Burying Ben (14 page)

Chapter Si
xt
een

At the end of the week, there is a
m
e
ssage from
Frank, inviting
m
e
out for a drink. The few blind dates I
’
ve had since Mark and I d
i
vorced
have
felt
like
therapy
sessions,
endless recitations of past heartbreaks. Septemb
e
r 11th, Katrina, the tsuna
m
i and earthquake in Japan, nothing see
m
s to
m
atter to these
m
en
m
ore
than the pain and unfairness inflicted on them
by their ex-wives.

I hope to God the range of what I have to talk about is
m
ore interesting than picking through the turds of
m
y life. Midd
l
e-aged people have too
m
u
ch e
m
otional baggage. Dumping it takes an entire evening t
h
at would be better spent shoving sticks under each other’s fingernails. I have no plans for the weekend, and I want it that way. I delete Frank’s
m
essage without responding.

Manny Ochoa co
m
es to my office on Monday. I
t
’s a glorious spring
m
orning. The trees are flowering. Hundreds of tiny brown birds are nesting in the tree outside
m
y office window
m
a
king a joyous racket. Manny has gr
a
duated from
the field training program to probation a
n
d I’m
doing his exit i
n
terview.

He’s
d
ressed for t
h
e occa
s
ion –
s
potless khakis, a sports shirt
and a tan windbreaker. This is how
things should have turned out for Ben. Manny is grinning ear to ear, proud
a
nd eager, relieved to be out on his own, driving solo,
m
aking his own decisions, wi
t
hout so
m
eone in the passenger seat evaluating his every
m
ove. There’s still a chance he could be fired without cause until his probation is over, but given the way he sailed through field training, that’s unlikely. I’d like to give him
a hug, but he’s so reserved
that I shake his hand instead.

“Thanks, Doc. Thanks for your help.”

“I didn’t do anything.
Y
ou sailed through the progra
m
.”

“It was reassuring to know that if I h
a
d a problem
I could talk to you about it.”

I’m
relieved to hear I contr
i
buted so
m
ething, if only sy
m
b
o
lically. Our weekly sessions had been filled with long silences. I d
i
d
m
ost of the talking. Manny never had any proble
m
s, nothing pressing on his
m
i
nd, nothing he
wanted to talk about, not even Ben’s suicide. “It’s sad,” was all he said.

“So, this is probably the last ti
m
e we
’
ll have a chance to talk in person for a while. You’re going to
w
ork dogwatch. I’m
rarely here that late at night or that early in the
m
orning. If so
m
ething co
m
es up and you want
to talk, give
m
e a call, let
m
e know when I can call you back. I don’t want to wake
you up.”

He thanks
m
e. Even on a happy day his default
m
ode is silence.

“So, this is an
exit interview of sorts. I want to ask you for so
m
e feedback about your experience in the FTO program.
W
hat were the high points and the low points?”

“It was all good. I learned a lot.”

“That’s it? Nothing el
s
e
to sa
y
?
”

“Not really.”

“
W
hat about Ben’s suicide?
You
’
ve never said much about it.”

“
W
hat’s to say?
He was a good guy. I liked
hi
m
. We had some stuff in common. I don’t know why he did it.”

“
W
hat did you have in com
m
on
?
”

“
W
e both grew up in East Kenilworth. He was Caucasian, but he understood stuff about being Mexican that a lot of white people don’t get.”

“He was Caucasia
n
?
W
i
th the last
na
m
e of Gomez?”

“His
m
other was Mexican, his father
was white. So I guess that
m
akes h
i
m Caucasian,
d
oesn’t it?”

“But his father’s last
name was G
o
m
e
z.”

“That’s what he told
m
e. That his father was white.”

“Not i
m
portant,” I say. “Go on.”

“He was friendly. Like I told you, we studied
together so
m
eti
m
es. He was a little ahead of
m
e
in FTO so he helped
m
e ou
t
, gave me advice, that sort of thing.”

“
W
hat kind of advice
?
”

“To stay a
w
ay from
Off
i
cer Ri
m
bauer.” He brea
k
s into a s
m
ile and ju
s
t
as
quickly settles back into seriousness.

“Manny, you
m
ay be the one person here at work who knew Ben the best. Do you have any idea why he killed hi
m
self?”

“Me?
No way.
W
hy?
Is there so
m
ething off about it? I didn’t know h
i
m
that well. I really didn’t.”

He flattens hi
m
self against the back of the c
o
u
c
h, as though I had just accused
h
i
m of a cri
m
e.

“If you want to know
m
o
re about
h
i
m, ask his grandparents. They rai
s
ed hi
m
.”

“How do you know that?”

“He asked
m
e if I knew the
m
. Everyone
in East Kenilworth knows the
m
, Lupe and Ra
m
on Go
m
ez. They
’
ve raised five grand
c
hildren and so
m
e
foster
kids, too. They’ve been written up in the newspaper
a
nd been on TV. N
e
xt weekend, they’re going to get so
m
e award at the Viva Mexico Festiva
l
.”

He looks at his wat
c
h and stands. This is a day to celebrate, not a day to s
i
t indoors talking to a psychologist.

“Thanks again, Doc.” He shakes
m
y hand for the second ti
m
e. “Don’t worry so much. You couldn’t have stopped
B
en. Everything happens for a reason, even if we don’t know why.”

Baxter was right. The ta
b
l
es are t
u
rned. My clients are reassuring
m
e.

Gary and I
a
re using o
u
r lunch br
e
ak to take a walk. A dense layer of
f
og chills the
a
i
r and blocks the sun. People who don
’
t live in Cali
f
ornia always assu
m
e the entire state is li
k
e Southern California, palm
trees
a
nd beac
h
es. It
’
s easy to spot the summer tourists in San Francisco, shivering in their shorts and sandals, looking as though they
’
ve been cheated.

“Don
’
t do this, Dot. I know you feel terri
b
le, I
w
ould too. But,
it’s inappropriate and intrusive for you to approach the grandpar
e
nts. It would be one thing if they asked for your help, but they haven’t. There is
nothing to be gained from
this. The young man
m
ade his own unfortunate choices. It’s ego
t
istical to think you could have stopped hi
m
, you barely knew hi
m
. L
e
arn from
this and
m
ove ahead. Talk to the consulting group. That’s what we’re here for.”

“I can’t just let this
go
w
ithout understanding what happened. I’m
being bla
m
ed for his death. I have to defend
m
yself.”

“
W
hat about his wife and his in-laws?
They’re the ones you should be talking to.”

“I ca
n
’t talk to his wife
b
ecause s
h
e’s
filed a complai
n
t agai
ns
t
m
e. And Ben’s father-in-law threatened
m
e at the funeral.
Told
m
e to stay away from
h
i
s daughter. Reaching o
u
t to Ben’s
gr
andpare
n
t
s is
m
y only option. He has no other fa
m
ily.”

“Grief drives people to act irrationally. Yo
u
’re not im
m
une to this yoursel
f
, you know.”

He stops walking long enough to pound his pipe against his shoe, spilling ashes on the sidewalk. He unfolds a soft leather
pouch and carefully shakes tobacco into the bowl, as if each flake was precio
u
s. He lights a
m
atch. The wind blows it out. He c
u
rses softly, tries again several
m
ore ti
m
e
s
, gives up
and slides the pipe back into his jacket pocket.

“You ca
m
e to me for feedback and adv
i
ce. So here it is. I
’
m
going to be blunt. You’re projecting blame where it doesn’t b
e
long and seeking dispensation from
people you don’t know and who
m
ay not have it to g
i
ve. You’re the only one who can forgive yourself. Work this out in consultat
i
on or get into therapy yourself.”