Without precedent, p.5
Without Precedent, page 5
Standing at the pulpit, I stared out at a mostly empty sanctuary. An addict’s funeral wasn’t like other funerals. For my sister, who was only in her thirties, you’d expect the sanctuary to be filled with high school friends, former teachers, and coworkers. If she’d been struck down by cancer or died tragically in a car accident, that would be the case. This, instead, was a lonely affair. The people in attendance were few, because that was the life of an addict. People got burned.
I didn’t volunteer to give the eulogy for her, because I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. The task fell to me by default. My father was certainly not capable of doing it. My mother would probably be able to say one sentence, two at most, before breaking down. And Jackson told me that I was “her favorite.”
So I got the job.
“We are gathered here today to honor my sister, Allison,” I began, “and mourn a loss that neither she nor us deserved. My big sister didn’t fit in with any one group. She knew everybody. She liked everybody, and everybody liked her. That was why she hated the high school lunchroom—she didn’t have the heart to pick one table over another.” I tried to keep my voice steady. I’d break down if I looked at the people in the pews, so I focused my eyes on the church’s back wall. “She didn’t want to sit with the theater kids or the band geeks or the jocks or the kids who were in all the advanced placement classes. So Allison would get her lunch and walk around the lunchroom, stopping at each of the tables to exchange a few words or a joke or a story before moving to the next—like she was running for president of the United States or something.”
I felt the tears build in my eyes, and a few escaped while a lump formed in my throat, but I pushed on. “Not many people know this, but after she made the rounds, Allison would go up to the library and eat her lunch alone. I don’t know why I’m sharing this story with you all, but perhaps there’s another Allison in your life, someone at work or school or someplace else, and maybe we should pay closer attention to that person who appears to be friends with everyone, and make an effort to make sure they aren’t eating alone. Because I think that if my sister would have connected deeply to at least one or two people in that lunchroom, maybe things would’ve turned out differently.”
I wanted to tell stories about how Allison protected me, how she shielded me from my father. I remember him screaming at her. I’d be in my basement bedroom, doing homework or trying to fall asleep. Through the ceiling I could hear them arguing and my father stomping around the kitchen above me, slamming drawers.
Allison, along with my mother, took the brunt of it so that I didn’t have to. She also taught me how to sense when it was coming, so I’d leave. I’d disappear into the basement and turn on the radio so I wouldn’t hear it.
She allowed me to focus on school and escape, and I did. I’d run off to New York and created a new life for myself, but maybe I was supposed to bring her with me. For all those times she’d helped me escape, I never repaid the favor.
“The last time Allison and I spoke I was hoping she had found her place, but I could tell she was still searching. It’s cruel that her life was cut short and she never found her peace here on earth, but hopefully she’s found some peace in heaven.” I looked up at a beautiful stained-glass window. “We love you, Allison.”
As I returned to the pews, so that the priest could say his homily and administer communion, I saw Perry enter the back of the sanctuary. It took everything in my power not to run back and confront him, but I resisted. When the funeral was over, I looked to see if he was still there, but Perry was gone.
People started arriving at my parents’ house about an hour after the funeral. Each came with a dish, and soon virtually all available counter space in my parents’ small kitchen was filled with food. In addition to the chips and baked beans, there were the Saint Louis potluck classics: a large pan of baked mostaccioli, gooey butter cake, and toasted ravioli from a little Italian grocery in The Hill.
Jackson had taken it upon himself to load the kettle grill with charcoal, and by the time Tess and I arrived it was already filled with pork steaks slathered with Maull’s barbecue sauce. After stopping at the cooler for a few beers, Tess took my arm as we walked over to two empty lawn chairs. Both were next to a small metal firepit intended to mitigate the evening chill.
I handed Tess a can of Michelob Golden Light, and she leaned in. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that much food in one place without a single vegetable.”
I opened my can of beer. “I like that we don’t even try to pretend to be healthy.” I took a sip and sat down. “Why go to the trouble of making a big salad if nobody is going to eat it?”
“I’d eat it.” Tess liked to be contrary.
I hit back: “That’s because you’re ashamed of your roots.”
For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, people floated in and out. Each paid their respects to Allison, sharing a story of her kindness. By dark, most of the food had been consumed and only a few people besides Tess, my immediate family, a few cousins, and my aunt Connie and uncle Walt remained.
“Tell me about this fancy job in New York City.” Uncle Walt was pretty drunk, and I was confident he’d have little recollection of our conversation.
“I’m a lawyer.” I decided not to elaborate, hoping the conversation would soon turn to sports or the weather, but Uncle Walt wanted more.
“Like, do you represent criminals? I’m not sure I like lawyers who represent criminals.”
Before I could answer, Jackson chimed in. “Now come on, Uncle Walt, you sure didn’t mind that lawyer who represented you on that DWI.” Jackson laughed, trying as usual to stir the pot. “Seemed like you were pretty happy with him.”
“Robbery.” Uncle Walt fired up. Jackson had pushed a button. “Cost me four thousand dollars. Still paying off that credit card bill. Probably be paying it off till I die.”
“But he got you off,” Aunt Connie said, getting in on the action. Other families played board games, exchanged engaging anecdotes about grandchildren or work, or complained about gridlock in Washington, DC. My family bickered, which always started playfully, and always ended badly. Connie staked out her position: “Seems worth it to me, and you seemed pretty happy at the time.”
Uncle Walt’s face got red. “The cop had it out for me, and he had no reason to pull me over.” The intensity of Uncle Walt’s gestures grew, and a little beer spilled from his can. “Of course the lawyer got me off, but I could’ve represented myself and got the same result.” When Jackson looked skeptical, Uncle Walt added, “Judge even said so.” Then he pointed at Aunt Connie for corroboration, but she didn’t help matters.
“The judge didn’t say you should’ve represented yourself,” Aunt Connie said in a singsong voice. “He said it was obvious to anyone that it was a bad stop, but that’s different than saying you could’ve represented yourself. I think your memory is off in your old age.”
“My memory ain’t off,” Uncle Walt said. “My memory is perfect-o, and I know that’s what the judge said.” Uncle Walt scanned the crowd, looking for anybody to challenge him. When nobody did, he walked over to an empty lawn chair next to Tess. “Whatever.” He sat down and turned to her. “So what do you do?”
Tess looked at me, unsure whether she should continue. “I’m an attorney like Matthew.”
“Matthew?” Uncle Walt smiled. “Don’t know no Matthew, but if you’re talking about little Matty, suppose he’s a decent guy.” Then Uncle Walt turned to me and, in a loud stage whisper, said, “You be careful, son. Beauty and brains is a powerful combination.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I whispered back, relieved he hadn’t directed his anger for his DWI attorney at me or Tess.
My mother walked out the back door and stumbled down the short step, then righted herself at the last possible moment. She hadn’t been seen since the funeral. I’d been told that she just needed time to rest, but I knew that was a polite way to say that she was off someplace drinking alone.
“Where is she?” she said, her words slurring as she looked around the yard.
I stood up. “Who, Mom? Who are you looking for?” I walked over, but my mother pushed past me.
“You know who I’m looking for.” Her eyes locked on Tess. “You ain’t going to take my son. Coming in here uninvited. No, no, missy, you ain’t taking my son.”
“Mrs. Daley, I’m not trying to take your son.” Tess looked past my mother to me, wanting help. “We love each other very much.”
My mother moved closer. “You think I’m blind? I saw that ring. You think I don’t see? You think I’m dumb, like I don’t know.” She turned back to me. “You’re getting married, and you’re not going to invite me? You don’t even bother to tell me.” She pointed at Tess. “I don’t even know this woman, and you bring her into my house. You bring her to your sister’s funeral? I can’t believe it. I don’t even know who you are anymore, Matty.”
She repeated herself over and over, different iterations of the same comments, often incoherent. Uncle Walt tried to intervene, coming to Tess’s defense, but it didn’t work. Mom just got angrier. She pushed him away and took another step toward Tess. “I want you out of my yard and out of my house.”
Tess tried to get up, which was what my mother had demanded, but my mom didn’t give her enough room. Tess fell back down into her seat, and when she tried to get up again, my mom shoved her back.
Tess wasn’t somebody who got shoved around, even if she was thin. She came up quicker this time. My mother was a second too late in her attempt to keep Tess in her chair. Tess had the momentum and strength. When they collided, my mother stumbled and fell backward.
Jackson sprang out of his seat. He wrapped Tess in a bear hug and lifted her off the ground. “I think that’s enough.” He carried Tess to the edge of the yard and released her. “You apologize to my mother, then I think it’s time for you to go back to your ritzy hotel.”
“You want me to apologize?” Tess put her hands on her hips. “Your mother came after me. I was trying to get away from her.”
“You knocked her down.” Jackson was just as stubborn as Uncle Walt and the rest of my family. “Accident or not, I seen it and you did it. Apologize.”
Tess looked at my mom, who was still on the ground and in the process of pulling herself up to her feet. “I’m not apologizing,” Tess said. “It’s your mother who—”
“Come on, honey, let’s go.” I took her hand, but she shook free.
“That’s it? You’re not going to stand up for me?”
Uncle Walt opened another can of beer, thoroughly entertained. This was what was expected at a Daley family get-together. “Sounds like we got trouble in paradise.” He chuckled. “Got to be careful of them lady lawyers.” He barked. “Bite you like a dog.”
“Shut up, Uncle Walt.” I took Tess by the arm and led her away. “We’re going.”
We rode back to the hotel in silence. Not a word was said in the elevator or even once we got inside our room. Tess grabbed a pair of pajamas out of her suitcase and went into the bathroom. After a few minutes I heard the shower start.
I changed into my own pajamas and lay down. Aimlessly flipping through the television channels, I thought about what had happened, wondering why I didn’t come to Tess’s defense. Everybody had just fallen into their old roles. I was embarrassed for her, my family, and myself. I wanted to leave before any more damage could be done.
Tess eventually came out in one of the white robes provided by the hotel. Her wet hair was wrapped in a towel. All her makeup had been washed away. It was clear that she had been crying.
“Tomorrow, we’re going,” she said.
“Tomorrow, we’re going,” I agreed, walking over to her. “Your flight is first thing. I’ll catch the afternoon flight, and we’ll have dinner together at our favorite little Thai place around the corner.”
Tess nodded. “Sounds lovely.”
I thought about my return to New York after everything that had happened. “Yes,” I said, not entirely convinced. “It does sound lovely.” I forced a smile, but below the surface, I was unsettled. The various stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, etcetera—are so clean, but what if you feel all of them at once or out of order or not at all? Often, I felt nothing. I’d forget Allison died entirely. I’d be worried about keeping Tess happy, thinking about clients, or returning to New York. Then the grief would surprise me, and I’d feel guilt. Not only had I not been able to save my sister—I couldn’t even mourn her properly.
And I didn’t know what I needed to do about that.
CHAPTER NINE
The airport’s “kiss and ride” lot wasn’t very crowded, hadn’t been since 2001. That was the year that American Airlines bought the bankrupt Trans World Airlines, otherwise known as TWA. Soon hundreds of employees were laid off, and later American Airlines stopped using the Saint Louis airport as one of its major travel hubs altogether.
Growing up, announcements like this were common. It seemed like a large company downsized, closed, or moved every other month. The local news constantly affirmed a general feeling that there was no future in Saint Louis, and my family’s struggles made those feelings even less abstract.
I found a spot near the door while Tess fixed her lipstick.
I popped the trunk and set her luggage on the curb. “I’ll be on the next flight, back early afternoon.”
“You’re not going to come in and see if you can switch your ticket?” She stepped out of the car. “We could fly back together.”
“I’ve got a few things left to take care of,” I said. “I’m meeting my brother this morning, and I’m not sure when I’ll see him next.”
Tess tipped her head to the side, acknowledging my choice, but not approving of it. Tess picked up her bag, and I watched her disappear into the terminal. She never looked back. No final wave, no blown kiss goodbye. Nothing.
The Lindbergh Inn was across the highway from the airport. It was marked by a faded sign with the majority of its signature neon lights burned out or buzzing at the end of life. I pulled into the parking lot, dodging potholes and broken bottles, and spotted Jackson in his truck.
We didn’t exchange any pleasantries, and I wondered if, like Tess, he still hadn’t worked through what had happened the night before. “Got the key?”
“Of course,” I said. I pulled out the motel room key, the one I’d found at the bottom of Allison’s purse, and tossed it to him.
He caught it with one hand. He hadn’t hesitated at all, smooth, always the natural athlete. We walked up the concrete steps to the second floor. Plastic bags filled with fast food containers and other garbage littered the place, waiting for a housekeeping service that may or may not come. Empty beer cans and the occasional ashtray lined the railing overlooking the parking lot.
The motel was quiet now, but I’m sure the night before, in the darkness, the balcony and the rooms of the Lindbergh Inn had been hopping. We walked down to room 209. Jackson stuck the key in the lock and opened the door.
Inside it looked as if a dumpster full of dirty clothes and garbage had been dropped into the room from above. The floor was covered. The air was thick and sour. When I turned on the light, there was movement in the corner. A large rat looked up at us, questioning our presence with no evident fear. After a prolonged stare down, the rat sauntered along the back wall to a hole, disappearing into the adjoining room.
“Hello?” I called as we both went farther inside. “Anybody here?”
No response.
Jackson walked to the back of the room toward a closet. Inside was a black piece of luggage, compact with rollers on the bottom. Jackson pulled the suitcase out and set it on the bed. He unzipped and searched the pockets.
“Empty.”
Then he began searching the room for anything worth keeping, a tangible memory of our sister and our life together. We didn’t want everything she owned to disappear, like she never existed.
I searched the bathroom, sifting through a countertop littered with cotton balls and empty bottles of free shampoo and conditioner. In the sink a stained shirt floated in dirty water, and beneath the sink sat a duffel bag. Inside were a pair of tennis shoes, a couple of paperback books, some notebooks, and a framed photograph of the Daley kids. I pulled out the framed photograph and looked at it.
This was us.
Snow covered the ground. We stood in front of our house on Pestalozzi with a bare Christmas tree, recently cut down and about to be taken inside for decoration. Jackson was on one side, already towering over Allison. Allison’s cheeks were red, and her arm was around me. I was the little brother with a broken grin. It was the year I had lost four teeth over the Thanksgiving holiday.
“Check this out.” I handed the picture to Jackson.
He looked at it and smiled. “I remember that day.” He looked at the bag in front of me. “What else you got in there?”
“Some notebooks.” I flipped through them. “Journals.” I wanted to stand there and read every page, but I didn’t have much time. Soon I needed to get back to the airport and through security.
I continued in the bathroom as Jackson sifted through the things on the floor near and under the bed. When he was done, Jackson went outside for fresh air, and I joined him when I’d finished. For our efforts, we’d retrieved only the photograph and three spiral notebooks. I don’t know why, but I’d expected more.
Jackson wiped away a tear. “You glad we came?”
“I am.” I looked back at the motel room. “Now I know. I would’ve always wondered what we left behind. Not sure how I feel about it, but at least I’m not speculating about where she was at.”
Together we walked back to the truck, and Jackson held up the photograph. “Mind if I hang on to this?”
