I stood outside the funeral home in the blazing sun and had this thought on the day they put Frank Conway in the ground: are we exhausted by our own evolution?
Frank’s death hadn’t turned me into a pseudo-philosopher, and although I was trapped in Florida, I wasn’t suffering from sunstroke. The night before, I’d called the only cousin I was close to in my small, and not especially supportive, extended family.
Dennis was an artist in San Francisco. At one point years ago he’d attended a Lutheran seminary. He soon gave up on theology as a discipline but still retained some moral authority, for me anyhow, on the rare occasions when I had something resembling a spiritual crisis.
Frank’s death was that kind of situation and after prolonged brooding and the consumption of more scotch, and after talking long distance with my ex-wife, my ex-brother-in-law (a good guy), and a wise old aunt up in New York, I called Dennis. He didn’t know Frank, but I explained what happened -- leaving out the gory details of life at the Citizen with the sheriff -- and asked if he had any words of wisdom to get me through the night, and the weeks to come. Months? Years? No, too melodramatic. Frank was my friend, not my damn brother; I didn’t have a brother. I had an older sister, but I rarely saw her. My parents were dead. I didn’t have a brother.
But Frank had been my buddy down here, I told Dennis. I missed him already and hated what he had done. And I found myself resenting Frank for taking the overdose route, though I had no strong views on suicide at this point in my life.
Dennis suggested that might change.
“My feeling is that suicide is like, say, having children. Sorry, Jake, I don’t mean to be facetious, but there are certain things that people are on the fence about until they experience them. Then they become rabidly pro or anti. I could yammer on in an abstract way about overpopulation and why I shouldn’t have kids, but if I met a great woman who’s inclined in that direction and for some reason she falls for me, I’m likely to start advocating parenting and buying everything Dr. Spock ever wrote. In fact, as you know, I did that. And I’ve had a couple of friends who’ve sounded like sociologists when they talked about suicide, and then someone they were fairly close to blew their brains out or took an overdose and, lo and behold, they became totally convinced that suicide is philosophically and morally abhorrent.”
I asked Dennis: “What’s your own feeling about it?” At this point I almost wished I hadn’t called him. He tended to ramble, and you had to look hard for a nugget, seek out the essence.
“I agree with my friends. But I haven’t really experienced it. At the seminary, I bought the church’s view that to take one’s own life is to go against the laws of nature, and the laws of God. In my mind it’s as simple as that.”
“Really?”
“You don’t sound convinced, kiddo. But you didn’t go to the seminary.”
“No.” And Dennis wasn’t making me regret that one iota. “But I see what you mean about your friends. I’m certainly inclined not to treat it as an interesting theoretical question after this, after Frank. I can understand what he did, but I can’t condone it. Of course that’s a selfish reaction. He’s no longer here for me, but…”
“But there’s nothing wrong with your feeling that way.” My cousin shifted into counselor mode. He was a couple years younger than I but frequently assumed an avuncular stance, drawing on his seminary years for authority. “Remember this, Jake: it takes a perverted effort of will to rob your friends and relatives of yourself -- that’s an action taken against them as much as it is against you. And therefore it’s reprehensible.”
“I don’t know, Dennis. I’m big on free will. I figure it was Frank’s fucking prerogative. And furthermore, he was driven to it. As is everyone, right? I mean no one kills himself because he thinks it’s cool. I suppose you could argue that they’re not responsible for the act, right?”
“Nope, you’re not getting an old seminarian to feed you that line. With freedom begins responsibility blah blah blah. And that brings up issues like forgiveness, redemption, good stuff like that. By the nature of it, suicide can’t be forgiven, and redemption is obviously out of the question.”
“Okay, Rev, take off your collar. Seminar’s over. Thanks. How’s your work going?”
“Good, good. I’m getting some nice commissions. Painted furniture is my latest thing -- lots of upscale types out here are into it. But listen, kiddo, I’ve got one other thought about your friend.”
“I’m listening.” Actually, I’d heard enough from my morally scrupulous cousin and felt maybe I should pay him by the hour.
“It’s another way to look at it. I read a review of some artist here in town and a phrase the critic used really struck me. He said the guy was ‘post-post modern.’ I didn’t know what on earth that meant, but then the critic used a favorite word of critics -- he said the artist was ‘exhausted’ by his culture. I thought about that a little and came up with this notion: that we’re exhausted by our own evolution. And I wasn’t thinking of it in terms of suicide and I don’t want to get Frank off the philosophical hook, but there’s probably an element of exhaustion in most suicides. People can be exhausted by what’s evolved in the world as they know it, personally and culturally.”
There was a pause. Dennis asked: “What do you think?”
I thought he blathered on too long as usual. But I loved the phrase he came up with -- one of his nuggets -- and that’s what I remembered as I waited in the heat for Frank’s funeral to start. Whether it applied to Frank or not didn’t really matter -- the idea was to ease the pain with an abstraction, to take a societal view. I did that all the time in reporting certain kinds of tough stories. Why not now?
I had called that morning and begged off pallbearer duty. I didn’t offer any particular excuse; the fact was I just didn’t want to do it. Already a wreck, I needed to show up and offer a brief eulogy (I’d volunteered for that), talk to a few people, glare at the sheriff from across a roomful of mourners, and say goodbye to Frank, spiffy and at peace in his open casket.
I don’t know why I assumed he’d look good. I suppose it was based on how my mother looked when she died fifteen years ago. I remember being pleased that a woman who was nervous and constantly unhinged in life -- probably an undiagnosed clinical depressive -- seemed so serene and at peace in death. I know that’s a common perception, but I really did think my mom -- to whom I was closer, probably, than anyone -- made a good last impression. There’s something to be said for receiving compliments at your own funeral.
The room where they laid Frank out wasn’t that crowded, and before I could escape, guess who sidled over to me, wearing a dark suit and making an effort at being a fucking human being? I didn’t see the sheriff’s wife. Thank god. I don’t think I could have endured a double dose of sympathy from those two peas in a pod.
“Jake, I am really sorry,” he said. “I know you two were close.”
“Yeah, we had a few brews now and then.”
“Roberta told me how upset you were. She’s been a real trouper through this.”
I’d never heard the sheriff call anyone a real trouper before. Even in a funeral home, I couldn’t let him get away with it.
“You mean because she’s been juggling some stories?”
“No, no, well that, too -- she’s certainly done a good job lately -- but I meant in terms of finding him, talking to the cops, you know, the whole thing. Helping you get through it, too.”
“Yeah, we talked for quite a while. She’s pretty together.”
“Absolutely. Her level of maturity amazes me. I remember making that observation in her last evaluation. I didn’t put it exactly that way, but I wanted to convey to her our recognition that she’s a grown up professional now. We don’t have too many of those.”
Right, and you’re not among them, I thought.
But I nodded in assent. “Mathew, I’ll talk to you later. I’d better pay my respects. Is your wife here, by the way?”
“No, she’s under the weather. Sinus problems. And of course she knew Frank mainly by reputation.”
Yeah, the one you created for him, I thought. God knows what he told his wife, a captive audience who knew nothing about the newspaper business, and cared even less.
“Well, give her my regards. Hope she feels better.”
The sheriff actually looked grateful for this line of blarney. He was probably glad I hadn’t punched him out in front of all the mourners. “Thanks,” he said. “See you later.” He patted me on the back -- another first -- and walked away.
I approached the casket warily. Frank’s mother hovered over it, wringing a lace handkerchief in her hands. “Mrs. Meyers…” I said softly.
She looked up at me and, gulping back a sob, said, “Oh, oh, hello. We met on the plane.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m very sorry for your loss.” While we spoke, I got a glimpse of Frank. He looked okay, I guess. But my reaction differed from my response at my mother’s funeral: I wished they’d closed the casket, let him be dead in peace. I figured it was tough for a suicide to go out in style. Perhaps people felt they were better off not gazing down at someone who had defied God’s law.
“If there’s anything at all I can do later,” I said, “please let me know.” What I could do for her I had no idea, but it sounded right and she seemed to appreciate the gesture from her formerly thoughtless seatmate.
Frank’s mother introduced me to another woman who was with her as “my oldest friend in Florida.” I’d thought she was Frank’s aunt. She seemed like a nice enough old lady, but I politely extricated myself, took a last look at Frank on this earth, and rejoined the other mourners.
Perhaps thirty people occupied the room -- square, bare walls, beige carpet, rows of folding chairs -- waiting for the service to start. I said hello to Roberta, to Nora, to a couple of editors on the city desk I knew had not been out to screw Frank, and to his favorite bartender. The rest were mostly from the paper, and a handful of Frank’s sources. And, in addition to his mother, I imagined some other relatives in the crowd -- cousins, aunts, uncles. From the way he spoke of his ex-wife, I doubted she was there, but one never knows.
The service finally started, and was mercifully brief. Getting us through it, a non-denominational minister who didn’t know Frank from Adam spoke very softly, almost, one thought, apologetically. You couldn’t tell if he was apologizing for being so generic, or for Frank’s behavior on behalf of religion-driven suicide-haters everywhere. It didn’t bother me. I sat patiently waiting for eulogy time.
First, the minister gave his. Again, it was generic, a sort of fill-in-the-blank message applicable to almost anyone. He said Frank had served his community, been an okay guy during the life he chose to end himself. (Of course he didn’t put it that way.)
Then came Anthony Brewer’s turn. He was the Citizen’s top editor, above the sheriff. His statements dealt with Frank’s worth as a journalist, the paper’s civic obligations, the obligation of us all to be like Frank, to make a contribution. Brewer wasn’t much of a speaker; and probably not much of an editor; it sounded like a speech you’d hear at the local Lions Club, if there was such a thing in Our Town.
He didn’t say make a difference. There was a distinction. I wasn’t sure the paper or Frank really made a difference, though both certainly made a contribution. A paper with more integrity, more soul, populated by good and strong and talented editors, would have made a difference. And no matter how hard Frank or anyone else worked, it was hard to transcend the paper’s limitations. An old, sad story in journalism, and the reason many of us spend our lives trying to get to the right paper, the one that does the job the way it can and should be done.
Roberta spoke next and sounded quite warm and personal, though I knew she had reservations about Frank. She said his gruffness hid his sentimental, compassionate side -- “just an old softie, but it took me a while to figure that out.” No wonder. She hadn’t met many people in the business like Frank.
I kept my remarks short. I said: “Frank was my friend, one of the best friends I’ve had in the newspaper business. We spoke the same language, we understood each other, we had the same professional standards, the same drive to change things. And we had the same frustrations.”
I said: “I’m glad I knew Frank Conway. He had a good long run, being a reporter, doing what he wanted to do.”
I said a few more things, tried not to be too sentimental, then sat down. I felt a little shaky, but didn’t have time to contemplate my mental state: Nora came next, and she surprised everyone. (I was already surprised that she gave a eulogy at all.) I had referred to “frustrations” and let it go at that. Nora the Nasty Mouth went a lot farther, and at one point stopped just short of publicly indicting the sheriff for wrongdoing, for what he had done to Frank.
Nora said: “Frank Conway was a helluva reporter. I know one when I see one, believe me. He did the job as well as anyone could, under the circumstances.”
Under the circumstances.
“He wasn’t a damn compromiser.” Nora was wearing a boxy black skirt-and-jacket, the first time I’d ever seen her in anything but slacks. She also appeared to be wearing lipstick, new for her as well. The effect was . . . well, I can’t say attractive because everything about Nora worked against attractiveness, but rather, determined. It suddenly hit me that this -- the outfit, the lipstick, the change in persona, publicly displayed; all of it -- was done for the sake of Frank, who was well past seeing or appreciating it. Poor Nora, his primary defender other than me, had had a thing for Frank.
“He didn’t suck up to his sources, or his editors. He asked the right questions, made the right calls, wrote it as he saw it. And occasionally, he didn’t write it at all because it wasn’t there. With all the bullshit -- excuse my language -- about the media these days, a lot of people don’t realize how often we don’t write something. Because it will hurt someone unfairly, because our sources gave conflicting versions, because it just ain’t the truth, folks. And people like Frank who are very good at what they do are also very good at making that call: not doing the story because it’s unethical or immoral. That is to say, it’s unprofessional.”
Not doing the story: the few of us who knew what had happened to Frank waited a beat to see how far the nervy Nora would go. Who wasn’t good at making those calls? Who had the judgment and sense of a fucking gnat?
But she stopped there, after a few final words about the hard, useful life of Frank Conway. She swiped at her eyes with a fist, wiping away tears, and strode back to her seat.
After Nora, an uncle of Frank’s spoke for the family, and the minister offered the benediction. We were dismissed. Next stop: the cemetery. I drove at the traditional snail’s pace in the procession, and so did Nora and Roberta. But a few folks didn’t make the trip, the sheriff included. As the service ended I looked around for him, trying to gauge his reaction to Nora’s eulogy. I spotted him all right, but he was already headed for the exit.
As they lowered Frank’s casket into the ground I bowed my head and thought I should utter a silent prayer. If any occasion required a prayer, this was it, but what could I say that would have sufficient solemnity and weight? I didn’t know. So to Frank, as he was placed ever-so-carefully, with respect and love, in his grave, I simply said goodbye.