"The truth is that monsters are real and ghosts are real, too. They live inside us, and sometimes they win."

- Stephen King



It had been two days of off-and-on icing for my fist, still swollen and reddened from punching the projectile gossiper at the country club gala. I felt bad about the commotion I had caused. There were witness reports to fill out, people to calm down, and a general feeling that I had in fact detracted enough from the party, something I originally wanted to avoid by taking the guy outside. The man turned out to be an uninvited guest looking for some dirt to drum up. For what cause I’m not quite sure; neither my family nor I are interesting or important enough to warrant it.

Like clockwork, my cell phone rang at just after 2pm, as it had done the previous four days. My friends were still determined to get me out of the house as a cure for my ills. So far I’d been able to turn away all of their advances, but it did nothing to lessen their determination.

I looked at the caller ID: Devin. Great, I thought, it’s like a daily wake-up call.

I hit the answer key and let out a heavy breath. “Hello?”

“Okay, before you hang up like you’ve done all the other times, just know we’ve got something good tomorrow night, something worthwhile.” Devin sounded excited.

“Yeah?” I tried to sound as unimpressed as possible. I flipped the ice pack over and applied the coldest part across my knuckle.

“You, me, Michelle, Aaron, maybe his soon-to-be wife Vanessa. Ready? Ready for it? Grace’s. Huh, huh?” Devin was very pleased with himself.

Mentioning Aaron gave me pause. He was marrying Vanessa little more than a month from now and he had asked me almost a year ago to be his best man. I hadn’t thought much about it since the morning he brought it up over breakfast at John O’Groats, but the day was creeping ever closer. The thought of standing in front of a hall filled with people bearing ear-to-ear smiles as I delivered some kind of toast, some congratulatory blessing to commemorate their foray into marriage, gave me the shivers not because of anything I had against marriage – I didn’t – but because it would be the first time speaking to a full room of people since delivering my father’s eulogy.

Devin shook me back to the present. “C’mon, what do you think of that? Are you going to decline Grace’s?”

“Grace’s? What for?” I waited a beat. “Hold on, is tomorrow Wednesday?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and checked the readout on the touchscreen. Sure enough, Wednesday.

“Gawd,” I said, returning the phone to my ear, “how can someone get so fired up over donut night at Grace’s restaurant?”

“Hey, the stuff is better than Krispy Kreme and one-half the calories. It’s like powdered opium.”

“It’s a campy tradition that has managed to survive because of people like you,” I responded.

“It’s not about the cuisine, it’s about friends hanging out. I will even offer to buy.”

“You, the barely scraping by actor?” I asked. “I thought the people who do the Burger King commercials dropped you.”

“They did, they revamped their whole campaign. Doesn’t matter, I have a new gig. Look, I’ll tell you when we are at Grace’s. This way you have to go.”

“Sorry, no dice.” I flipped the ice pack over again and applied it to a different reddened section of my hand. “Besides, I don’t have to go in order to get the story. You are terrible at holding back information about yourself. Your sense of shameless self-promotion knows no bounds.”

Devin was silent on the other side for a moment. Then: “You can’t see it from you end but I’m flipping you off through the phone.”

“Ooh, actor IQ. I like it.”

“Whatever. You in or out?”

“I am most decidedly out,” I replied. “I’m nursing a swollen hand, I wouldn’t be able to lift a cup of joe anyhow.”

“Excuses, excuses,” he responded.

“Well this was fun, it’s been what – four days now? I eagerly look forward to tomorrow’s exchange.” I went to hit the disconnect button and as I did I heard Devin start to say “if you don’t wise up there are other things we will do!”
___________________________________________________________________

The note from my uncle said he wanted to meet at 4 this afternoon for tea at the clubhouse. He’d been in town for a while and my mother had given my aunt and him guest passes to the club so they could come and go as they chose. I knew they wouldn’t be staying in town much longer – my aunt and uncle split their time between Manhattan Beach and Hawaii, where they lived six months and one day in order to capitalize on the state’s income tax loopholes – so it wouldn’t be wise to duck out on the inviation. I saddled up my parents’ golf cart and sped off towards the clubhouse a few streets over.

Parking a golf cart in front of a clubhouse at just before 4 in the afternoon on a weekday when nobody works anyhow is quite the daunting task. Most of the time all spots are taken and you are stuck trying to create a spot for yourself someplace where the cart interferes with people's ability to get by, or you have to attempt the end all of squeeze jobs as you try to carefully navigate the teeny tiny space left for you between two carts parked by people who don’t know how to park a cart or don’t care. As I eyed the row of carts, all customized to look like BMWs, Mercedes Benz sedans, Cadillacs, and even Hummers, I spotted the one remaining spot on the end. I floored the cart and made for the parking space, but hit the breaks when I realized it was beside a hydrant. I guess the same rules apply here. I stopped the cart, crossed my arms over the top of the steering wheel, and lowered my head to my arms.

“Hey, are you looking for a spot?” The man appeared from nowhere. I didn’t even hear his approach. He waved a “hey there” wave as he stepped to the cart’s side.

“We’re leaving right now if you’d like our spot.”

“That’s awfully kind of you,” I responded and tipped my ballcap towards him to punctuate the gratitude.

“I haven’t seen you around here,” the man responded. “Don’t tell me people are retiring at your age now!” He laughed a wheezy laugh and then ran his hand over his thin, silvery mustache.

“Sadly, no. I’m Reed. Reed Becker, the son of –“

“Oh, yes yes, Becker, that’s right!” he interrupted. “Very sorry about your father, dear boy, very sorry. Your mother is in good hands?” he asked.

I hated questions like this, where the person asking wanted to know if I was being the good son and helping her get through the rough period of afterglow. The truth was my mother was holding things together better than I had been able to. Help her? Who was going to help me?

“Very much so,” I lied. “We do what we can.”

“Well you tell her that Bob and Eunice from Evergreen Street send warm wishes. She’ll know who we are.”

I smiled in response. “Will do. A pleasure to meet you.”

The wife spoke up. “I hope we will be seeing more of you. A healthy young man like yourself should get out more and be active. Golf, play tennis.”

Drink, chase skirts, fuck, I said to myself, finishing the thought.

“Perhaps I will,” I said. I didn’t want to tell them I couldn’t play golf worth a lick. The two got into a cart outfitted to look like an old 60s-era Ford Mustang, and backed away, waving again as they drove off.

Inside my aunt and uncle were already seated and awaiting me.

“Sorry, there was a parking situation,” I explained as I took a seat and removed my cap.

My aunt leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I don’t know about this beard you have, Reed. Your uncle has had one for over 20 years against my protests.”

“You have protests? I suppose I would have to listen to you to have heard that,” he responded, laughing. My aunt feigned a hurt look and my uncle relented. “Just a cheap joke at your expense, my dear,” he said, leaning to put his arm around her shoulder. “I’m trying to get the youngster here with the ultra-serious look on his face all the time to crack a smile.” I didn’t.

My uncle removed his arm from around my aunt, leaned back in his chair, and sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

A waitress came around to serve us tea. I’d seen her a few times before: A tall, waifish, thirty-something single mother named Colleen. Very leggy. Pretty, in a handsome put-together-well way, but not an outright beauty. Definitely too pretty to be working in a retirement community like this, though when I though it out, being a single mother waitress at a place where you were out by 8pm, special events the exception, didn’t seem like a bad deal.

She made her way around to my side of the table and smiled as she poured my cup. “Hi Reed, how is your mother?” For the first time I got a good look at her eyes. Green and very shiny, even in the low light of the room.

“She’s good, thanks. How are things with you?” I didn’t know a thing about her. I made small talk as best I could.

“No complaints. Not yet anyway. Are you going to give me trouble, buster?” she mocked. “I heard about your fisticuffs at the gala, Sugar Ray.”

I rolled my eyes. “Please. It was one swing, and the guy fully deserved it. Ask around.”

She flashed a quick smile again, this one more flirtatious. “I always had you pegged as a lover, not a fighter.” She finished pouring, placed what was left of the kettle in the center of the table, and left. I rolled my eyes towards my uncle, who was brimming at the rim, ready to explode.

I held a hand up. “Don’t.” She’s just an easy going woman. Besides, I’m the only one around here within 10 years of her age.”

“I wasn’t aware today’s women made themselves so obvious,” my aunt replied.

“Don’t you know, everyone is busy these days, you can no longer skirt around things anymore,” my uncle responded, then adding: “Maybe you and her can do things around her skirt, eh?” He slapped his knee and laughed.

“Always funny,” I grunted. I gazed across the room to where Colleen was and saw her looking at us, but when she noticed me watching her she didn’t dart her eyes away like most women would. She held my gaze for a moment and then smiled before turning her attention back to the table in front of her.

“Your mother asked us to talk to you because she is concerned about you,” my uncle said.

“She what?” I asked, turning my attention back to our table.

“Asked us to sit down and talk to you about things, about you and your father,” he repeated.

“Oh. I see.”

“Your mother is concerned. She told us you don’t go out unless it’s the once a week trip to the local market, or to walk your dog. I remember a different man, a friendly, active, social butterfly.”

I bristled at the description. “That’s such a horrible phrase – social butterfly – it sounds like you’re some brainless moron all aflutter, gravitating from one party to the next.”

“Be that as it may, you have undergone a change for the worse and she is concerned,” he responded.

“We are all concerned,” my aunt reiterated.

“That’s right, and I want you to know first and foremost that it is okay to feel this way. I am not over the whole thing myself. The loss of one so close is nearly unbearable. But the one thing you can not let it do is overtake your life. You cannot allow it to consume you to the point that it becomes your identity.”

I took a sip of the tepid tea and said nothing. The clubhouse kitchen staff had stopped serving tea at its customary temperature after receiving numerous complaints about it burning the roofs of mouths. Senior citizen skin is thin.

“You are a nice young man,” my aunt interjected, trying to sound less ominous than her husband, “and you are charming and talented. People take to you well. It would be a shame to throw those things away and have a perpetual stormy sky following you around.”

“Here here,” my uncle agreed, tapping his Dundee-style walking stick firmly on the carpet. “Part of the grieving process is putting feelings, memories, and unresolved emotions behind you so you can move forward. You need to get on that highway out of yesterday and start moving toward tomorrow. Your future should not be about things in the past you were unable to change.” My uncle nodded in agreement with himself and my aunt did likewise.

“If somebody asked me to instantly recall one memory of you that summed everything up, I would go with the graduation party your parents held for you when you completed college. Do you remember it? I recall you moving about the room, talking with everybody – both your parents’ friends and your own – and the ease with which you did it. I remember the grace and the confidence that flowed from you. In fact I turned to your aunt and commented about your ability to work a room, and how that is something many go an entire lifetime without mastering.”

“He’s right,” my aunt agreed, patting my uncle’s hand with hers.

“And now to see you like this, withdrawn from society and not giving a lick about how you look or who sees you like this, well it breaks my heart.”

I took another sip.

“You might think that one day you will wake up and everything will be all right, everything will be back to normal. It won’t. How things were back there,” he paused and waved a hand behind him, “they’ll never be that way again. Only the best of us can roll with the changes and move on and make a new reality for ourselves. It’s the human function, boy. Otherwise we would have given out thousands of years ago. Something you need to realize is the one thing that separates us from the rest of God’s creatures isn’t our ability to rationalize and choose, or show compassion, or criticize, or build great things or even put people in space; it’s how we respond to and emerge from the worst of life that’s thrown at us.”

My uncle paused and rubbed his eyes a little. This discussion was stirring up some emotions that were hard to keep at bay. He took a few quick sips of his tea and blotted at the sides of his mouth with a napkin before returning the cup softly to its saucer. Of all the things Scotsmen were, they were proper and traditional. Both my father and my uncle were sterling examples in this regard.

“The worst thing a man can chase is a memory, and believe me I know. It beckons on the horizon like a flickering light dancing in the distance, and every time you feel your pursuit is bringing you closer it skirts away again, opening the distance between. Its flicker becomes something you feel you must have and you search in vain as time steals away a day at a time. But still you don’t relent, and you keep at it until one day you’ve become all about the pursuit and can’t even remember the memory itself.”

He took another sip and my aunt, seeing his cup was empty, refilled it before pouring herself another cup. My uncle leaned forward and tapped my chest.

“The memories you have – both the good and the bad – are the very things you should keep. Keep them alive inside you. But don’t let them become you. Don’t let them win. People say ghosts exist but nay, they are wrong. They are alive as memories in every one of us. They are a part of you, but you cannot let them win out and become you.”

I remained silent, with my head down, my hands shaking a little. My aunt fished around in her purse and placed a small packet of tissues in front of me. It was the first time I had shed any tears over my father. I had tried so hard not to in the hospital, and when he came home, and at his funeral, and when I buried him in Scotland. It was all part of being a proper Scottish man – and I had learned from the best.

I wiped the corners of my eyes with a tissue and then again with a fresh supply. My aunt put her hand gingerly around the back of my neck.

When I finished wiping the tears and regained some composure I met their gaze. “So what am I supposed to do? How do I move on?”

“You fake it a little, and put up a bit of a wall so you don’t seem like an outward emotional catastrophe. More importantly you look to your friends for support. I am sure you have many to choose from and I bet they want to help. Don’t refuse that offer. And lastly, get your closure.”

“But I had my closure,” I objected, “My mother discussed the whole issue with me.”

“Maybe you had it in the traditional sense,” my uncle responded. “Maybe he had his chance to say everything he needed to say to you. Maybe what you missed out on was being able to say everything you needed to say back.”

He stood and reached for his cane, my aunt right behind him. “I think they are about to clear us out and get ready for the dinner crowd,” he observed. “No matter, we’re done. You know we are going back to Hawaii two weeks from Friday.”

“I had the feeling you might be.”

“We will have to have dinner one night before then,” my aunt added. “Somewhere new, somewhere fabulous and well-reviewed. And I will not accept a ‘no’ from you,” she said, wagging her finger. I fished around in my pocket for a few dollars to leave for Colleen and followed them out to the guest lot where their car was parked. I kissed my aunt and shook hands with my uncle. I didn’t thank either of them, but then they weren’t looking for a thank you. They were expecting me to do as they said.

“Do not put it off too long,” my uncle said as he opened the door of his Lexus. “You know what you have to do, where you have to go. The sooner you do it, the better you will feel.”
___________________________________________________________________

The morning air was cool and crisp, and the fog settled densely across the back nine of the golf course. I tried to leave as early and as quietly as possible so as not to wake my mother or Sophia. Lately the dog had been hypersensitive to sound, especially when she was sleeping. This morning, to my luck, she didn’t stir.

I kept my car speed at about 5mph until I was two streets over and had turned onto the main road that ran in and out of the country club. When I got onto San Vicente I opened it up and sped off towards the 405 freeway and then the 101. Forest Lawn was in an area called “Hollywood Hills” which technically didn’t exist. The area overlooked the Disney and Warner Brothers studios, a green rolling expanse offset by the cement studio scenery and water towers of the movie lots. Moreso, this was the valley, and if there was one place I hated driving it was the valley. I despised the San Fernando and San Gabriel valleys and avoided them as much as I could. But today wasn’t about geographic quibbles, commute time, or the 15-degree difference in temperature between the valley and the coast, so I kept driving and didn’t think about the locale, only the destination.

By the time I got off the 134 freeway and navigated the side roads into the cemetery it was after nine. Had it been any other day I would have been fuming over the hour-plus commute it took to go 18 miles. Southern California, I reminded myself. I drove through the gates and made my way to the Court of Remembrance on the west side of the park, where row after row of cremation plaques lined a mammoth wall.

I’d cleaned myself in preparation, taking care to shave my beard and fun some styling gel through my hair for the first time in a month. I chose my black and gray pinstripe suit by Theory to wear, which I had last donned in August while at the opera in Vienna, and matched it with a traditional bluish-gray tie. I gave my Zegnas a quick polish in the morning before leaving and though I didn’t do too great a job I told myself women would be the only ones to notice anyway.

As I exited the parked car I had a twinge of fright and uncertainty, like I shouldn’t be there, like I was unprepared. I didn’t even know what I would say, if anything worthwhile would come of it. But I didn’t hesitate. My uncle was right, this had to be done.

I found the copper and iron plaque, still shiny and new from its recent engraving, and sat at a sprawling marble bench facing it. This section of the park was quiet; no sound echoed off the walls, nobody walked its halls. I was as alone as one could be facing a wall containing hundreds of cremation urns.

I sat for roughly five minutes in silence, looking periodically up and down the hallways for any signs of life. Nobody approached. After another few minutes I relaxed my posture and leaned to the side.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” I said aloud to the air. The sun was still on the other side of the cemetery and some of the mist still remained trapped within the U shape of the court. I stood up and began pacing.

“I want you to know that mom is doing well.” I shrugged. “Well, well enough. If she is not, she doesn’t let on. Maybe she cries herself to sleep at night, I don’t know.” I returned to the bench. “I wish things didn’t have to be like this with you and me. All I know is I feel no ambition to do anything. There’s no impulsiveness on my part. Nothing is exciting to me anymore. And I feel bad about having to feel bad.” I started laughing hysterically. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel bad about anymore.”

I leaned forward, still sitting, and began wringing my hands. “There is one thing that has crossed and re-crossed my mind: Success, and how it relates to our family. You were a successful businessperson and family man, as was your brother. Peter is successful, Alexis and Roger are on their way, and they’ll be successful soon enough. That leaves me. I don’t have any of the tools they have. I’m not as smart and I’m not as savvy, so I can’t help but wonder how I will fare out there. I don’t want to be a disappointment to you, yet with every new day I fear more and more that’s exactly what I’ll become. I could use your guidance now, it would be a big help.”

I reached into my coat pocket for the packet of tissues my aunt had left with me the afternoon before, and pulled a tissue from its pouch. “I wish it didn’t all have to change, you know? You were supposed to be around for a while! You were the one who took care of himself, ate right, and exercised. The fear was never with you, it was with mom! What kind of sick twisted joke is that, to kill off the healthy one who played by the rules!”

I stood up and walked towards his placard. Its letters were perfectly formed, and I ran a finger along the valleys and curves in the metal that made out his name. “I know the great irony is that we don’t know what we can’t know, and it’s not right. It’s not fair. You both were supposed to see me fully move into adulthood, maybe get married, start a family. You both were supposed to travel the world and really enjoy the perks of retirement. You worked hard your entire life and for what? This happens. What’s the point of it all? Why bust your hump if this is the end result?”

I heard the shuffle of feet and quickly wiped my eyes before turning toward the sound. An elderly cleaning man with a trash can on wheels approached in the distance. When he was a few yards away he stopped and lowered the wheeled can, resting his push broom against it.

“Visiting someone you know?” he asked, smiling.

“Father, yes.”

“I imagine a great many fathers are contained behind that wall,” he added with a laugh. “If only we could hear the collective wisdom they share.”

“What are you, a fucking philosopher?” I scoffed.

“No need to be short with me, and I sure don’t appreciate the language.” He picked up his broom and began sweeping a corner of the courtyard walkway.

“You’re right, that was out of line. I’m sorry. It’s been a trying morning,” I said.

“I’m sure many visits to this wall have been very trying for each person who has stood where you do now. But I don’t stand for foul language. Never have, never will. Especially in this place. It’s disrespectful.”

“I know. My apologies.”

The man put down the broom and walked a few steps towards me. “So what were you talking about just now?”

“What do you mean talking?”

“I mean talking,” he replied. “Opening your mouth and speaking.” He opened and closed his mouth like a grouper in Bill Cosby-style embellishment. “Everybody comes here to talk to somebody. It might be a dear friend, a family member, a loved one, but everybody talks. Everybody.”

“Oh.”

“So what were you talking about?” he again asked.

“Don’t you think that’s a little private?”

He inched a little closer. “Oh, I don’t know – do you think you are keeping to yourself when you talk aloud in a courtyard with echoing walls. Does that sound private to you?”

“Point taken,” I responded. I sat down on the bench and he joined me.

“I have seen thousands of people come in here and sit down just as you are now, and every one of them has had something to say to the piece of metal in front of them. Some of it was happy, some of it was sad, and some of it was even uplifting. But the one thing that it was every single time was the truth. Nobody can come in here and lie to the wall.” He held up his hand, fingers apart, and motioned towards the wall. “There are too many memories at stake to lie.”

“My father’s death was sudden an unexpected. None of us were ready for it. I’m having a hard time making sense of it, you could say.”

“Death never makes any sense, does it?” he asked, laughing. I didn’t answer. I expected the question was rhetorical.

“Which one is his?”

“Center and to the right with the newish-looking ones.”

“Uh huh. Good man?”

“Yeah. You can put him in the ‘hard act to follow’ category,” I replied.

“No use going through life trying to follow somebody,” he said. “You’ve got to follow your own act. That’s hard enough in itself.”

He stood back up and began walking back to his wheeled trash can and broom. “I’ll leave you and your father alone. Besides, I’ve got the whole west side of this park to clean up. Every sanctuary, every reflection nook. I can’t stay here and talk the live-long day. They’d fire me for sure!”

I smiled as I watched the elderly man make his way back to his supplies and pick up the broom. I got up and walked towards him as he began to leave.

“What do you think they’d say,” I began, motioning with my head towards the cremation wall. “The people on the other side of this wall. What do you think they’d say if they could talk back?”

The man turned and smiled. I saw an ageless quality about him despite the deep wrinkles around the eyes and the leathery, toughened skin of his face. “They would want to know that you’ve made a clean slate and moved on. They’d tell you that everything is temporary – even life itself – and you have to make the most of what you have. Everything that binds you unwinds in time, and once that happens you are free to write a new story for yourself.”

He turned with his trash can and began walking away as I stood and watched. When he was almost at the end of the court he turned, and before heading around the corner looked at me and added, “I think he’d just want to know that you are doing okay.”