Traci pouted. “This isn’t fun. Let’s celebrate you being alive.”
“You’ve already celebrated my death.”
When it was clear he wasn’t relenting, her expression changed from seductive to disdainful. She stopped to gather her bags, and lugged the first batch to the door. “Would you give me a hand?”
“No.”
“Pig.”
It took her six trips to carry everything out to her car. On her last trip he said to her, “The credit card.”
She pulled out her wallet, extracted the card and threw it at him. “There.” It landed on the floor a few feet from him. “It’s true what they say about you. All you care about is money.”
He nodded. “Apparently likes do attract.”
CHAPTER
Twelve
“You know what they call those things?” Lincoln said to Kier over his second drink, the din of the pub forcing him to speak loudly.
“What things?”
“What the paper did to you.”
“Libel.”
“Well, besides that. They call them premature obituaries. It’s not an erroneous obituary, because everyone’s going to have one sometime. It’s just premature.”
“Yeah, that’s profound,” Kier said, uninterested.
“It’s not the first time it’s happened. I looked it up. It’s happened to some pretty big names: Paul McCartney, Queen Elizabeth, Ronald Reagan, Mark Twain, Margaret Thatcher. In fact, the death of Pope John Paul II was announced three times.
“The newspapers reported twice that Ernest Hemingway had died. They say that he read a scrapbook of his obituaries every morning with a glass of champagne.”
“Didn’t Hemingway commit suicide?” Kier asked. He sipped his beer. “Did people trash them too?”
“Of course they did. They were movers and shakers. You can’t make omelets without breaking eggs and you’ve made a lot of omelets my friend.”
“Omelets? I’m a freakin’ Denny’s.”
Lincoln laughed. “When do you give Brey the heave-ho?”
“Monday.”
“I’d like to see the look on that fool’s face when he sees you.”
“I’m sure it will be unforgettable.”
Lincoln set down his beer. “So how are you doing? Really?”
“I’m okay.”
“Good,” Lincoln said after a short pause. “That’s good.”
“You expected otherwise?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure. There were some pretty harsh things written about you. And you did just break up with your girlfriend.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“I know. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Look what a waste Pam was, and I still gained twenty pounds after she left me.”
Kier grinned.
“What?”
“I saw Pam a month after you two separated. I asked how she was doing. She said, ‘Great, I just lost two hundred pounds of ugly fat.’ ”
Lincoln sneered. “Tossing that hen was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”
“The trick, Lincoln, is to not let what other people think bother you.”
“Really, I wish I could do that. Beer helps.”
“It’s easier when you consider that three percent of the population are certifiably insane. And the rest of them are idiots. Why would you care what idiots think?”
“That’s the spirit, old boy,” Lincoln said, raising his drink. “To the idiot masses.”
Kier looked at Lincoln, his hand wavering with the upheld glass. He raised his own, “To the idiot masses.” Both men took a long drink.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
That night Kier had a dream. He was in a spacious hallway with dark-varnished floors and lined with tall, arched windows covered in silk drapes tied back with elegant golden ropes. There were potted orchids and African violets by each window. The ceilings were high, hung with brass and crystal chandeliers, and the walls were covered with an ivory silk. Soft harp music filled the room but he could not see where it was coming from.
The hall was vacant. As he looked around he saw that at the far end of the room was an ornate closed casket made from burled walnut and fastened with copper corner pieces and handles.
He wondered who was inside. He crossed the room but when he reached the casket he was suddenly afraid to look. He lifted the heavy lid. Inside was a woman he knew that he had seen before but didn’t recognize until she opened her eyes.
“My son,” she said.
“Mom?” She smiled lovingly and a calm feeling came over him.
“My dear, sweet boy. I miss you. We all miss you.”
Kier didn’t understand. “All?”
“Look and see.”
He turned from her to look around the hall, but there was still no one there. He turned back. “I don’t . . .” His mother was gone and inside the velvet-lined casket lay Sara. Her skin was a waxlike pallor yet she was still beautiful. Almost involuntarily he spoke her name, “Sara.”
At the sound of his voice her eyes opened, looking through him. She spoke and her voice had a sweet, faraway resonance. “Jim, why did you leave me when I needed you the most?”
“I, I . . .” He had no answer. “I’m sorry.” His eyes filled with tears. “I really am sorry.”
“Me too,” she said softly. She looked at him without anger or malice, just sadness.
“Where is everyone?” Kier asked.
She didn’t answer but closed her eyes again.
“Sara, come back.” He crouched next to the casket. “Sara, where is everyone? Where is Jimmy?” He looked around the room, hoping to see him.
Suddenly an old man entered the parlor. The man stopped near the room’s entrance to write in the guestbook. Then, leaning on his walker, he hobbled across the room. As he neared, Kier thought he recognized the man but couldn’t remember from where. It took the man several minutes to reach the casket. Without acknowledging Kier, he stood by his side, staring intently at the corpse.
“Thank you for coming,” Kier said.
The man turned to look at him. To Kier’s surprise there was a gleeful smile on his face. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Then, turning back to the corpse, his smile changed to a scowl and he spit into the casket. “Rot in hell,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Kier turned red with anger and raised his fist. “How dare you. She was a good woman.”
“Woman?” the man said.
Kier looked back. His own body was now lying inside the coffin.
“Second best day of my life,” the old man mumbled as he hobbled off. “Second best day of my life.”
CHAPTER
Fourteen
Kier woke with his heart pounding. He was soaked in sweat and his face was wet with tears. As consciousness flooded back, his chest grew heavy with sorrow. He had lied. He had lied to Lincoln. He had lied to himself. The newspaper article, the Web comments had bothered him. Deeply.
How had he come to this place? When had he decided to be this? To be hated by strangers as well as those who knew him best, separated from his wife, disowned by his son, and his only friend, Lincoln, his lawyer, was paid a sizable monthly retainer. The truth was, he was more like everyone else than he wanted or pretended to be—he wanted to be loved. He wanted to be missed.
Kier got out of bed, threw his wet shirt on the floor, then headed downstairs. He went through his normal motions, made himself some toast and coffee, went outside and retrieved the newspaper. He sat at the kitchen table eating and reading, less out of interest than to distract his thoughts from his pain. As he thumbed through the pages of the paper he suddenly stopped at the obituaries where a name caught his eye: James Kier. He set down his coffee. Second column to the left, third from the top was his name. Only this time they got it right; it was the other James Kier. There was a small photograph of the man not much larger than a postage stamp. Kier thought he was not an especially good-looking individual. He was balding,
his crown covered with a wide comb-over, and his face narrow and homely. Still, there was something about his expression that made him attractive. He looked happy and good-natured. Kier read the obituary.
James A. Kier, “Jak,” son of Dick and Bette (Beck) Kier, was born September 26, 1962, in Arcadia, California. He passed away Friday at the age of 47.
James’s childhood years were happily spent in California where he excelled at basketball and played on the team that went to the California State finals. He graduated from Arcadia High School in 1979. In April 1982 James was married to the love of his life, Martha Elizabeth Long of Monrovia, California. James moved his family to Utah after his mother took ill and he lovingly took care of her until her death. For more than two decades James worked as a school bus driver for the Wasatch School District and for three years straight was voted “World’s Best Driver” by the children. He would remember their birthdays and no child was ever teased or bullied in his presence. His favorite saying was “Not on my bus!” To many children he was their best friend and they would often confide in him their deepest secrets.
James was a great barbecue chef. He enjoyed fishing and spending time with family and friends. James’s humble, caring, and sincere ways were felt by all who knew him. He will be missed.
Left to cherish his memory are his wife, Martha, and his three children: Dan Kier and his wife, Linda; Margie Potts and her husband, Joel Eric; and Bonnie Kier. He is also survived by one sister, Ebony Brooke of Pasadena, California.
Preceding James in death were his parents and his brother, Tom.
In his honor, there will be a memorial service at his home (3540 Polk Avenue) on Sunday, at eleven A.M. until noon. Public is invited. The family has requested that in lieu of flowers, a donation be made in James’s name to his favorite charity, the Primary Children’s Medical Center children’s medical fund.
Kier looked down at his watch. It was a quarter to ten. Maybe it had something to do with his dream, maybe not, but for reasons he couldn’t fully explain he felt he had to go to this man’s memorial service. He tore the article from the paper, then went back upstairs, showered, put on a suit and tie and went to find the other James Kier’s home on Polk Avenue.
CHAPTER
Fifteen
Polk Avenue was a dead-end road in a poor section of Rose Park. The small street was lined with cars and Kier had to park a couple of blocks away on a street with run-down and boarded-up houses. He hoped his car would still be there when he got back.
The home of the other James Kier was a tiny, shake-tile-roofed rambler. A plastic Santa Claus with four reindeer perched precariously on the roof. Large, plastic candy canes wrapped with Christmas lights protruded from the snow in the front yard. The house was brown brick with tan and white striped aluminum awnings, surrounded by overgrown pyracantha bushes.
What surprised Kier most were the scores of people—children, teenagers, adults, and the elderly—cued along the walk outside the house, waiting to pay their respects. Kier took his place in the line.
As he waited, he observed three things about the other James Kier. First, the crowd of people who’d come to pay their respects was remarkably diverse in more than just age. The elderly couple behind him was distinguished, the man dressed in a Brioni suit and silk Gucci tie, the woman in a full-length fur coat. From their conversation, he deduced that they were there because the deceased had been kind to their mentally handicapped daughter, who had ridden his bus each day.
“He saved a seat for her next to him at the front of the bus,” the woman told someone behind her. “The other kids called it Rachel’s seat. Because he respected her they did too.”
In contrast, the young man standing in front of Kier might have been sixteen or seventeen and wore a long-sleeved T-shirt in spite of the cold. His hair was dyed black, and he had a pierced ear, pierced nose, and a tattoo of a snake on the back of his neck, partially concealed by dark woven necklaces. He carried a book under his arm; Kier couldn’t make out the title.
The second thing he observed was that the young people (and there were many) affectionately referred to the deceased Kier as Jak or Mr. Jimbo.
Third, no matter who they were, or where they were from, there was a palpable sense of loss.
Kier looked around in wonder. This guy was just a bus driver, he kept telling himself. The home’s interior was as humble as the outside. The carpet, wet from people moving in and out, was a well-worn avocado green shag. The entryway was decorated with Hummel statuary, plastic plants, and cheap prints of Cats in France, the kind of art that looked as if it had been purchased at either a garage sale or the clearance table of a Kmart. Above the front door was a hand-painted wooden sign that read All because two people fell in love.
It was about half an hour before he reached the living room where the Kier family stood in a receiving line. A plump, middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo stood at the front of the line. It was apparent that she was the deceased Kier’s wife. The young man standing in front of Kier began to speak. He spoke softly and with a slight lisp likely exacerbated, Kier reasoned, by the stud that protruded from below his lip.
“Mrs. Kier, I wanted to tell you that . . .” The youth suddenly choked up. “Mr. Jimbo saved my life.”
She looked at him kindly and took his hand in hers. “Please, tell me about it.”
“It was a really bad day. My mom had just left us and I got yelled at by a teacher in front of everyone and then I got beaten up by some football players. Then they shoved me in a garbage can and rolled me through the school’s courtyard at lunchtime. I decided I was going to hang myself. As I was getting off the bus, Mr. Jimbo said, ‘Hold on there, sport.’ He asked me what was wrong. I said ‘nothing,’ but he looked at me like he knew everything. He said, ‘Life sucks sometimes, don’t it?’ I said, ‘Yeah.’ He said, ‘I know. Sometimes it don’t even seem worth living. But you know what, I’m just a bus driver. I’ll never be rich. People honk at me all day. No one wants to grow up and be me, but I’ve got some things worth living for. And so do you.’ I started to cry and Mr. Jimbo said, ‘You’re going to be a great man someday, one that everyone looks up to.’ I didn’t know what to say. But he did. He asked me if I like to read, I said, ‘Yeah mostly fantasy and Sci fi.’ He said, ‘me too.’ Then he gave me the book he was reading. It was The Hobbit. He said he thought I would like it.
“From then on we talked every day and we ended up reading the whole Lord of the Rings trilogy together. It took us the whole school year. He got me through it.” The teenager wiped his eyes.
“So you’re Steffan,” Mrs. Kier said with a warm smile. “Jim told me so much about you.”
The youth said, “I’m here because of him, ma’am.”
“Thanks for sharing that with me. We’re both going to miss him, aren’t we?”
“Sure are, ma’am.” He held out the book he carried. “This was his. We had some good talks about it. I’m bringing it back.”
She held it close; it was Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. “This was one of Jim’s favorite books,” she said. She handed it back to him. “You keep it. I know that’s what he’d want.”
The youth teared up. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll put it someplace really important. God bless you.”
“God bless you, Steffan.”
The teenager moved along, wiping his eyes on his shirtsleeve. The woman looked at Kier, then put out her hand. “I’m Martha Kier.”
“I’m James.”
“Pleased to meet you, James.”
“My condolences for your loss.”
“Thank you. Jim was one of the good ones God sent to this earth.”
Kier suddenly felt a little uncomfortable. “There are a lot of people here.”
“He was a simple man, but he touched a lot of lives.”
“Well, I’m truly sorry for your loss. Your husband is going to be missed. The world’s a little darker place for losing him.”
“Thank you for coming
.”
Kier moved on down the line. The other James had three children, two girls who looked like they were in high school, (even though one of them was married) and a young man about Jimmy’s age. He was tall and lanky, with spiky brown hair. He was wearing a navy pin-striped suit that looked too large for him. He stood next to a beautiful young woman who Kier guessed to be his wife. The young man reached out his hand as Kier approached. “I’m Danny.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“How did you know my father?”
Kier struggled with an answer. “The truth is, I didn’t know him all that well. We just crossed paths.”
“He was that way, wasn’t he? The moment you met him you felt like he was a friend. He was everyone’s friend.” The young man teared up and his wife put her arm around him. “He was my best friend. I’m lucky to have had him as a father.”
Kier looked at him a moment, then said, “More than you know. God bless you.”
“Thank you.”
Kier walked outside. Even though it was past noon, people were still arriving and the line was even longer than when he had arrived. Just a bus driver. When he got back to his car he called Linda.
CHAPTER
Sixteen
Linda answered her phone on the second ring. “Hello, Linda Nash speaking.”
There was something comforting about hearing her voice. “Hi Linda.”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Jim.”
“Jim who?”
“Your boss, Jim.”
She paused. “This isn’t funny,” she said, and hung up.
Kier pushed the redial button. When she answered he said, “Linda, please don’t hang up. It’s really me.”
“The real James Kier would never say ‘please.’ ” She hung up.
He pressed redial again. She answered on the tenth ring. “Stop calling me,” she said angrily. “I don’t know what kind of sick joke this is, but I’m going to call the phone company if you call again.”