Kyle, I guess, is off enjoying Halloween in Laurel, at his grandparents’ house. I watched through a tiny slit in the curtain as he walked out to the car earlier today with his overnight bag, accompanied by Donna in her nurse’s scrubs. Jay L. Lamb’s “memorandum of understanding” said nothing about watching my friends from the living room of the house I live in, and even if it had, I would like to see him prove that I did it.
– • –
Tonight’s episode of
Dragnet
, the eleventh of the first season, is called “The Big Shooting,” and it’s one of my favorites. It originally aired on March 30, 1967.
In this episode, Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon investigate the shooting of a police officer, but they are hindered by two things: The cop, who survives the shooting, has a mental blackout about what happened. Also, there are no other eyewitnesses to the shooting.
For months, Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon keep at it, slowly accumulating clues and evidence about the shooter and his cohort. (I love the word “cohort.”) Finally, one of Sergeant Joe Friday’s informants lets him know where the men can be found. Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon bust in on them in a cheap motel and take them downtown. They still don’t have an eyewitness who can identify the men. But Sergeant Joe Friday has an idea.
He dresses the amnesiac cop in his uniform and has him stand at the door when the men are interrogated. Thinking that they had killed the cop and now worried that he will identify him, they get spooked and admit to the shooting. Once again, Sergeant Joe Friday gets his men.
I would like to be lucky enough to not remember those who take things away from me.
– • –
Tonight, I need a new green office folder.
Dear Mother:
Although you have apologized to me and I have forgiven you for the events of today, I feel that I must make it clear to you that there is much you either don’t know or don’t want to know about your now-dead husband, my father.
I am not making these things up. You may think that Father hung the moon—which is an idiom, as no one has the physical capability to actually hang a moon. But my memories of him are mostly of being marginalized and
being unable to please him. That makes me very sad now that I will never see him again.
In Jay L. Lamb’s statement in the
Herald-Gleaner
article, he referred to “Maureen and the family.” I should not have to point out to you that “the family” is I. It is you and I now. Father is gone. And while I realize that you are in the denial-and-isolation stage of grief, I do hope that you can deal with it in a brisk manner. I would like to be your friend and your child. I could manage only one of those things with my father.
I am, your son,
Edward
On the second full day of my life without my father, and the 306th day of the year (because it is a leap year), we are going to bury him. It is this strange custom that sits in the forefront of my mind when I awake at 7:42 a.m. Why do we bury those who die? Where did that come from?
I am lucky to live in an age when I can learn the answers to such questions as easily as climbing out of bed and going into the next room. To run the word “death” through an Internet search engine is to traffic in websites and pictures that educate and horrify.
I learn that we have not advanced so far from the days of the Neanderthals, when it comes to matters of disposing of the dead. They, too, buried the people who expired, and though Neanderthals were crude people, they did not bury carelessly. Bodies were tenderly placed in holes, sometimes in a fetal position, as if returning the person to child form, and sometimes in a recumbent position, presumably for a safe, comfortable trip to wherever the Neanderthals thought their dead were going. What happens to us beyond death is more than my fact-loving mind wishes to contemplate.
When this land I live in now belonged to the Indians, a body was often left out in the open for birds and scavengers to feast on. The Absarokes would place their dead bodies in trees or on scaffolds, and then they would come along to collect the bones for burial later. If you consider the culture of the Indian, it makes sense. The tribes were and are great stewards of the land and the animals who roam it. They would use every part of a buffalo and honor the animal in the hunt. It makes sense, then, that they would not let their own bodies decay without replenishing nature. I find myself liking the Absarokes’ approach.
The Egyptians preserved their dead. The Romans and the Greeks burned theirs, a practice that did not catch on here in America until the nineteenth century. Nowadays, cremation is considered an environmentally friendly way of disposing of the dead, rather than taking up acreage in a cemetery. I can only imagine what my father might have said to this option; he detested environmentalists.
I also learn things I did not want to know about death. I learn about a man named Budd Dwyer, a politician like my father. Budd Dwyer got railroaded in an ethics investigation in Pennsylvania, showed up at a press conference in 1987, made a short speech, and then shot himself on live television. I saw the whole thing on video. I wish I had not.
Later today, we will bid my father farewell and ask that he rest in peace. I hope he does. I don’t know what the afterlife is, or if there is one—this is a question I don’t ponder long, as it challenges my preference for facts like nothing else. If there is an afterlife, I hope Budd Dwyer, treated so poorly while he was here, is having a good time and will be nice to my father. They were both Republicans. They should get along.
– • –
My father was not a religious man, but he saw great political value in going to church. If you belong to the right church in Billings—or anywhere else, I suppose, but I can’t say for sure, as I don’t live anywhere else—you can cut a few business deals while hearing the Good Word.
In Billings, the church my father chose is First Congregational. Father always said his favorite part of First Church, as it is known, is the rich diversity of its people. Yet when I was a child and a teenager, it wasn’t difficult to realize that the only people he spent much time talking with were the six or seven developers who were also members—all middle-aged, white, rich men.
Whatever the roots of that longtime association, it explains why today, at 2:05, the Reverend Heron James of First Congregational has stepped forward to deliver the eulogy.
“Friends, welcome. We are here today to remember and say good-bye to a great man in the history of Billings, one who lifted the city and people he loved to a more prosperous place…”
My mother and I are sitting side by side, in front of my father’s closed casket. To her left is the ever-present Jay L. Lamb. I turn my head and scan the other faces and see that my mother was not kidding when she said it would be a small gathering: I see the Billings mayor, Kevin Hammel, and one, two, three, four, five city council members, and my father’s two fellow county commissioners, Rolf Eklund and Craig Hashbarger.
“…Ted Stanton was not a man who would settle for good enough, not when better than ever was so close to our reach…”
When I turn my head the other way, to the right, I see someone I missed on the first pass: Dave Akers, my father’s buddy and the subject of the last political fight of his life. He is standing apart from the huddled crowd, which has jammed under the awning so as not to get pelted by the frigid rain falling outside. He looks sad and wan (I love the word “wan”), the way my mother did that first day.
“…so allow yourself this moment of sadness to mourn the loss of a true original, but let yourself be happy from now on that we were privileged to know him…”
I feel uncomfortable. How could I be my father’s son and yet not know a single person, other than my mother or Jay L. Lamb (a dubious one, at that), who is here to mark his life? Whose fault is that? I’m not wise enough to know that answer. I hope it is mine. At least I still have a chance to rectify it.
“…Amen.”
As the small band pushes forward to place roses upon my father’s casket before it is lowered into the ground, I walk ninety degrees to my right, out from under the awning, into the rain that slaps my face, and between the rows of those who, like my father, are gone.
– • –
Two hundred yards away, I take cover under a tree. My hair is drenched, and I grip my head at the temples with both hands and sweep my fingers through, wringing water onto my collar.
I am standing over the resting spot of a family:
CLAUDE T. BOONE
1906–1954
Beloved father
AGNES MILLER BOONE
1910–1987
Beloved mother
RANCE LEROY BOONE
1930–1992
Devoted son
I slump down to the base of the tree, the backside of my black slacks landing in the mud. The tears that I so dislike are fighting my best attempts to tamp them down, until finally, I can’t fight them anymore.
– • –
By the time I arrive at my parents’—my mother’s—house, the reception is going full bore. Many of the Billings, Yellowstone County, and Montana power players are here, and they have broken into clumps of animated conversation, talking about whatever it is that political power players talk about.
There are more people here than were at the funeral. My mother attempts to introduce me to many of them—the mayor, then a youngish couple who I learn are neighbors, then one of my dad’s old colleagues with Standard Oil. Inevitably, my mother gets diverted to other matters—food or drink or the beckoning call of some politico. Soon enough, I am left to wander through the house alone, trying (and it’s difficult) to smile at the strangers who acknowledge me with a glance.
Three times, I am asked how I knew my father. The first time, it just seems absurd, but I answer, if only to see the questioner’s chagrin. (I love the word “chagrin.”) The second, I am
insulted, but I answer again, testily. The third, I do not answer, but instead pivot and walk to the staircase, ascending out of the low roar in the main part of the house, until I find the guest bedroom—where I’ve never stayed—and close the door and welcome the silence.
This room is unlike the rest of the house. When my father built this place, he commissioned a contemporary style, with lots of glass and steel and sharp angles. The furniture through the house is comfortable but not welcoming, if you can understand what I am driving at. But this room seems much more like one you might find in an old, warm farmhouse—a big, poufy bed, warm colors, old-style wallpaper, bucolic (I love the word “bucolic”) vistas framed and placed on the wall. I can tell that my mother got her hands on this room when it came time to decorate. My mother is the sort of person who would want a guest to be comfortable. My father was the sort of person who would want a guest to check out his new set of golf clubs.
I lay myself down on the bed and close my eyes, and soon, I am adrift in late-afternoon sleep.
– • –
“Edward. Edward, wake up.” My mother is shaking me on the shoulder. “Edward.”
My head feels as though it’s filled with sand, and I have a hard time getting my eyes to focus.
“Edward, wake up.”
“I’m awake. What time is it?”
“It’s six.”
I look down at my watch and wait for the digital figures to emerge from the blur. It’s 5:57.
“Edward, we’re going to do some toasts to your father. You should come down.”
That sounds positively dreadful, but I am climbing out of the bed.
“I will be right there.”
– • –
By the time I’ve put myself back together—re-tucked the shirt that escaped in my sleep, wet down my hair to get it in place, had a nice long pee—and trundled downstairs, the toasts have begun. Jay L. Lamb is holding the floor now.
“Ted Stanton wasn’t just my client. He was my best friend. I always knew where I stood with him, I could always trust his instincts about things, and I could always rely on him. Ted, I know you’re in a better place. I will miss you, buddy.”
One by one, my father’s colleagues stand and offer remembrances.
Some are funny:
“It must have been ’94 or ’95,” Craig Hashbarger says, “but ol’ Ted, he knew the animal trainer with the circus that came through—hell, you guys know, Ted knew damned near the whole country, it seemed—and he talked this guy into letting him bring a lion into the commissioners’ meeting. Ted said, ‘I want you to meet my new adviser. Anything you have to say to me, say to him first.’”
Laughter ripples through the room.
“The thing is, with Ted, damn—he might have been serious!”
More laughter.
Some are touching:
“When Mary got sick, Ted and Maureen were always there with whatever we needed, often before we knew we needed it,”
James Grimes, one of the biggest developers in town, is saying. “At his own expense, he chartered a jet to take us to Seattle for that last attempt at saving her life. I don’t think we would have had the chance otherwise—that’s how touch-and-go everything was at that point. A better friend, I never had.”
Some are what Dr. Buckley would call self-indulgent:
“Ted always told me I was a fool to want to be mayor, and a lot of times, I think he’s right,” Kevin Hammel is saying. It’s well known in Billings that Mayor Hammel is a climber; he has half a dozen defeats in races for higher office that would give him more money and more power. In fact, it seems that the only political race he can win is for mayor of Billings—perhaps because those who live here figure they can keep an eye on him and that he can’t mess things up too much.
“So maybe he’s given me another gift, by opening up this seat on the county commission…”
An “ugh” goes up in the room, and I hear, though I can’t place the sources, “Sit down, Kevin,” and “Cut that guy off.”
As the toasts seem to be winding down, my mother steps forward and says, “I want you all to know how much your love and support mean right now. We”—and now she’s looking at me, smiling—“are fortunate to know you, and Ted was fortunate to have had you in his life. Thank you ever so much for this lovely tribute to him.”