Dead is Better (16 page)

I watch Rose frolic above her own weird version of a pasture, admiring how her paws move through the air.

He leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.

Then the dumpy rabbi delivers a brief eulogy—Charles Stone did such and such, liked this and that, worked here and there.

The unveiling of the marker is like looking at myself in one of those trick carnival mirrors—it’s me all right, but terribly distorted:

CHARLES STONE

1974-2012

Always In Our Hearts

Whose fucking hearts? I wonder. I guess they couldn’t have it say, “Disappointing Son. Pain in the Ass Brother. Failed Husband. Indifferent Stepfather. Fuck Him.”

The Rabbi then petitions the Creator to grant my soul true rest upon the wings of the divine presence. For, as the Rabbi explains, Charles has gone to that other world—which at this moment I am almost homesick for.

After the Rabbi reads the Kaddish, I think it’s over. But my shit brother Mark bounces up and nods to the reporter. A guy in jeans appears from the van and turns on the hot white lights, then angles the reflectors. Here comes the cameraman, the heavy video camera on his shoulder. And a makeup woman, who dusts the reporter’s, then Mark’s, faces with powder.

Mark bounces over to the microphone, but waits to speak until the TV woman nods again. “Everyone,” he says. “Thank you for coming today. Today is not important just because it is the anniversary of my brother’s death, but because until today, his murderer has gone free. Until today, the Stone family has not been able to have closure.”

Closure? I’ve been dead for a year.

Mark continues, “I want to share with you some sad but important news. You may remember that about four weeks ago, a forty-two year old man named Bradley Roth died after being hit by a car while he was riding his bicycle on Santa Monica Boulevard. Some of you may remember that Bradley Roth was a screenwriter who wrote for the very successful ‘Wild and Free’ movie series.”

Where the fuck is this going? I’m sorry this guy died, but those movies were crap.

“Mr. Roth was wearing a fanny pack when he died. In it officers found a .32 caliber pistol. Ballistics tests have revealed that the bullets removed from my brother’s body match Mr. Roth’s gun exactly.”

Wait. This asshole screenwriter is the one who killed me? A fucking asshole bicyclist screenwriter shot me because I yelled at him for hogging the road?

“—Now I’d like to talk about the disposition of the reward.”

What was I expecting? Mr. Moriarity on a bicycle? And a fanny pack, yet? Why not a man purse?

Now Helen has joined Mark at the microphone, her sharp heels sinking through the moist grass to the earth below. “As you might remember, AndyCo. and its partner MultiCorp joined together last year to offer a reward to anyone with information about my brother’s murder. Rather than just withdraw the money now, the family, AndyCo., and Multicorp want to do something meaningful that will honor my brother’s memory and prevent senseless deaths like his.”

Shut up! Just shut up, I think. Honor my memory, my ass. You know what would be fucking meaningful? If you would just shut the fuck up.

But Mark continues talking, “So we have decided donate the $50,000 reward—and our ongoing financial support—to the LAPD’s anti-gang youth program GangStoppers, for the development of a new outreach project targeting tweens. This project will be called Charlie’s Kids in memory of my late brother, Charles Stone. The family and AndyCo. hope that—”

I can’t listen to another fucking word. I can’t bear my shit brother’s voice. His suit. His wife. His black t-shirt. Leave it to him to find the public relations possibilities in my murder—not once—twice. And tweens? Who even thought of such a term? But it’s clever: Now AndyCo. will sell some cheese balls, too.

Well, shit brother Mark, you’ve won. Yippee and Howdy-do. I concede defeat.

Mark’s speech over, he receives the admiration and gratitude of the assembled. Then, with my gravesite as backdrop, the TV woman records commentary for the evening news.

I look away from them and turn toward Rose—thin, graceful, almost birdlike above the expanse of living green.

Rose changes direction and flies toward me.

When she reaches me, she tries to lick my face, then tries to press her slender body against mine. I can’t feel her here, but I know well the sensation of her rough dry tongue against my face and the light pressure of her slim body against my chest.

I pat her silky head and smile into her wise brown eyes. She wags her tail.

“Rose,” I say, “Sweet Rosie. Let’s go. Let’s go home.” “