-Caveat Lector-
from:
http://www.zolatimes.com/V3.35/daniel.htm
<A HREF="http://www.zolatimes.com/V3.35/daniel.htm">Seeing Daniel, a story by
Don Lobo Tiggre</A>
-----
Seeing Daniel
a story by Don Lobo Tiggre
I was on the phone with Kate on a Thursday afternoon, when her
receptionist buzzed to say that her mother was on the line.
"That's weird," she said, and hung up. She knew I'd understand; her
mother rarely called, and never called her at the office.
A minute later, the receptionist buzzed me. "You'd better come down
right away, she needs you."
"Thanks," I said, and bolted from my office—hers was in the same
building as mine. It seems like I remember seeing worried faces flash by
as I ran through the corridors, but how could they know?
"Her brother committed suicide," someone—her receptionist?—said as I
passed.
Kate was almost lying on her desk, gripping the phone in a fist, holding
her head up with her other hand. She was sobbing, like the day she
wrecked her 300ZX.
I put both hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. She felt
feverish. What could I say?
"I can't believe this is happening!" She was still speaking into the
phone.
I found myself thinking that those words sounded like something from a
movie. Maybe those movie writers aren't so stupid after all; I knew that
what I was hearing was raw emotion.
I backtracked, closed the door, and waited.
Some time later, she hung up. I don't remember her standing up, but I
remember holding her for a long time. The heat of her crying left her
trembling. Her chest heaved quietly, and for a while, she seemed like a
child: hurt, bewildered, and lost.
"I don't know what to do," she finally said.
"Let me take you home, and you can decide there," I suggested.
"Okay."
* * *
Kate was almost calm by the time I got her home. She wouldn't be put to
bed, and started packing immediately. She had me call a travel agency to
see how much a plane ticket would be.
"Hello," I said to the woman who answered, "I'm calling for a friend
who's just had a death in the family, and I'm wondering if you could
tell me how much it would be to catch the first flight from one of the
Washington area airports to Latrobe, Pennsylvania."
Over the phone, I could hear the clicking sound of long nails on a
keyboard.
"What is your friend's name?"
I told her. Clickety-click.
"What is your name?"
I told her. Clickety-click-click. But was wondering: what did it matter?
"And what relation was the deceased?"
"Her brother." Click-clickety-click. Look lady, forget the twenty
questions, just gimme that fare, willya?
"In order to get the bereavement fare I'm going to need the name of the
funeral home, the name of the funeral home's director, and the date and
time of the service."
"Listen, we just found out, and we don't know any of those things. Can
you just tell us what the regular fare would be?"
"Well, if I booked it regular, it would be hard to change it to the
discounted rate later."
"Just tell me what it would cost!"
There was a pause on the other end.
Kate was looking as though she wanted to jump through the phone and do
something violent to the travel agent.
The agent returned. "I just talked to my supervisor, and if you could
get us the name of the attending physician and his phone number, we
could get you the special rate."
"Please just tell me what it would cost!"
"Well, the bereavement fare would be $290, and the regular fare would be
$590."
I didn't need to ask Kate to know what her answer would be. "Forget it,"
I said, "we'll drive."
* * *
We arrived at the house Daniel had shared with his mother, whom everyone
called Mom, and her boyfriend at about a quarter to ten that night.
Mother and daughter hugged silently for many minutes.
I shook hands with the boyfriend, and we stood by, not quite sure what
to do. The desire to say something comforting was overpowering, but the
utter impossibility of making the pain go away was paralyzing. No words
would ever do.
"Thanks for bringing her." Mom finally broke the silence.
"It’s the least I could do." I answered.
"Would you two like something to eat or drink? People have been bringing
food by all day, and I'll never be able to eat it all..." She gestured
toward the dining room table. It was covered with deli platters, loaves
of bread, pies, and assorted other home-baked goods. Fruit arrangements
and grocery bags could be seen cluttering every horizontal surface in
the kitchen.
No one felt like eating right away.
"Your father will be here in about an hour." Her voice quavered. The
effort it took to stay in control was as evident as the tear tracks on
her cheeks. "He and his friend are going to be staying at The Lion Rose.
They may have room for you two as well, unless you want to use..." She
tipped her head toward Daniel's room.
"No!" Kate shook her head violently. "I can't go in there yet. The Lion
Rose will be fine, if they have room."
The door to Daniel's room loomed in our awareness for a moment. No one
wanted to go in there, yet.
Arrangements were made. Mom told us that some of his friends had been by
and spent the afternoon with her. They had told her about how her son
had been: his practical jokes, his temper, his fierce loyalty, his
almost magical way with animals. It wasn't their words that showed how
much he had meant to them, but the act of sharing itself. Their pain and
bewilderment had been enough to help her set her own aside for a few
hours.
Presently, silence poured back into the room, seeping under the door
from Daniel’s room.
At about eleven, Daniel's father clattered through the screen door, his
girlfriend not far behind. Mom, Dad, and Kate—what was left of Daniel’s
family—held each other tightly. The silence did not hide the tears.
The rest of us could only watch in silence.
* * *
I awoke Friday morning to the smell of freshly baked cinnamon-raisin
bread. The Lion Rose turned out to be a nearby B & B, owned by old
friends of Daniel's family. It was an absolutely gorgeous Victorian
mansion built out of wood from the Biltmore Forest. The woodwork, the
leaded panes, the period decor and antique furniture were all exquisite.
The owners—quite literally—welcomed us with open arms.
I held Kate all night. She’d stopped crying before bed, but I’d tasted
salt on her face when I’d kissed her goodnight.
Rolling out of bed, I poured a drink from the carafe by the headboard.
It had held iced-lemon water when our hosts had shown us to our room the
night before. Or was it earlier that morning? Through the lace curtain,
I could see the spice garden below and the nearby mountains above.
Dad and his girlfriend were in the next room.
We all felt a little odd about the sumptuousness of our hosts'
generosity; they wouldn't hear a word about being paid for the rooms. It
seemed like they would have served us breakfast in bed if we had let
them. As it was, they puttered about the breakfast table, constantly
filling our glasses and asking if there was anything else we needed
until we made them sit down.
Somehow, the sheer beauty and unbounded generosity of our hosts muted
the pain of the bereaved ones. Father and daughter seemed almost calm,
as we discussed what needed to be done that day. There was much that
needed doing, and none of it was pleasant duty. Calls were made, times
and places fixed.
All day, friends and relatives were arriving, grandparents were visited,
and preparations were made for the funeral, which was to be held on
Sunday. Mom wouldn't let them bury her son in his Goofy slippers, as
Kate had suggested would have appealed to Daniel, but was okay with his
new hiking boots. They picked his favorite clothes, including a Grateful
Dead T-shirt he'd bought at their last concert. But no one could find
his favorite hat, a Red Sox baseball cap.
Amid visits from Daniel's friends, and stories from his parents and
relatives, everyone relived some of Daniel's short life. We were all
able to feel that we knew just how much the world had lost when he'd put
that gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Dad amazed me. He didn't seem to be under tight control, but actually at
peace. Even when tears leaked out, he just let them flow. He stated
again and again that Daniel had made a choice, and that he wasn't about
to question it. Nor would he let anyone ask why it had happened. This,
it seemed, was the burning question on everyone's mind. Every friend,
aunt, uncle, and grandparent wanted to know: Why? "That's an insanity
producing question," Dad would say. "All we are going to do is be
thankful that Daniel chose to share 23 years with us."
But I still wanted to know. Silently, I cursed the police for refusing
to release the note. What kind of cruelty prevented them from letting go
of so much as a photocopy? All anyone knew was that there was a note and
that the police would not release it until they completed their
"investigation".
Dad heard his son's friends, or mother, or sister begin to suggest that
they should have seen it coming...that they might have been able to
prevent Daniel's death if they had done something different. He gently,
but firmly, guided them away from such thoughts. "Daniel was a special
person, and the world is a better place because he was here for a while.
No one is to blame...in fact, there is no blame, because nothing bad has
happened. What happened was Daniel's choice. That's all."
It was unimaginable to me that a man in such pain could bend a hundred
people to his will. But he did. He could not banish the pain, but he
could—for many people—change the atmosphere from one of suffering
through tragedy to one of marveling at the wonder of a unique life.
Even in death, Daniel continued to touch the lives of those around him.
* * *
Kate and I went to buy some beer and wine to go with the Chinese
take-out everyone was having for dinner. While at the store, I was
struck by the appropriateness of some lyrics of an Elton John song:
Daniel is travelling tonight on a plane,
I can see the red tail lights, heading for Spain.
Oh, and... I can see Daniel waving good-bye.
God, it looks like Daniel... Must be the clouds in my eyes!
They say Spain is Pretty, though I’ve never been.
Daniel says it’s the best place he’s ever seen.
Oh, and... He should know, he’s been there enough.
Lord, I miss Daniel... Oh, I miss him so much!
Oh... Daniel, my brother, you are older than me...
Do you still feel the pain, of the scars that won't heal?
Your eyes have died, but you see more than I.
Daniel you're a star, in the face of the sky!
...Oh God, it looks like Daniel... Must be the clouds in my eyes!
In the morning, we would go see Daniel.
* * *
Late Saturday morning, we arrived at the funeral home.
It had been decided the day before that only the immediate family, and
their companions, would view the body. It would be a closed casket
ceremony. No one had actually seen Daniel since he had killed himself,
but all had unpleasant notions as to the condition the bullet might have
left him in.
Men in dark suits guided us to an alcove. There was a folding door,
behind which was the coffin. Tissue boxes were conspicuous on every
table. We all stood, shifting our weight from foot to foot.
"I can't see him," Mom declared. "Not like this!" Her boyfriend held her
while she cried.
Dad was accosted by an ancient man in a charcoal suit. "I've arranged it
just like you asked, Sir." In spite of his best efforts to keep his tone
solemn, the man was excited. He was proud of his work. "He's dressed in
the clothes you brought, and he looks just like he's sleeping. You can
barely see the wound at all! Right this way..." The man rushed over to
the latch on the collapsible door.
"Wait a minute!" Dad had to raise his voice a little. "We're not ready
yet." He turned to address the group. The man—now forgotten—dithered by
the door, waiting to show off his handiwork.
"I have to see Daniel," Dad told us. "But, no one else does. It's just
something I feel I have to do, so I can accept that he's really gone."
"I have to see him too, Daddy, for the same reasons." Kate turned to me.
"You don't have to, you know."
I cleared my throat. "Katie, I want to be there for you."
She squeezed my hand.
Dad’s girlfriend and Mom’s boyfriend had known Daniel, and wanted to say
goodbye.
Dad nodded. "Is everyone ready?"
He turned to the decrepit man, who was still fidgeting with the latch on
the door, and asked him to let us in.
* * *
Except for Mom, we filed into the room. The lighting was subdued, but
bright over the polished wooden coffin.
The box was closed. Father and sister—Daniel's mother had been unable to
enter the grim showroom where we’d bought the coffin—had chosen the
least ornate casket they could find. Its smoothly curving wood panels
gleamed under the electric light, a testament to the simple soul that
Daniel had been.
We stood in a crescent row before it, while the man in the gray suit
lifted the top half of the lid.
I don't remember what the others did, but I remember Daniel's sister
collapsing into my arms, and his father looking paralyzed.
She sobbed for only a moment before forcing herself around, to see
Daniel.
His father remained frozen, not even breathing.
Daniel was laid out as though he were taking a nap on the living room
sofa, after a particularly boring football game. One arm was at his
side. The other was folded over his chest, holding a Yankees cap (the
Red Sox cap had not turned up). The mortician was a true artist; his
subject looked better than he did. I could understand his pride. I just
wished he wouldn't let it show so much.
Make-up had been applied discreetly, just enough to hide the pallor of
death. Something must have been done with the back of Daniel's head, so
that it would lie naturally on the white silk pillow. You could barely
make out the stitching along the right side of his mouth. Daniel's
diamond earring sparkled.
His sister leaned forward and put one hand on the coffin. I could almost
see her letting go, relaxing, breathing again. She stepped back. I
squeezed her hand.
His father finally moved. He gripped the edge of the casket in two fists
and howled at the ceiling, "My son! My son!"
I have sons of my own, and the pain distilled, concentrated, and poured
into those four words were a knife though my heart. I couldn't keep them
out...couldn't help but imagine what I might feel if it were one of my
sons in the coffin.
Tears began burning their way free from my own eyes.
My son! My son!
Those words will echo forever in my mind.
Slowly, Dad began collapsing backwards. We all held him up until he
could stand on his own.
Finally, he took several deep breaths. "That's not him." He turned to
us. "He's gone, and this...this is just something left over. It doesn't
mean anything."
After a silent moment, we filed back out.
Back in the alcove, Mom had decided she needed to see Daniel. She went
in with her ex-husband. I will always admire her for finding the courage
to do that. What thoughts they shared over the empty vessel that was
once their son, I can only imagine.
* * *
At the funeral the next day, it seemed like half of western Pennsylvania
had turned out to extend sympathies to the family. For an hour they
filed by, hugging, weeping, and trying to give strength to the survivors
who stood at the front of the church. There were friends, family,
work-mates and others. There were little old ladies, skate-dudes, and
businessmen. They all came to see Daniel and say good-bye. But he was
already gone.
When the service began, Kate was tense beside me. I could feel her
anger, and my own, as the preacher tried to use Daniel's passing as a
tool to pressure his listeners to conform with his vision of the right.
Fear of death was a tool that fit all too comfortably in the man’s hand.
Knowing me well, Kate leaned over and whispered, "Don’t say a thing!"
When Dad delivered the eulogy, he did just the opposite. He urged
everyone present to tune in to their own hearts, and make damn sure they
shared them with those they loved. "Everyone keeps on telling me to 'be
strong,'" he told them. "I know you mean well, and I love you for it,
but I think that's not the way to be about this. Being strong isn't that
way to be true to your feelings. Children who aren't too busy being
strong might find ways to talk about their problems to those that love
them. Better not to be so strong and silent that death is preferable to
asking for help."
Perhaps as a warning against the harm that can come from strong silence,
Dad read Pink Floyd to the congregation. It was one of his Daniel's
favorite songs:
WISH YOU WERE HERE
So, you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field
from a cold steel rain?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade
your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
a walk on part in the war
for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish,
how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls
swimming in a fish bowl,
year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
* * *
Just a few days ago, I took out the tent I bought from Daniel's father.
As I unrolled it, a Red Sox cap fell out, and I remembered seeing
Daniel.
It had turned out that Daniel had gone camping with some friends and had
picked a spot for the group that happened to be prohibited. When the
deputies showed up to oust the group, they went through all their
belongings and found a couple bags with a few ounces of marijuana. None
of the MJ was in Daniel’s stuff, but they were all arrested, and the
officers decided to play "Good Cop-Bad Cop" with Daniel. They told him
that he was facing a mandatory minimum sentence in jail, but that if he
would testify against his friends, he could get that reduced. Daniel
couldn’t bear the thought of going to jail, and wouldn’t have dreamt of
turning on his friends, so he’d chosen a third way out.
To me, this put a whole new spin on Daniel’s death, adding to the
already unacceptably long list of innocent bystanders slain in the war
on (some) drugs by the supposed good guys, but none of us had known that
at the time of his passing. I had gone to support my friend, Kate, but
had found myself drawn by her father's way of being. How could a man
endure such a loss and remain the controlling focus of so many people?
How could he accept his son's choice without so much as a question?
My son! My son!
I will never forget.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don Lobo Tiggre is the author of Y2K: The Millennium Bug, a suspenseful
thriller. Tiggre can be found at the Liberty Round Table.
-30-
from The Laissez Faire City Times, Vol 3, No 35, September 6, 1999
-----
Aloha, He'Ping,
Om, Shalom, Salaam.
Em Hotep, Peace Be,
Omnia Bona Bonis,
All My Relations.
Adieu, Adios, Aloha.
Amen.
Roads End
Kris
DECLARATION & DISCLAIMER
==========
CTRL is a discussion and informational exchange list. Proselyzting propagandic
screeds are not allowed. Substance—not soapboxing! These are sordid matters
and 'conspiracy theory', with its many half-truths, misdirections and outright
frauds is used politically by different groups with major and minor effects
spread throughout the spectrum of time and thought. That being said, CTRL
gives no endorsement to the validity of posts, and always suggests to readers;
be wary of what you read. CTRL gives no credeence to Holocaust denial and
nazi's need not apply.
Let us please be civil and as always, Caveat Lector.
========================================================================
Archives Available at:
http://home.ease.lsoft.com/archives/CTRL.html
http:[EMAIL PROTECTED]/
========================================================================
To subscribe to Conspiracy Theory Research List[CTRL] send email:
SUBSCRIBE CTRL [to:] [EMAIL PROTECTED]
To UNsubscribe to Conspiracy Theory Research List[CTRL] send email:
SIGNOFF CTRL [to:] [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Om
