The Money Shot

by Glenn Dier

  “It was the least I could do. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “I recognized you when you came in. I’m Alistair’s daughter, Judy.”

  Sebastian extended his right hand and peeked at her left. No ring. Her handshake was gentle, none of the stiffness he encountered from the power skirts he interviewed. He didn’t let go. The handshake became handholding.

  “Your father was a good man. It’s tragic he died so young.” Sebastian finally let her hand slide away.

  “How did you know my father?”

  “We met once while I was shooting a story.”

  “Dad never mentioned it. He always grumbled that he never met anyone famous. Building engineers rarely do.”

  Sebastian smiled. “He was very helpful. Our lights kept blowing the circuit breakers. He came up with a fix. I remembered him when I saw his name on the notice board in the lobby.” He glanced at the photo display. “You have your dad’s eyes.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Judy welled up. “I didn’t think I had any more tears left.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “That’s alright. I’m a crier at the best of times. I even cry during Hallmark commercials.” She elegantly pulled a tissue from a dress sleeve and sponged a tear.

  “A tear as beautiful as that necklace.”

  She stroked the pearl. “Dad gave me this on my twenty-first birthday.”

  “He obviously thought the world of you.”

  “Come over and meet the rest of the family.”

  “I’d love to, but I’m expected at Garrison Hill’s wake and I’m already late. Call me when you’re feeling up to it. Let’s have a coffee.”

  Sebastian hesitated outside the salon long enough to type Judy O’Keefe into his reminder app. In memoriam research was required. Google would be his wingman.

  •

  The sidewalk leading to the Anglican Cathedral teemed with men and women in dark clothing. Sebastian and Roxanne passed a cop directing cars away from the already-full parking lot.

  “I hope they saved a spot for the premier close to the doors,” said Sebastian. “She really gets annoyed if she has to walk more than the length of herself.”

  “That’s not a very benevolent observation from someone who wrote a eulogy full of benevolence. It is full of benevolence, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is. I’m all heart when it comes to Garrison. Less so with the premier. She likes to make a spotlight entrance.”

  “She didn’t look lazy when she dunked you,” said a droll Roxanne.

  “I guess my baptism didn’t purge all my wicked ways.”

  “She didn’t wash away your confidence. I heard you practicing last night. You sounded good.”

  “I’ve re-written the eulogy half a dozen times. I went from being too funny to not being funny enough. I think I’ve got the right balance now.”

  “And the right suit. You look handsome.”

  Sebastian pulled down his jacket sleeves. “Dark blue—good for TV, weddings, and funerals.”

  A minibus from Trinity House pulled up in front of the church. A gaggle of elderly women hobbled off the bus. Sebastian had never seen such a collection of canes, walkers and oxygen tanks.

  “There’s Garrison’s fan club. He certainly had a way with the ladies.”

  Roxanne jabbed her elbow into Sebastian’s side. “Be nice.”

  “He lived for his fans.”

  “Very funny. You don’t have to mask your grief with black humour, Sebastian.”

  A group of teenagers in hockey sweaters scuffed their way through the doors.

  “Was he a coach?” asked Roxanne.

  Sebastian shrugged. He looked across the street. Three TV cameras sat on tripods; every station in town was there. CBC agreed to provide the pool feed inside the church.

  I’ll be on every TV in the province.

  “Sebastian,” yelled Janice as she bustled between the parked cars.

  “Pretend you don’t hear,” said Roxanne. “Keep walking.” She clamped onto Sebastian’s arm and towed him forward.

  “Who’s not being nice now?”

  “I’ve tried to like that woman, but can’t,” hissed Roxanne. “She has a nasty streak.”

  Janice jostled through the churchgoers and caught up to the fleeing couple. “What a crowd. Every Here & Now fan must be here. And even some non-fans. I just saw the premier on the far side of the parking lot. She was bitching at her husband.”

  “Told you,” said Sebastian to Roxanne.

  “Roxanne, you’re certainly a brave woman,” said Janice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sitting next to Sebastian in God’s holy sanctuary. When the lightning bolt strikes, you’re bound to be singed.”

  Roxanne looked puzzled. Sebastian acted puzzled.

  “Remember the Tenth Commandment—Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbour’s House. Sebastian is after Garrison’s house, so to speak.”

  Roxanne appeared as baffled as before.

  “The anchor chair,” explained Janice.

  Roxanne pursed her lips. “Excuse me for a minute. I see Evan and I should say hello.”

  Sebastian waited until Roxanne pitter-pattered away before speaking. “Avarice is a mortal sin. I’m trying to keep it in check until after the funeral.”

  “You should be thankful I didn’t say Thou Shalt Not Kill. I’m assuming Roxanne doesn’t know that you’re the Ferryman of the Dead.”

  “I didn’t think she’d see the humour.”

  “Are you going to The Ship after the funeral?”

  “Absolutely. Evan says he’s buying the first round. Let’s all raise a glass to the teetotaler.”

  “I should let you rescue Roxanne before Grandpa Evan puts her to sleep with his war stories.”

  Janice climbed the church steps, her dress hugging her hips and thighs. Sebastian ogled every accentuated curve.

  Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbour’s Ass. Surely God didn’t mean that one.

  “Sightseeing?”

  His head gyrated. Roxanne stood by his side.

  “Fashion critique,” said Sebastian. “Who wears a tight dress to a funeral?”

  Roxanne raised a hand. Sebastian fortified himself for a finger wag. She straightened his tie instead.

  “Okay, let’s go in.”

  •

  Garrison Hill’s nephew stood at the pulpit. He was not much younger than Sebastian. “The twenty-third Psalm was one of Uncle Garrison’s favourite passages.”

  Sebastian reached inside his jacket and touched folded papers, reassuring himself that the eulogy hadn’t disappeared from his pocket.

  “Don’t fidget,” whispered Roxanne.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” said the nephew with throaty inflection, “I will fear no evil.” His gaze landed on Sebastian.

  “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” The tone was even more ominous. He added unsynchronized hand movements to the rest of his reading, never wavering from his bedrock cadence.

  Somebody at Toastmasters turned this guy into Pastor Darth Vader.

  “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  Garrison’s sister limped to the pulpit. “Too much wine after the wake,” said Sebastian. “Tripped over the sidewalk. She’s taking it hard.”

  “Oh dear,” said Roxanne in a low voice.

  “The reading is an excerpt from Psalm 139.”

  The sister excelled at monotony.

  “Surely thou wilt slay the wicked, O God.”

  Yet another set of condemning eyes. Sebastian checked his feet to make sure they hadn’t turned into cloven hoofs.

  “Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts: And see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

  Garrison’s sister hobbled to her pew, making way for the priest in his white robe and purple stole.

/>   “Garrison Hill,” the priest rhapsodized, “was a devoted father and husband, and a winning hockey coach. But most people knew him as the host of Here & Now. A visitor to our living rooms every night—a journalist you could always trust.”

  Roxanne squeezed Sebastian’s hand before he headed to the pulpit.

  The Bible was open. Sebastian pressed out the fold in the eulogy right over Psalm 139. Garrison’s wife and two shapely daughters sat in the front pew with beseeching eyes: please make Garrison come alive, please ease our pain, please make us proud.

  The podium creaked as Sebastian gripped it with both hands. He inhaled, but stalled when he caught an unexpected face in the crowd—Paul Bennett, sitting behind Garrison’s widow. Not in his police chief uniform, rather a black suit.

  At least his suit is sober.

  The priest cleared his throat. Roxanne mouthed the word go.

  A sunbeam landed on the casket spray. Sebastian gestured towards the circle of light surrounding the purple and pink flowers resting on top of Garrison.

  “God’s spotlight. Could there be any better sign that everyone watched Garrison Hill?”

  Laughter rolled through the congregation and encircled Garrison’s family. Mirth pushed sorrow aside.

  “When I was growing up, there was a rule in our house. We had to finish supper by six o’clock so Dad could sit on the chesterfield with a cup of tea and watch Garrison Hill. Mom and I were there too. Here & Now was a family event. And every family up and down the street was doing the same thing.”

  Heads nodded.

  Sebastian had picked a spot on the back wall, just above the crowd. He focused there, occasionally arcing left or right. He looked no one in the eye, but from their point of view he looked everyone in the eye.

  “Garrison never lost his hold on the audience. When I became a reporter, a Mountie once told me that he gave up going to houses between six and seven o’clock. Trying to interview a witness during that hour was an exercise in frustration. Garrison Hill was on the TV and nobody would pay any attention to a cop.”

  Titters abounded.

  It was time for the pièce de résistance—the story that had turned Garrison Hill into a CBC legend.

  “It was just minutes to air and a sputtering Garrison ran into the studio. Arms swinging and papers flying.” Sebastian flailed his arms.

  “The script assistant was in full pursuit. Garrison stopped by a camera and turned around to finish his conversation. What he didn’t realize was that his pants’ pocket had hooked a knob on the camera. He set off for the anchor desk like a lightning bolt and ripped the front of his pants wide open.”

  Sharon Hill placed a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter. Her daughters’ faces shared both tears and wide smiles.

  “There was no time to change, so Garrison simply dropped his pants and told the director to keep the shots tight. He read the entire newscast in his underwear.”

  The priest guffawed. The church roared. A few people clapped. Sebastian subdued his own laughter, practicing false modesty for the bewitched congregation. He waited until the last chortle faded.

  Cue the tears.

  “Garrison Hill was the kind of journalist we all should be.”

  Sebastian oozed admiration. He sprinkled Garrison quotes and complimentary adjectives into eager ears.

  Self-deprecating—“It’s only TV news. Nobody died.”

  Decent—“Let he who is without sin cast the first sound bite.”

  Professional—“Let the facts stand in the way of a good story.”

  All uttered without the slightest blush.

  “Husband, father, colleague…friend.” Sebastian’s voice cracked. “Garrison Hill had two great loves in his life—his family and TV news. We will miss him terribly. He may be gone, but he is not fading to black in our hearts.”

  Sebastian let his words hang before folding the eulogy. He heard sniffles and slurps. There were enough tears to fill the baptismal font. A woman in the back with an oxygen tank wheezed. Sebastian stopped at Garrison’s casket, laid his hand on it and bowed his head. Sharon Hill said thank you between sobs. He slid into his pew and curled his fingers around Roxanne’s outstretched hand. Someone behind patted his shoulder and said, “Well done.”

  Sebastian followed the sunbeam from the casket to a stained-glass window: Christ adorned with a halo preached to kneeling disciples. A gold banner swirled below—Admonish the Sinner.

  •

  The cathedral’s bell tolled over the city. Fifty-six clangs—one for every year of Garrison Hill’s life.

  The pallbearers wheeled Garrison’s casket out the stately doors towards an honour guard of teenage boys wearing hockey sweaters. Six Wildcats down a side, all standing at attention, their sombre faces littered with zits. The line went from tall to short as it jutted out from the cathedral. Every player held a stick, blades on the pavement as if reaching for a pass.

  Roxanne slipped her arm through Sebastian’s. “This is so sweet.”

  “Present sticks!” said the boy with a C on his sweater. The two lines lifted their sticks in unison, like military officers raising swords for an approaching bride and groom.

  “Just like an Arch of Sabres,” said Roxanne.

  “Good Canadian boys,” said Sebastian in his best Don Cherry impersonation.

  Garrison and his pallbearers passed under the arch. The runts closest to the hearse strained to keep their sticks aloft, their hands shaking. Garrison had preordained his cremation. His family would spread the ashes at their cottage, his favourite summer destination.

  Sebastian rubbed an eye.

  “Are you feeling alright?” asked Roxanne. She touched his shoulder and drew him in.

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “It’s okay to be sad.”

  “It’s just a speck of dirt.”

  “Don’t bottle it up.”

  “Roxanne, I’m past the tears.”

  “Excuse me,” said a woman clutching a purse with a tissue poking through the clasp. She smelled of liniment. Her hair was tinged blue.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m with the group from Trinity House. I just wanted to say that was a marvellous eulogy.”

  Sebastian turned jovial. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

  “I’m Bertha.”

  “Bertha, I was honoured to do it. Garrison was a great man.”

  “We watched him every night on the big-screen TV in the lobby. Everyone except Hilda, that is. She likes channel five.”

  “One of God’s great mysteries. But on a day like this, even an adversary is welcome,” said Sebastian pointing to the NTV camera.

  “I have no idea what Hilda sees in those people. We vote her down all the time and keep Here & Now on.”

  “I’ve always said Garrison had good fans at Trinity House.”

  The pallbearers slid the casket into the hearse. The hockey players tapped their sticks on the parking lot, the way they tap the ice when somebody’s number has been retired.

  “We tried to convince your father to come along. We thought the outing would do him good and of course he could see you.” Bertha dropped her eyes. “He said no.”

  “Dad’s not much of a hockey fan.”

  The woman chuckled. “Such wit. You must get it from your father. He says the funniest things sometimes.”

  “Yes, always a laugh with Dad.”

  “Well, your father missed a wonderful tribute. Garrison would have appreciated it. He was such a gentleman.”

  “He was indeed, a real gentleman.”

  Sebastian spotted Chief Bennett by the hearse.

  “Would you excuse me. I see an officer next to that gentleman, and I should talk to him.”

  Death lifts us up where we belong.

  Bertha held Roxanne’s hand. “He’s so handsome. Don’t let that one get away, dear.”

  “Don’t you worry, I won’t.”

  •

  The pallbearers laid their white gloves on top
of Garrison’s casket. Janice and Evan stood unobtrusively beside the TV cameras, perfectly situated to see Sharon Hill embrace her daughters, tears trickling. Sharon kissed her fingers and touched her husband’s nameplate.

  “If only I could be the kind of person who inspires such tenderness,” said Janice.

  “Tenderness needs cultivation,” said Evan. “It doesn’t grow in hostile conditions.”

  “If I wanted that kind of empathy, I’d be with Sebastian.”

  “He’s already taken. How did Roxanne get tangled up with him, anyway?” asked Evan. “She seems so…nice.”

  “Too nice. She’s a Stepford Wife. Perfect hair. Perfect dress. Perfect in every nauseating way.”

  “A saucer of milk for one, please,” said Evan holding up a finger to the oblivious funeral director. “She’s certainly beautiful.”

  “I’d be too if I troweled on the makeup like that,” sneered Janice. “She must have cemented her eyes shut. She can’t see the real Sebastian.”

  The hearse lumbered away. Sharon Hill made a tiny wave goodbye, the sort that parting lovers do when one is not looking.

  “Yet another woman who thinks Sebastian is a saint,” said Janice. “She has no idea that the man who praised the love of her life wished him gone.”

  “If you tell her, she’ll never forgive you. She has the illusion her husband was loved by all. Why spoil it?”

  “I won’t. Condolences only. I’ll see you later at The Ship.”

  Janice examined her dress. Straight lines, no clinging. She waited for a break in the stream of mourners hugging Sharon. Her own hug left an air pocket between them.

  “Sharon, I’m so sorry for what’s happened.”

  “That’s very kind, Janice. It was a wonderful service, wasn’t it?”

  “Sebastian canvassed everyone in the newsroom. He certainly had great stories about Garrison. He tied them up with a big bow. That’s what we do after all.”

  “I hate to say it, because I cringe at TV news sometimes, but it was a well-produced funeral.”

  The two women shared a laugh. Janice spied Sebastian stepping over hockey sticks, swooping in on the police chief.

  “Sebastian’s stalking Paul Bennett. That’ll be uncomfortable. They haven’t seen each other since Sebastian upended the Cops for Cancer event.”

  “It’s so sad about the chief. He’s a good man.”