The Fives Run North-South (13 page)

An hour later, Ben arrived at St. Mary’s Church. As he rounded the corner, he saw what he’d expected and somewhat dreaded: there were cars everywhere. He approached a police car with its lights flashing, and rolled down the window as the policewoman standing in the middle of the road walked over and bent down to see him.

“Good morning sir. Are you an invited guest?”

Ben nodded.

She motioned to the parking lot across from St. Mary’s, where another police car flashed lights near the entrance. Ben knew that he’d be questioned again, this time also in the presence of private security who had the guest list, a list he’d helped make just last week. He smiled to the policewoman and pulled the car toward the parking lot. Looking around, he saw the press area situated on the far side of the church. Beyond that, he saw the crowd. He didn’t want to resent them. People who had never met his father, who were taking time away from their routine to stand outside a church as a sign of respect for Rob Keaton, a man who would feel inescapably uncomfortable with it all.

Ben’s phone rang. He looked at the readout.

Paul Collins.

Ben answered.

“You here yet?” Paul asked.

“Just approaching the parking lot.”

“Oh, I see you. Look out your passenger window.”

Ben craned his neck and saw Paul with his phone to his ear waving and approaching the car.

“Hi, Paul,” Ben said into the phone and to Paul’s face approaching his car. He wondered what the rules were here. Do you say
“good
-
bye”
into the phone, even though they were only ten yards and five seconds apart? Or do you simply hang up? Which one is rude, which one is expected? Either way, he was relieved to see his friend. Paul would keep everything together. He always had for both him and his father.

Ben sucked in a deep breath. The tie around his neck was too tight. It would stay that way until dark.

13

“W
hat a circus,” Ben said, getting out of his car.

“Could be worse,” Paul said.

“That could be said about anything. Even the worst thing in the world could always be worse.”

“Did Einstein attach a math equation to that principal? The
could
-
always
-
be
-
worse
-
infinity
-
paradox
or something?”

Ben punched the lock button on his car key as they moved out of the parking lot. He looked down at his suit. The wrinkles weren’t too bad, but anyone could tell he wasn’t
well
-
practiced
in the art of keeping dress clothes crisp.

He looked back over at the mob scene, from the reporters to his right and the general public cordoned off beyond them.

“Not too many in costume,” Paul said.

“Guess that’s a good thing. Not sure if Dad would agree.”

Paul tapped Ben on the shoulder lightly. “You have a cry on the way down?”

Ben looked down at his shirt, wondering if he’d dropped tears onto it and if they left a stain.

Paul chuckled. “No worries. Just a lucky guess.”

“Allergies,” Ben said. “Probably just allergies.”

“Whatever you say, tough guy. You need anything today, let me know.”

“Always taking care of us Keatons, aren’t you.”

“Paid well.”

“Not anymore.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Ben looked at his friend questioningly, but neither of them decided to pursue the meaning behind the comment.

“Have to say, I’m impressed you’re this early,” Paul said.

“Hear there’s good snacks.”

“Ben, I know you’re going to say no to this…”

“Why ask?”

“That whole “taking care of the Keatons” thing.”

“No.”

“You don’t know the question.”

“No,” Ben repeated.

“As I often do with you, I gotta impress upon you the alternative.”

Ben sighed. “Okay, what’s the question?”

“It’s
The Today Show
,” he said, nodding at the press area.

“Well, you were wrong about the answer.”

“I was?”

“It’s not ‘no.’ It’s ‘are you fucking kidding me?’”

Putting his hands up, Paul said: “Alternative. Remember?”

“Which is?”

“They have to have someone with a personal connection. It’s their thing. If not you, they grab some idiot who sold him groceries. Or some neighbor three houses removed who got some reaction out of your dad when their dog crapped on his lawn or something.”

“Jesus, Paul.”

“I know. Last thing you want today. I could do it, but no one trusts the
lawyer
-
slash
-
agent
. Everything we say is too politically constructed.”

Ben nodded. “Too many big words.”

“Yeah, that. So what do you say?”

“The only thing that keeps you from being a slimy, calculating slug is the fact that you’re my best friend.”

Paul shrugged. “Can I help that you’re a lousy judge of character?”

Paul started walking toward the press area. “Follow me,” he said. Then he stopped, blocking Ben’s way. “But before we go in…remember, I’m right beside you here today. You know there’s someone in the room who loved him as much as anyone not related could. I have a bottle of Glenmorangie in the trunk and two of those glasses you like.”

“The gold rim?”

Paul nodded. “The gold rim. So no matter what happens today, no matter what you have to work through, talk about, and deal with, you need to know one thing: when the circus has left, and everyone else has put this behind them, you and I will have a seat, break the seal, and pour a couple of glasses of fine scotch. And we will look up and toast Rob Keaton’s life and all he accomplished.” Paul put his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “And though I know you’ll never accept it, I knew your father as well as anyone. Of all those accomplishments, the one he was most proud of was you.”

Ben looked away, his jaw moving in silent conversation. He took a deep breath, held it for a second, and exhaled. Smiling, he looked at Paul and said: “Nice try. But you’re not getting a hug.”

“Don’t think your suit could handle any more wrinkles anyway. Where’d you buy that thing, Sears?”

“Come on, let’s go talk to NBC.”

As they walked away, Ben quickly reached out and gave Paul a fist to the shoulder. Just enough to give him a nudge.

The service was short, and Ben held up fine. He had written a few lines to speak in remembrance, and got through it smoothly. Especially for him. He was surprised to see how touched some in the congregation were by his words, but figured many were only crying to be polite. When it was over, the priest invited all to move to the banquet hall out the side entrance for the reception and wake. Ben’s father had selected cremation for his remains, and the casket would now be removed from the church. Ben and his father had never been ones for drawn out
good
-
byes
, but Ben stayed behind as the crowd slowly filtered out. Paul was one of the last to leave.

“You okay?” he asked.

Ben nodded.

“You’re not going to try and run out on us, are you?”

Ben shook his head.

“Because I’d hate to drink the scotch alone tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” Ben said. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

Paul turned around and left the church, the door closing and shutting off the muted sound of the crowd filling the banquet hall.

Ben turned to the casket holding the
wax
-
like
version of his father. He’d not been prepared for the
rapid
-
fire
onslaught of decisions he had to make immediately following the sudden death of his dad. Among them was the open casket determination. In the end, he’d simply asked: “How do most people do it?” Perhaps the wisdom of the mob was the way to go. Looking down at the strange imitation of his father’s face, he wasn’t so sure now.

He also seemed so much smaller.

“The strange, alien devices we use to measure a man.”

He remembered that day, sitting on his father’s back deck, both of them tilting toward the drunken side, just barely, on their second bottle of something they used to call
Cali
-
Cab
Night. It was three weeks after the release of Ben’s book,
Flier
.

“Success was never my goal anyway,” Ben had said.

“Oh?” Rob had said. “What was, abject failure? Because you didn’t hit that target.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, not really,” Rob had said. “Besides, I’d challenge that you can’t really define ‘success.’ Because there’s no game clock on most of what we’re trying to work out. Old Gerry over there,” he said, nodding his head toward his neighbor’s house, “his idea of success is to have the best damn lawn in the neighborhood.” Rob had never liked Gerry. Mostly because Gerry spent at least a few minutes every day staring at Rob’s lawn and visibly shaking his head because of Rob’s lack of effort to make his lawn achieve Gerry’s neighborhood standard. “The man works on his piece of dirt to the point of obsession for what seems to me to be thirty minutes of enjoyment a week. Every Saturday night, Gerry sits on a lawn chair sipping lemonade, which I suspect he doesn’t even bother topping off with any type of alcohol, the moron. That thirty minutes is the only time he’s sitting still on that damned lawn. Then he’s back out there Sunday morning edging it and pumping seed onto it. Thing is, if he were to trip and break his leg, it would take exactly one week for that lawn to look like shit. And even worse, it’s guaranteed to be that way six days after he dies. So what’s success to him?”

“What’s that got to do with me?” Ben had asked.

“Success is a faulty yardstick. The strange, alien devices we use to measure a man can’t be success. There’s no way to tie down success.”

Now, looking down at his father’s waxen face, Ben chuckled slightly. He’d seen Gerry in the back rows of church during the service. He had taken a few hours away from his yard work to attend the funeral. Gerry had looked sad. Rob would have attributed the miserable expression to the fact that he missed his lawn, or the fear that Rob had made no arrangements to keep his own yard up to snuff after his demise.

Ben stood still by the casket. He fought the urge to put his hand on it. Too cliché. No way he was going to toss a cliché into his final moments with his dad’s shell in his best suit. He thought back to the weekend after his college graduation. He’d come home to stay for a couple days. Samantha had already traveled to Atlanta (that failed experiment). Again, sitting on the back deck (beer this time,
Cali
-
Cabs
would come later) that final night. A
good
-
bye
moment.

“So my bedroom now officially becomes a guest room, hey, Dad?” Ben asked.

“I was thinking of trashing all that shit and putting in an exercise bike,” Rob said. “You know I don’t get enough guests to have a room for them.”

“You don’t exercise enough to have a room for it, either.”

“Don’t stifle my motivation.”

“I think the couch does that without my help.”

Rob raised his beer. “I’ll drink to that.”

Ben nodded at the cooler with the remaining beers. “Another inhibitor of exercise there.”

“But it makes up for it by enhancing my
well
-
being
.”

Ben finished his. “I think I’m done. Have a long drive tomorrow, so I think I’m going to turn in.”

“Me too, I guess.”

Neither moved.

“You know,” Rob said. “It’s times like these when a dad’s supposed to take stock of how he did. You know, the whole parental
self
-
evaluation
.”

“I could have had more instruction on the use of hand tools,” Ben said. “Other than that, no complaints.”

“You know, I’ve seen parents do everything right and the kid turns out wrong. I’ve seen them do everything wrong and the kids turn out right.”

“Jury’s still out on me,” Ben said. “But I give you a good score.”

“I hope so. Tell the truth, it’s a bit scary. You’re moving away and I have to live with any mistakes you make. Mistakes that it was my job to give you the knowledge to avoid. Dad things. How to negotiate for a new car so you don’t get raped by the sales guy the way I was my first time. The scam called “whole life insurance.” Or the highway numbering system in America. That one’s important for a guy moving from here to Atlanta. You know, the fives run
north
-
south
, don’t you?”

Ben nodded. “I think I got all that covered, Dad.”

Both nodded, looking out at the darkening back yard.

“I think I’ll have another beer,” Ben said.

“Me too, kid,” said Rob.

Now, as Ben let the silence of the church quiet the countless conversations in his head, he looked down at his father and prepared himself for life without him. His time in Atlanta had been short, and he still remembered hitting
I
-
75
northbound for his return trip.
The fives run north-south
.
One of an infinite number of expressions he’d absorbed from his father, Rob Keaton, master of words.

Behind him the main doors to the church opened. It was Mr. Smith and his team, coming to take Ben’s father to the crematorium.

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Keaton. We can come back later.”

“No,” said Ben. “It’s time.”

“Are you sure?”

Ben nodded.

His father’s words, the verbal history of their tiny family, would be with him always.

Shoulder to shoulder
.

He turned from the coffin and walked away.

Ben entered the reception. The room was crowded and he could sense a diminished level of conversation as he came in. He even heard someone cut their laughter short. The fruitless search for appropriateness that made up so much of days and events like this. It was tiring.