, "the Donna Karan or the Armani?"
From where I stood across the room, they both looked like the same outfit. Nonetheless, I told her, "Definitely the Armani." Never mind that I didn't know which was which. As any intelligent married man will tell you, the more inane the question from your wife, the more important it is to give a quick and decisive answer.
Tracy nodded in agreement. "You're right, the Armani; simple, elegant... it says mourning but not in a depressing way."
I turned to phone the garage so they could have our car ready, and all along I couldn't help thinking one thing. Please, lord, let this day go by as fast as possible.
We got on the road, and it didn't take long to realize. The only way Westfield, New Jersey, could've been a half hour out of the city, as Tyler's mother had claimed, was if we had been the lone car on the road. No such luck. I hated traffic. Tracy hated to be late. The two of us were a dangerous combination in the front seat of the Range Rover. By the time we ultimately did arrive, we were barely speaking to each other.
We hadn't missed much. In fact, we hadn't missed anything. It made any lingering friction from the car ride between us seem kind of pointless. As we walked toward the entrance of Saint Catherine's Church, we saw that everyone there for the service was still milling about out front and in the vestibule. Saint Catherine's, huh? In light of Tyler's interesting take on God, it was safe to assume that he had been a lapsed Catholic at best.
Almost immediately, I wondered if maybe we didn't have the right funeral. Tracy and I were the only ones who could possibly have been viewed as contempo
raries of Tyler's. A few small children notwithstanding, the vast majority of those in attendance were easily twenty years our senior. Acquaintances of his parents, I assumed.
"Didn't he have any friends?" Tracy asked me, looking around surprised.
"Not many that I knew of," I replied.
"Maybe they couldn't make it on such short notice," she said, as if to give Tyler the benefit of the doubt.
"Could be."
Tracy pointed. "Do you think those are his parents?"
I followed Tracy's finger and saw an older man and woman facing what looked to be an ad hoc receiving line. "I'd have to believe so," I told her.
"There's just the two of them there — Tyler must have been an only child."
"I think he may have mentioned that to me once," I made up.
She grabbed my arm and began to walk toward them. "C'mon," she said.
"Whoa, what are you doing?" I said, not budging.
"What do you mean, what am I doing? We're going over there so we can introduce ourselves and say our condolences. What'd you think I was doing?"
"Do we really have to?" I tried. "We're here, isn't that enough?"
"No, it's not enough," she said, almost amused by my lame reasoning.
I started to grasp for anything. "Look at how long the line is."
"It's just going to get longer," she said. "They're obviously greeting people first. Now, c'mon. It's the right thing to do."
My wife — wise in the ways of funeral protocol, and at that moment not about to take no for an answer. All that was missing was the leash around my neck. Begrudgingly, I started to walk with her toward Tyler's parents.
Traffic I may have hated. Funerals I loathed. Not because they were sad, or reminded me of my own mortality, but because of the simple fact that I never knew what to say at them. I could wax eloquent in the courtroom and be as hail-fellow-well-met as the rest of them most anywhere else, and yet, for some reason I could never bring myself to deliver lines like "He'll be deeply missed," or "I am so very sorry" to a grieving member of someone's family. And that was at funerals where I hadn't actually been a participant in the person's death. You can imagine my additional reluctance.
We made it to the front of the line, Tracy first.
"Mrs. Mills, I'm Tracy Randall; we spoke yesterday on the phone."
"Yes, of course, Tracy, thank you so much for coming," said Tyler's mother, slowly and deliberately. She looked to be on a few Tic Tacs herself, if you know what I'm saying. Early sixties, mostly gray, tall, and relatively thin. A New Jersey society type, if there was such a thing. In addition to her black outfit and black hat, she had black circles around her eyes. Safe to say she hadn't slept for a few days. She turned her head and looked at me. "You must be Philip," she said.
I nodded and was about to say something trite and expected from the funeral lexicon when she continued: "... Tyler told me so much about you."
I froze.
"Of course, that was a long time ago, back when you were classmates at Deerfield."
I unfroze. "Those were good times," I said.
"I often wonder," she responded. "You know, Tyler never seemed to be the same after that place."
Awkward silence. There was little I could say to that. "Hey, you're the one who sent him there" probably wouldn't have gone over too well.
Tracy saved me. She had moved on to introduce herself to Tyler's father and, not wanting to hold up the line, started to pull me over.
"I hope we can talk more after the service," I told Mrs. Mills.
The conversation with Mr. Mills was short and sweet. There was no "Tyler told me so much about you." Actually, there was no Tyler anything. When I explained that I knew his son from Deerfield, the man, also in his early sixties, mostly gray, tall, and relatively thin, simply shook my hand again and told me that it was good of me to come.
Translation: Next!
That was fine by me. Tracy and I moved it along and over to a flower bed, where we stood and waited for Tyler's parents to greet the remainder of the line behind us. That morning, on the walk to the garage for the car, I had negotiated with Tracy that our obligation ended after the service. The burial and any possible reception to follow we were planning to skip. Which was why, having endured the encounter with Mr. and Mrs. Mills, I figured the worst was over.
Ha!
As everyone eventually began to proceed into the church, Mrs. Mills, in all her pharmaceutically induced calmness, walked up to Tracy and me.
"Philip, I was wondering if I could ask you something?" she said.
"Sure, anything," I answered.
"I was wondering if maybe you could get up and say a few words on Tyler's behalf during the service?"
Again, I froze.
"…It would mean a great deal to me, and I know it's something Tyler would've wanted," she added.
Don't be so sure, Mrs. Mills.
I was starting to hem and haw about not having prepared anything when out of the corner of my eye I caught Tracy's glare. Said the glare, "You can't say no to a grieving mother, you stupid idiot, don't you know anything?!"
Fucking Tracy and her funeral protocol.
"I'd be honored to, Mrs. Mills," came out of my mouth. I wasn't exactly sure how it did.
"Thank you," she said. "I'll mention it to Father Whelan so he can have you come forward at the appropriate time."
Mrs. Mills walked off.
I looked at Tracy. "What the hell am I going to say?"
"Something nice, I would hope. Think of it as your ultimate closing statement. If that doesn't help, lie your ass off."
"Thanks," I told her. "You're a big help."
We headed inside the church. I tried my best not to look at the coffin as we took our seats.
The pew felt especially hard. I sat there fidgeting, trying my damnedest to think of something that I could stand up and pass off as part of my fond remembrances of Tyler. I flashed through our years at Deerfield. After eliminating every anecdote that involved either smoking pot or making fun of him, I was essentially left with nothing. The hymns were flying by, and Father Whelan had already used the phrase "senseless tragedy" a dozen times in his eulogy. I was definitely in the on-deck circle.
Which was precisely when I thought of my grandfather.
During my second year of law school he had passed away. My father's father. It was a stroke. He and my grandmother had been living in Florida for about six years after spending most of their lives in Philadelphia. Despite its being doctor's orders (arthritis), my grandfather had moved away reluctantly. "Death's Triple A Club," he called Florida, always quick to tack on that he was "just waiting to get called up." He too liked his baseball.
Anyway, at his funeral, the usual suspects among my relatives stood up and read poems or gave speeches. My uncle Timothy played his guitar. All in the good name of my grandfather. It was nice, though none of it was particularly moving. Then, right as everyone thought there was no one left who wanted to speak, an elderly man sitting in the back row rose to his feet. He slowly walked up to the lectern. You could see my relatives looking at one another as if to ask, "Who is this man?" At the time, nobody knew. They simply watched as he cleared his throat and started to talk. What he shared with us was one of the most heartfelt stories that I had ever heard.
I mention all of this because on that day of Tyler's funeral, it also became one of the most heartfelt stories that I had ever stolen. All I had to do was change the names and places. That, and have the guts to actually tell it.
"Now," said Father Whelan, giving me a nod, "I'd like to ask Philip Randall, a very good friend of Tyler's from their days at Deerfield together, to come forward."
Tracy squeezed my hand — the nonbandaged one — for good luck as I made my way out into the aisle and up to the front of the congregation. I stood there for a second and looked out at everyone waiting for me to begin. Here goes nothing, I thought.
I've been thinking this morning about whether or not you can ever
truly know someone. You may think you can, you may hope you can, and yet, often it seems, you can never really know for sure. But one thing I do know is that the story I'm about to tell you is very much real. And I think it says a great deal about who Tyler Mills really was.
It begins back at Deerfield. Tyler and I were walking in the woods around campus one afternoon during the fall of our sophomore year when we came across a brass compass lying there on the ground. It was old and its glass casing was scratched. Nonetheless, there was no denying the fact that it was beautiful. Its shine may have been gone, but somehow it still managed to sparkle.
As we had both seen the compass at the same time, my immediate concern became which one of us would be able to keep it. To be honest with you, I wanted it to be me. However, I also knew that I had no more claim to it than Tyler had. So there we stood, alone in the woods, staring at this beautiful compass that we had both found together.
That's when Tyler had an idea. To prevent either one of us from being disappointed, he said, maybe what we should do is take turns holding on to it. One of us would have it for one year, and after that we'd hand it over to the other person for the next, and so on.
I remember looking at Tyler when he finished telling me his idea. It was a great idea, and I felt awful. I had been so preoccupied with wanting this compass for myself that it never occurred to me that we both could share it. I was embarrassed at how selfish my thoughts had been.
So from that day forward, that's what we did. We took turns holding on to the compass. Tyler let me have it the first year and then I gave it to him for the next. For the first few years, the exchange happened in person, and we were always sure to make an occasion out of it. It was something that we kept private, never telling anyone else about the arrangement.
Of course, as the years went by and our lives took us to different places, it became harder and harder to meet up in person to exchange the compass. That didn't mean we didn't do it. It just meant that every other year a small package would arrive in my mail, just like it had the previous year in Tyler's. And inside this package the compass would always be there, and in my case, there'd also always be a little note from Tyler. It said the same thing every time.
THE UP AND COMER Page 20