The Last Laugh

by Arjuna Ardagh

  On a table below the photograph sits the largest chocolate cake the club has probably ever served, four feet in diameter.

  I take a breath and feel the room. It is bubbling, animated. Not exactly what I expected. Some of the people I already know: an evening of relaxed reminiscence. But the others, from all over the world, are a surprise, many only familiar from magazines or television.

  “Matt, you made it!” says a familiar English voice.

  “Al!” I reply, with a smile. “I’m sorry; I tried to get here earlier to help you set up. It’s been madness at the station.”

  “What do you think?”

  I say nothing, just breathing out through my nose and widening my eyes.

  “Yes, isn’t it something?” he goes on. “Now I am glad that Joey set things up this way. Not too many people want their memorial held ten years after they have died. He said there was something special about this time. Astrological. It took years to gather them all together. Four address books spanning forty years. Of course we had names, but almost everyone had moved. We invited more than a thousand, we’re expecting five or six hundred will be here today.”

  “Five hundred people? There’s no room!”

  “Oh, we’re just starting in here. We’ll spill out onto the lawn, there’s a tent set up, and a stage.”

  “For what?”

  “Wait and see! There’s going to be some reveling tonight all right, my lad. A party you’ll never forget. All according to his instructions. But how are you?”

  I have to stop and check. “Okay,” I breathe deeply. “I just got off work not long ago. Stressed.”

  “Tell me about it!” He grins. Our eyes meet again, silently for a few seconds. A momentary sitting back in the saddle, a remembering of what we share.

  “I saw something strange on the way here,” I break the silence. “I had to stop on the way over. In the middle of nowhere. Went to look for a discreet tree a little ways from the road. Then I saw a miraculous thing. The tree was like the burning bush in the Bible. It had a scarlet hue; it was shimmering. The bark was alive and crawling, shifting, and changing color. I looked down; the rocks were shimmering too, red and alive. I blinked, thinking I was hallucinating. But as I peered a little closer I found that almost the entire tree and the rocks, and then other trees too, were covered with ladybugs. Hundreds, thousands of them, maybe millions, gathered together in that one spot.”

  Alan makes a soft murmur.

  “I have no idea how many ladybugs were there in that little glade. I wanted to ask them. I wanted to know how and why they all came to be there together at the same time in that way. Were they mating? And why that place? Did they know that together they made the trees alive; did they realize they were creating living art? People say that seeing just one is good luck, and here was a good part of the world’s population. Must be bonanza blessing.”

  He laughs and nods.

  “One ladybug is a beautiful sight, but this many, it created a fabric, it changed the texture of the trees and the rocks; it changed reality.”

  “You eaten?” he asks.

  “God, no, I didn’t even have lunch.”

  “Go grab some of the goodies before they’re all gone.” He motions to the corner. “And get yourself a drink, too.” I continue my obstacle course through the room. Every little cluster of people offers a different array of accents, another species of humanity. I step right up to a threesome, politely waiting for them to finish their exchange before maneuvering around them.

  “Helped us write a lot of our lyrics in the early days, ’e did,” says a man in a thick Cockney accent. Shoulder-length hair, lined face, I recognize him from the cover of an album I used to play very loudly in college while under the influence of various substances. He is talking to a bald elderly priest, complete with black suit and dog collar, and to a middle-aged woman in a business suit.

  “’E were a wild one, aw right. ’E could outdrink any of us, out-smoke us, ’e were always the last one to leave the party. Weren’t ’e jus!”

  The priest is staring in fascination, as if hypnotized, at the gold medallion exposed by the aging rock singer’s half-unbuttoned crimson shirt.

  “What year was that?” The priest has gentle eyes, a gentle accent, could be Spanish.

  “Dat were sixty-free, werenit?” The rocker sniffs sharply through one nostril, looks quickly around the room, as he chews his gum. “And what brings you ’ere, Farder?” He hardly bothers to soften his sarcasm, as though he assumes the priest has gotten lost on his way to an ecclesiastical convention.

  “Oh, he was very kind to us,” replies the priest softly, looking for a moment at the ground. I look down, too. The priest’s somber black lace-up shoes are eyeing the rock singer’s crocodile skin boots with suspicion, like old domestic cats who want no trouble, faced with unknown exotic and wild animals. “He and his family spent several months with us at the seminary near Barcelona. He made generous contributions, allowing us to start an orphanage, which still thrives in his name to this day. I remember he encouraged his own children to play with the orphans, making no distinction.”

  “What year were dat, den?” The rock singer swaggers a little onto one hip, sticks out his jaw and sniffs again. The priest seems confused for a moment. He looks into the far distance, narrowing his eyes, calculating. “It was the summer of,” he pauses, “the year of our Lord nineteen-hundred and sixty-three.”

  I laugh out loud. They all look at me, startled. “Excuse me,” I say, and wind my way closer to the drinks and the food. Almost there, but not quite.

  “Matt, darling. Wonderful you are here.”

  Katie’s long, gray hair is pulled back into a broach on top of her head. She kisses me on both cheeks. “I want you to meet Vanessa, she writes for a magazine.”

  A well-dressed woman with dark wavy hair and blue amused eyes, looking very East Coast, is wearing pearls and a cream Ralph Lauren outfit. She holds her wineglass gracefully in one hand, while brandishing an elegant leather-bound notebook in the other. She cocks her head to one side a little, and smiles at me discreetly, offering me a very manicured and jeweled hand. “Vanessa Hinds, New Yorker magazine. I really feel I missed out on something,” she continues, exposing a set of extremely white teeth. She flashes that special cultured look, ever so slightly enlarging her eyes. She obviously expects some response from me, but nothing comes, so I just look back at her and wait. “I came here with our managing editor, who knew him in New York decades ago. I hear he worked quite secretly and that he refused for his name ever to be made public … ” She trails into a reflective silence.

  Katie proceeds to point out to her new friend actors, writers, musicians, as well as hippies, office workers, and mechanics, the rock musician, the anchor of a late-night TV show, politicians, a plumber, a hairdresser, and a marijuana dealer from the backwoods of Mendocino County.

  “This is all very … intriguing,” comments Vanessa. “I feel I’ve seen half of the room on the pages of Time magazine.” She swallows, and returns to her subdued New York sophistication. I glance at Katie. I smile. She winks. We both know it is pointless to explain. There is a secret here that cannot be told, much as we might want to. I look around at this strange minestrone soup of humanity, eyeing one another with interest, like bemused animals from far-off corners of the world, brought together in this makeshift petting zoo.

  The reporter fixes her eyes on me again as she smiles calmly. She carefully and quickly scans my eyes, then my mouth, then does a quick check on how I am dressed. I am being evaluated by a refined eye. She cannot hide the fact that she gives me low points for shopping off the rack rather than on Fifth Avenue. A tinge of condescension, a cultured sarcasm, is waiting in the wings, ready to be activated at a moment’s notice. I still find nothing to say to her, so I just look back and relax, waiting. Silence wins out over any potential words, she softens a little, the space between us becoming its own communion.

  “Matt got to know him very well, de
ar,” Katie says. “He often spoke of him like a son.” Vanessa cocks her head at a different angle. I can see my rating changing with each new piece of information she is offered, like the Dow on a volatile day.

  “Excuse me,” I force a smile. “I’m on my way to the drinks. See you later.”

  On I go, through this forest of humanity. It is overwhelming. I take the glass of wine and assemble a little plate: sushi, small carrots, doll-sized biscuits. Finger food, my mother called it, at the socials after church. I find a place in the corner between two plants and look back at the room. People are still coming in, sidling around the Argentinean opera singer, delivering her own praises to another unsuspecting middle-aged man. They are pressing more tightly into the room; no one has yet caught on to the “spilling into the garden” concept.

  From low in my belly I can feel the pull, like a child dragging on my hand asking for attention. It is yearning for the wide-open spaces, for a depth beyond these exchanged scrapbooks of memory. The French window behind the plants is ajar. One small step out, with my little plate and wineglass, into the sweet rich smells of a late September afternoon, and I am free.

  The sun is coming through the dappled leaves still on the trees, sending a patchwork of light and shadow onto the lawn, past the ornate gardens: geraniums, orchids, roses, sticky close fruity smells merging into an intoxicating brew. It all makes me want to sit in a deck chair and stare at a plant or a tree for hours, a heavy satiated smile in the middle of my brain. At the far end of the manicured lawn I can see a gazebo next to a large pond. I head for it in the hope of quiet. Even just a few minutes will be enough to prepare myself for the rest of this event. Miraculously, none of the other guests have had the same idea.

  A weeping willow broods over the pond where swans and ducks share the late afternoon. The lawn is bordered by the edge of a small forest. I look back to the clubhouse, a magnificent turn-of-the-century colonial structure, perfectly maintained, with a full covered porch all the way around. A few clusters of people are starting to spill out of the building, holding bounty from the snack table. The medley of laughter and low-level conversation buzzes around the building like an orchestra tuning up for the main event. Hopefully no one will find me here. I close my eyes in relief.

  Minutes float over one another, as I rest my legs on the bench opposite the one on which I am sitting.

  “May I disturb you?” A voice beckons me back into the world of name and event. And here, standing before me, is Vanessa, the journalist from New York. She looks shy and hesitant now; it must have taken her some gathering of courage to follow me here. The tense muscles in her neck and jaw make it quite clear she is prepared to beat a hasty retreat at the slightest hint of rejection.

  “Of course, there’s plenty of room here, please join me,” I reply. My moment of quiet was enough; I feel ready for people again.

  “You know, I am intrigued by this whole … ” she hesitates, looks at the bushes for a cue, “reunion.” She raises her eyebrows with the last word, and cocks her head to one side. Then she looks to the ground and knits her brow. She has the look of someone contemplating statistics for infant mortality and trying to generate some appropriate feeling. “Charlie brought me along in the hope I would write a story, but frankly I find myself at something of a loss to know what to make of it all.”

  “Yes, it’s hard for me, too,” I laugh. “And it must be even harder if you had never met him.”

  She falters. “I was wondering,” and glances at the ground again, “would you be comfortable if I asked you a few questions about him? I know this may be a very personal and emotional day for you, so if you’d rather just … ” and her voice trails away into a sophisticated breed of embarrassment.

  I rest my gaze on her for a moment. She is torn between a journalistic assignment and a genuinely open heart. She has been touched by something unknown she has felt here. I don’t even know if she knows it, but it is spoken in the imploring in her eyes.

  Out of nowhere comes the answer. “Yes, I’ll tell you anything you like.”

  Like a child finally allowed a ride in the car after a long wait, she steps briskly up into the gazebo and pulls out a very sophisticated form of voice recorder. I smile; this could be fun, as she relaxes even more.

  “Let’s start with you.” Her professional confidence is returning. “You do seem to have an extraordinary presence. You seem so totally … ” She hesitates and flashes another coquettish smile. “Relaxed. Sort of really present and not involved.”

  I find no response forthcoming to her words. It is like she is talking about someone else; I feel as though I am eavesdropping. “There’s really nothing to say,” I begin.

  “Tell me about when you first met him.” She leans toward me and smiles quizzically.

  “It was more than twelve years ago, I came upon him by chance,” I reply.

  “What led you to him? What were you doing the night before you met him? Let’s start there.”

  I have to stop to recall. It seems so long ago now, not only in time, but almost like someone else’s life.

  “The night before I met him,” I begin, “I was walking through the city at night. It was just before Christmas, and I remember at one point I was standing on the Donahue Bridge, trying to make up my mind about whether or not to jump off.”

  My interviewer stiffens in surprise. She eyes me cautiously, as if to see if I am making fun of her. “Why on earth were you thinking of killing yourself at Christmastime? The woman who introduced us told me you have a family, and you’re in broadcasting.”

  “Well, that was the year when everything fell apart. In that year I lost my job, my house, my wife and children, and all my money.” I pause to see if I have forgotten anything. “And on that particular night, my front door key.”

  Vanessa looks horrified, and leans forward involuntarily in consolation. “That sounds terrible … you poor man.” She regains her self-composure. “What happened to you?”

  Okay, I think to myself, I might as well tell her the whole story. I look over to the building, people are still coming. We have plenty of time till the long-awaited announcement.

  “I’ve heard it said that when a body hits water from a great height, it is like hitting concrete. … ”

  It is starting to get dark. The lawn is lit up now and crowded. Still holding her small voice recorder, Vanessa has hardly moved for more than an hour.

  “Extraordinary,” she says, finally. “I was looking for a good angle for an article, but this is more like a whole book. Listen, I’d love to stay in touch.” She gives me a card. “I know people in New York who might be really interested in your story. I am sure you have heard of Hay House. Very good people. But I think it may be best to pitch it to them as fiction.”

  “Hey, Dad, we’ve been looking for you.” We are interrupted by Dom, who saunters up, hands in his pockets.

  “Dominic, this is Vanessa Hinds, she writes for the New Yorker. Vanessa, this is Dominic, my son. He just graduated from Stanford.”

  Here come Becca and Sarah bringing up the rear. “So sorry we are late, darling,” Becca kisses me, “the traffic was terrible getting out of the city.” I wait for the request for an explanation as to why I am sitting here with a woman neither of us know, but no one asks for any, so I offer none.

  “Friends, please gather now on the lawn,” comes Alan’s voice. “We will read a message from Joey in five minutes.”

  We step down together from the gazebo. Paul waves at us, absorbed in filming a group of Tibetan monks, who are absorbed in photographing him. Sam is close by with Violet, their daughter. She must be almost ten. And there is Carlos with his Carla, his wife. I swear she looks like she is pregnant again. They have four already.

  Katie walks toward us, holding the hand of a balding middle-aged man in a sharp business suit and natty tie. Introduces him as her and Joey’s oldest son. She points out the other son to me in the crowd. And there, to my disbelief, is Diana Milton Jones, the voice o
f God herself. But a transformed Diana. Her hair is no longer permed, but tied back. It is streaked with gray, she is wearing jeans. I look for her assistants, but there are none.

  “Friends, please gather round,” says Alan, now up on the stage. “Our mutual beloved friend wrote a message for you all before he died.” He speaks slowly and theatrically, overcompensating for the fact that some of the guests are not English speakers. “He left this envelope,” Alan waves it in the air, “with instructions that I should open it and read the message inside to you all tonight, almost exactly ten years since his death.”

  Alan opens the envelope with a flourish, as though about to announce an Oscar winner. We are close enough that I can see Joey’s scrawl all over it. Looks oddly familiar.

  “‘My beloveds,’” Alan begins. “‘I kiss your sweet hearts. I wish I could be with you to watch you meet each other. I know there will be some raised eyebrows. But as you can understand, I am prevented, due to another engagement which I am unable to get out of.

  “‘As I write these words, I can feel it is soon time for me to go. This earth and its people and dramas that I have enjoyed so much for so long are losing their grip on me. Every day there is less pull to stay. During my life I have met many people, all over the world. It’s all been one-on-one, that’s how I like it. I’ve seen things change. Over the years it’s getting easier for people to get the joke, to wake up. At the same time, the grip of fear and greed gets stronger in our world and threatens to destroy this precious earth.