White Hot Grief Parade Page 7

  It is.

  I am sitting by his bedside the morning after his death. I see that one of his eyes is a little bit more open than the other, and I am too scared to close it. I stare at him and it is clear that this death was not peaceful, nor was it particularly welcome. It was painful and slow and it is written all over his unrecognizable face. Filled with an oddly sterile kind of calm, I sit there, wishing there was some kind of manual to follow, a list of to-dos that didn’t make me feel like I was in a movie or a nightmare or some odd combination of both. I don’t know what to do, but I want to mark the moment somehow, so I begin to sing a song from my favorite musical that will, without question, continue to haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Dad is singing a made-up song that resembles a well-known standard, but is not, because he is changing all of the words. He is changing all of the words to amuse himself and others, but mostly himself, and the enthusiasm grows as he sings. It is making me crazy, and finally I crack. “Dad!” I yell, eyes wild. “Chill, Al,” he says, eyes closed and snapping Ray Charles style, “It’s just scat . . . ”

  We are “messing” on a Saturday afternoon. “Messing” is our term for weekend adventures that didn’t include big plans. Messing is like window shopping—fun, noncommittal, and all about the journey and who you spend it with. Today we are in the car playing a game we like to call “Twenty Turns,” which is exactly what it says on the label—you get in the car ripe for adventure and, at each intersection, choose between right, left or straight ahead, and after twenty of those, you find something fun to do wherever you end up. It is a perfect Michigan summer day, and we end up at the batting cages where he teaches me to switch hit. Then off to a mini-golf course. By dusk, we end up in the middle of nowhere at a firework warehouse and return home with a car full of patriotic red, white, and kablooey, which we set off in the park down the street from 1367 after we get home.

  It is 1991, Los Angeles in a flash flood. My second-grade class is downtown seeing Wind in the Willows. Just before we head inside, it begins to rain. When we leave, the streets are like raging rivers and our car is halfway under water. Dad trudges through, pushes the car out from the water, manages to get the ignition started, and leaves the car in park in the middle of the road before he lifts the four little girls from the mound of grass far above the curb over the high water, and into the safety of the car. My dad is a hero.

  I am fifteen and in the dark-gray peacoat. Dad comes into my room and sits down, explaining that he won’t be able to come to my school play. I am playing Annie Sullivan in The Miracle Worker, and A, S, and K are the other leads and they have never hated me more. I want to quit. They want me to quit. But Annie Sullivan would not quit, so I do not. I am devastated by A, S, and K, and I am devastated that Dad cannot make the play. But I am mostly devastated because Dad is having surgery. Because Dad has cancer. Again. I do not tell A, S, and K. I do not tell my teachers, I do not tell anyone. No one will sympathize, no one will care or show compassion—teenagers only care about themselves and parents only care about their children and teachers only care about their tenure—and so I do not tell anyone. I actually believe that these girls would be delighted by my devastation and most likely use it to hurt my family even more, and I can handle them hurting me but if they attack my hurting family I cannot be responsible for my reaction. Dad finishes explaining and adds that he will be there in his heart— “just like Danny Kaye in Hans Christian Andersen, when he gets locked in the closet by the ballet master and misses the entire performance. Remember what he said to the ballerina he loved so much when they released him the next day? ‘But I was there—I heard the music and could see every moment of your performance in my mind.’ It will be just like that.” My eyes leak though my face is immovable. I nod. I hug him. I hate cancer.

  It is bedtime and we are finishing The Magician’s Nephew.13 Dad and I have read all of the Chronicles of Narnia together, and he tells me that tomorrow we can finish the final book and isn’t that exciting? I start to cry a little and tell him I want to hold off on starting the final book. “But don’t you want to know how it ends?” he asks. “I know how it ends,” I whisper, my head resting on his chest. I do. And I don’t want it to be over just yet.

  We are in the car driving up to Interlochen in the fall of 1998. We are driving up just the two of us to check out the year-long Academy. This trip is just before he is rediagnosed. Just before the real trouble begins for me at my current school. We are in the car, about to pull into Cadillac, and listening to the cast recording of Ragtime. While stopping at a gas station, the intro to the “New Music” number begins and Dad, in typical Dad fashion, changes the script ever so slightly. Creating what would become a classic family line, he speaks over Brian Stokes Mitchell with a straight face: “This is called… Ragtune.”

  I am backstage at Interlochen. It is my senior year, and I am playing the role I have dreamed of playing all summer—Amalia Balash in She Loves Me. It is opening night, and I have not yet made my entrance, so I am sneaking a peek at my dad’s face as he watches my teacher David sing “Days Gone By.” Dad is sitting in the same seat he always chooses at the Harvey Theatre—the last row in the center section, on the right hand aisle. I can see his face as plain as anything, lit from both the stage and from within. His smile is so broad and genuine, and he is swaying along with the music so full of unharnessed joy I wouldn’t be surprised if he ran down the aisle and joined David in song. He has never been happier to be anywhere and I can see it on his face as I observe him, unaware. I know that I will never forget the expression on his face in this moment as long as I live.

  I am in my room and it is the morning of the funeral.

  I look down at the computer. The eulogy has been completed. It glows upon the screen in front of me.

  13 We read the Narnia books in the original release order, in which The Magician’s Nephew is the penultimate book.

  PART TWO:

  FUNERAL!

  Love Keeps Going

  There was a period of time in 2010 when I lived with Tyne Daly.

  I know what that sentence sounds like and—just to anticipate all of your questions—yes, it was everything you thought and imagined and hoped it would be. She’s both a classy broad and a true lady, an old soul who can play like a child with a sharp-as-cheddar mind and the best legs I’ve ever seen. Anyway, in 2010 I was not certain in what city, or which country, I was living exactly, but in May of that year all I knew what that I was living with Tyne Daly.

  We had recently completed the production of Terrence McNally’s Master Class in Washington, DC, at the Kennedy Center. It was the play that would, the following year, be my Broadway debut. In a minor panic about what the heck to do with my life at that somewhat pivotal moment, Tyne suggest I stay in New York and temporarily set up camp in her New York apartment.14

  While that could all likely be a memoir of its own, this story isn’t really about the—admittedly wonderful—Tyne. It just takes place in her apartment.

  Tyne did not have a television set, but someone had given her a smallscreen DVD player. In my first few weeks settling in to my New York City existence, I would watch classic films late into the night. On May 21, 2010, I watched Shakespeare in Love.

  I had seen the movie before, but until that night, I feel I had never truly seen it. When it had come out in 1998, I had been fifteen—already a great lover of theater, but unfamiliar with many of the British actors who graced the screen—a few of whom would someday become my friends and colleagues. I could not fully appreciate many of the factual nods, inside jokes, and delightful wordplay that peppers the incredible screenplay, nor was I as appreciative about the natures of both creativity and love itself as I would grow to become. I was still a teenager. I liked the film, it was about everything I enjoyed, but I did not “get” it until that night in Tyne’s apartment.

  Dad had really loved this film. It took a lot to get him to focus on television for an extended period without his restless and bri
lliant mind wandering to the flood of ideas that constantly came to him. But this film? He adored it. He had watched it over and over again, sometimes late at night by himself. Something about its message moved him, made him believe in something. And on May 21, 2010, I finally understood why: true love and the theater, and the transformative power of both. That the once-undignified artists are revealed to be the greatest contributors to society’s spiritual nobility. As the character of James Burbage says directly to Shakespeare in the film:

  “We must show them that we are men of parts . . .”

  Men of many roles, facets, identities, and chapters. Men of potential. Men of character.

  It was so curious—adult Al profoundly connecting with adult Dad, in the present, in real time. So absolute was the understanding, so acute was this moment of connection, I actually picked up the phone and began to dial my old phone number to call him and share. It felt so powerfully for a brief moment like he was still here. In fact, this experience of connecting with my father in that moment is proof that, in so many ways, he still is here.

  And on that day, alone in a beautiful apartment on the island of Manhattan, I looked briefly out at the sky and put my phone down. I smiled.

  I had learned something important about loss: Love keeps going.

  14 As one does.

  The Protagonist Wishes to Reiterate Her Feelings

  toward Her Grandparents without Overdoing It

  M Y O S T F A M I M Y L N I D

  D L E S A R E S A O E M O E E

  E R W H R A T N C R N A I Z L

  T E Y B E U I S T W R E S A U

  R S R E B A R E X T O R S A S

  O I H T L A E H L A T N E M I

  I M S U I P E R K I T N R C O

  T D O L S F C R U E A L P R N

  W I T H H O L D I N G A P O A

  N L O R T N O C D U N U O O L

  L A C I G O L O H T A P S K U

  M S I S S I C R A N A L L E E

  V E M I C H I G A N L O F D I

  N S A T I E C N O C Y E N O M

  N E Z J W A G P I O U X O F U15

  15 Hidden Message: “Most families are somewhat crazy but we are an extra super kind of cruel and unusual level of insane.”

  Funeral: A How-to Guide

  Funerals are a social mystery. A formulaic social mystery, but mysterious nonetheless, for the sporadic nature of funerals, mixed with a general avoidance of discussion on the subject in Western culture, makes it difficult to acquaint oneself with what’s expected in terms of proper behavior. You just muddle through each funeral, hoping you’re doing the right thing, and then you largely forget about it until you have to muddle through it again the next time.

  Here are a few basics to keep in mind.

  First, it is essential to make certain you are at a funeral. How, you ask? There will be signs—not literal signs, mind you, not neon signs in childlike scrawl stapled to the side of trees and lampposts as if the funeral were some kind of macabre yard sale—but more subtle indicators. Someone should be deceased. (Make certain someone is, or else you are not at a funeral, you are at a very dark house party. Someone being dead is often the point of the funeral, differentiating it from any other kind of social function.) There will also be a somber mood, unless you are cynical, or Irish, or you are at the funeral of a particularly Wicked Witch.

  Also, make certain that you are at least within Six-Degrees-of-Kevin- Bacon away from the deceased. You might not know the deceased personally, but make certain that you are doing more than merely being there for the free deli spread. That would make you a funeral crasher. Which brings me to an important point: Do not—either consciously or unconsciously—crash a funeral. The very worst kind of crasher is on a par with the evilest of evil, e.g. Sauron, both the Alien and the Predator, and Hitler.

  Funeral etiquette is tricky. As previously mentioned, it is an unpleasant subject to dwell upon and, unless you are in public service or are Lord Voldemort, your experiences with funerals may tend to be few and far between. There are a few things to keep in mind.

  First, food. During the days immediately following a death, the family of the deceased is usually too overwhelmed to carry on the normal everyday chores, such as cooking and cleaning. So food would be more than welcome, unless:

  a. It is somewhat preposterous food,

  b. You bring steak sliders to a vegan household,

  c. Everyone brings the exact same dish, or

  d. The family’s fridge gets so packed with so many containers of soup and pasta and goulash that it threatens to explode.

  Make certain you mark your Tupperware and list any cooking instructions. Then, once in attendance of the funeral, make certain you eat both a giant and a finger sandwich. Science says the smaller or larger you make a sandwich, the more awesome it becomes.

  You will likely see people you have not seen in years. For better or for worse. This is not the time to confront the man who slept with your ex-husband. A certain degree of flirting with hot strangers depends on how close you are to the deceased or their family.

  Subdued colors are most appropriate for funerals. Do not wear a costume or a veil. Please. This isn’t a Brontë novel.

  Simple, brief expressions of sympathy are usually best. Remember, above all, you are attending the funeral to show respect for the person who has recently passed away, and your role is to support the survivors. This is not your platform for venting past disagreements, collecting on debts, or hitting on the widow. Also, avoid at all costs making grieving a contest. People who think grief is a contest are instant losers of said contest. Don’t back a horse in that race.

  Cause of death can be a difficult subject, and should therefore be avoided. Try to avoid statements such as “I am so sorry to hear of the loss of Nathan’s head—I am certain once they trawl the landfill for it, they can return it to the funeral home and you can finally have your peace.” Not piece—avoid those terrible puns. Just say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Sending flowers is also a traditional way to express your condolences. Be aware however, that if the grieving family is particularly poetic, flowers that will eventually die in about a week only serve as a reminder that everything dies. Just like their dead family member.

  Sometimes things do not go as planned. If, throughout the course of the funeral process, you discover that the funeral home has, say, accidentally kept the body in a ball pit or cremated the incorrect corpse or anything else classified as a “disaster,” by all means keep that intel to yourself. It is safe to say that today is already pretty shitty for the family of the deceased. Thus that info can wait.

  Trust that in time it will all just seem like most episodes of Three’s Company that feature the Ropers—hysterically macabre.

  Keep these points in mind and you should be fine. If you screw up, you’ve blown it—absolutely feel free to bludgeon yourself to death with your own unwanted flowers. But before you do, just make certain no one screws up as royally at your funeral.

  Funeral-ku

  1.

  No more soup. Hate soup.

  Tupperware shoved tight in the refrigerator.

  2.

  Teenagers in charge.

  Mandatory yarmulke.

  Cancer is a bitch.

  3.

  “Ashes to ashes”

  is tradition.

  I suggest “Disgust to disgust.”

  Funeral: Prologue to a Farce

  (Lights up on a bare stage. MIKE, the STAGE MANAGER, wears a cap and sits by the gathered stage curtain. He is reading a newspaper. It is only after a moment that he looks out over the stalls, nods, then puts down his paper and moves to the very back wall, which is concealed in almost total darkness. Within an instant we hear him pushing a large structure forward and locking it in place. And we see it: across the stage we now see four doors. The STAGE MANAGER makes his way around to the front and knocks on each door on his way to the microphone, downstage left when suddenly—)

  KENT: Mike!

  (KENT pops h
is head around the side of the door set structure, anxious. MIKE halts and turns around with lukewarm enthusiasm.)

  KENT: Mike? Hi. We were wondering back here if we are going to be running the whole thing?

  (MIKE looks out across the stalls for the answer. Turns back. Nods.)

  KENT: OK, because I have a cast of people back here that are not entirely off book or certain of the blocking or—

  GREY: (appearing) And some of us, though remarkable to believe it, are not actually actors!

  LILLY: (appearing) Yeah!

  (Door 2 opens and a handful of people, all holding scripts and various props, spill out.)

  PERSON 1: Kent, what is going on?

  PERSON 2: I am not going to be playing all of the old people, not again! Not after what I went through trying to create a really believable Old Adam in As You Like It last spring.

  PERSON 3: Honey, please.

  PERSON 2: No! I’m tired of it. All I ever play is the old people. I’m done. Let me play a crazy neighbor or something.