One Fine Day You're Gonna Die (3 page)

Danny is painful to listen to. He announces his problem right away.

“I stutter,”
he says.
“I didn't use to, but
s…s…since the accident…I…I…I…Charlie D,
I can't do this…”

“Sure you can,”
I say.
“Just imagine that
you and I are—where's your favorite place in
the world?”

As I wait for Danny to answer, I watch the second hand on the studio clock measure the silence. Thirty-five seconds of dead air—an eternity in talk radio, but Danny comes through.

“The dock at our cottage,”
he says finally.

“Okay, good,”
I say.
“Imagine that we're
sitting on the dock at your cottage—just the
two of us—and you're telling me that since
the accident…”

His stutter makes listening to Danny's story difficult, but he soldiers on.

“Since the accident, it's like there's a plug
in my throat, and all my words get stuck. I can't
say what I want to say.”

“What do you want to say?”

“I hate that Liam's dead. I hate that it's my
fault.”

“Accidents are no one's fault,”
I say.
“They
can happen to anyone.”

“That's what everyone keeps telling me.
But it happened to me because…because…
because…”
Danny's voice is thick with despair.
“I can't say the words, Charlie D…”

“Danny, take a deep breath. Close your eyes.
We're on the dock—just you and me—shootin'
the breeze. Why did the accident happen to you?”

“Because…because…”
Suddenly the logjam is broken. The words pour out. “
Because I loved Liam, but sometimes I wanted
him to go away. He was smarter at school. He
was a better runner than me. He didn't have
zits. Everybody liked him best…even my Dad.”

Dr. Robin Harris leans in to her mike.

“Rivalries between brothers are natural.
Starting with Cain and Abel…”

Danny has finally opened up. To be cut off just as he's found his voice reduces him to tears.

“I don't know who Cain and that other guy
are,”
he says.
“This is about me and Liam.
Can I just talk to Charlie D? Please. I just want
to talk to Charlie D. Why doesn't anything ever
work for me?”

“We can make it work,”
I say.
“Stay on the
line. My producer, Nova, will get your number.
As soon as the show's off the air, I'll call you.
We can talk for as long as you want. Off air.
Just us. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good man. Later?”

“Later.”

I glance at the control room. Nova has the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder, and she's keying information into her computer. I glance at my computer screen. Danny's contact info is there. So is a single sentence. Sometimes we do good work. I look through the glass into the control room. When I catch her eye, Nova gives me the thumbs-up.

“Time to regroup,”
I say.
“What tunes
do you want played at your send-off ? Some
groups seem like naturals. The Grateful Dead?
Undertakin' Daddies? Cold Play? Choose
carefully. Remember, you don't get a second
chance to make a last request. Give us a call at
1-800-555-2333
.”

Robin Harris is clearly not in the mood for fun and games, but I am conciliatory.

“Dr. Harris, what's your pleasure?”

Her brilliant green eyes shoot daggers.

“Verdi's
Requiem
,”
she says.

“Ah, music as stately and regal as you are,”
I say.
“A perfect choice, but I suspect all your
choices are perfect.”

“I believe in a well-ordered life,”
she says; then, suddenly mindful of the network executives who've tuned in to catch her act, she offers an on-air olive branch.
“What
about you, Charlie D? What do you want
played at your funeral?”

“Something tasty,”
I say.
“Maybe ‘Deep as
Love' by the Tord Gustavsen Trio. Let's set a
spell and listen.”

Tord's trio is soothing. Nova's words over the talkback are not. “Dr. Gabriel Ireland is up next,” she says. “Charlie, I struggled with this one. We may just be getting dragged into an ugly game between Gabe and Dr. Harris, but I've been talking to Gabe. He's going down for the third time. I don't think we have a choice. If Dr. Harris gives you any static, tell her this is my decision. She can beat me up after the show.”

“Nope,” I say. “All decisions around here are arrived at jointly. If you get beat up, I get beat up. But stand in front of me. That caterpillar costume you're wearing appears to be bulletproof.”

Nova gives me her crooked smile, and immediately I feel better.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
ord's piano is sweet and tuneful, but Dr. Harris is not placated. “You don't have the training to handle an adolescent as disturbed as Danny,” she says. “He needs a specialist.” She turns her face toward the control room to allow me to absorb her words. Her profile is classical, perfect and distant.

Without exchanging a single word with Gabriel Ireland, I can understand why he is crazy in love with this woman. Luckily for me, I have never been drawn to ice queens.

“Danny didn't call a specialist,” I say. “He called me. Dr. Harris, we have a database with referral numbers for professionals in every area where we're heard. When we have a caller whose problems demand the kind of help I can't give them, I talk to them after the show and I refer them to a professional. I'm just Step One.”

“You're the wrong step,” she says crisply. “As long as you operate within your area of expertise, you're amusing. But you're out of your depth with someone as seriously disturbed as Danny. For him, this could be a matter of life and death.”

Dr. Harris's condescension raises my hackles.

“That's precisely the reason why I cut you off,” I say. “As Louise noted so colorfully, you have degrees up the wazoo, but what you did with Danny was just plain stupid. That boy is being eaten alive by guilt because he wanted his brother dead and he got his wish. But instead of letting Danny say the words he needs to say if he's ever going to recover, you launch into a lecture about Cain and freaking Abel.”

“Pointing out to Danny that his feelings are archetypal is accepted clinical protocol.”

“He's sixteen years old, and he's disintegrating. He doesn't need to hear about archetypes. He just needs someone to listen. By the way, Dr. Harris, we're back on the air in ten, and get ready, because I'm going to give you a chance to strut your stuff.”

“And we're back,”
I say.
“Judging by the
number of calls coming in on this, the Day of
the Dead, a lot of you are haunted by ghoulies,
ghosties, long-leggedy beasties and things that
go bump in the night. Luckily we have a pro to
help us battle the ghoulies and ghosties. Tonight,
I'm joined by Dr. Robin Harris, a thanatologist,
a specialist in death. Dr. Harris, how did you
get into your line of work?”

“For me, thanatology has always been a
journey in search of answers,”
she says in her thrilling voice.
“When I was seven, my
grandmother died. My parents had pretty much
abandoned me, but my grandmother had always
been there. I was alone with her when she had
her fatal heart attack.”

“That must have been terrifying.”

“It was,”
Robin agrees.
“But my grandmother
always told me that whatever didn't
kill me would make me stronger. I realize now
she was just repeating a truism, but I clung to
those words. I was determined not to let my
grandmother's death kill me, and so I began to
think seriously about what death meant. Even
as a child, I knew that death was a natural
phenomenon. I'd seen dead birds. I'd had pets
that died. The principal of my school fell down
a flight of stairs and broke her neck. Death was
all around, so I made a decision to understand
what it meant.”

“That was pretty gutsy,”
I say.

Glowing with the sheen of self-love, Robin continues her autobiography.

“It was necessary,”
she says.
“I was a
logical child, so I set out to find answers. After
my grandmother died, I went to live with my
mother's brother and his wife. As fate would
have it, my uncle owned a funeral home, and
I spent hours with him, listening to his stories
about how people reacted to death.”

“And you were seven years old,”
I say.

“I wasn't afraid,”
she says.
“My uncle
recognized a kindred spirit in me. He told me
that I'd been given a great gift. I was able to
observe grief without being affected.”

“That's quite a trick.”

“There's no trick to it. Knowledge is power.”

“So your knowledge of death gives you
power over it?”

“Yes.”

“And the fact that you're not afraid of death
gives you power over people who are.”

“That's a little simplistic, but yes.”

I shake my head.

“Whoa! Lady Death, you are a trip. Time to
talk to a caller. Here's one that should interest
you. It's from a friend of your daughter.”

Robin laughs.

“My daughter is six years old. Her friends
are all in bed by now.”

Gabriel Ireland's pleasant tenor voice is ironic and resigned. I recognize the tone. This is a man who has nothing more to lose.

“Not all your daughter's friends are six
years old, Robin. Kali tells me I'm her best
friend, and as you well know, my dark star,
today is my fortieth birthday. Since you've
sucked the light out of every moment of my last
year, it seems only fitting that I spend these last
dark minutes with you.”

Robin shakes her head in disgust, but I jump in.

“Gabe, our show is pretty loose, but we
have two rules: no straying from the topic and
no hitting below the belt. So far you're two
for two.”

“I apologize,”
Gabriel Ireland says, and he sounds genuinely contrite.
“I'm a hollow
man.”

“You're a bore,”
Robin Harris says sharply.
“Gabe, hang up and let someone
with real problems call in. I'm not here to
deal with your adolescent angst.”

“I'm aware of that, my dark star. I've
been listening. As always, you established the
boundaries brilliantly. You said your job is
to help people deal with the day in their lives
when they are most vulnerable—the day when
they're about to die or when someone they love
is about to die. I qualify on both counts.”

CHAPTER SIX

R
obin flicks off her microphone. Her creamy skin is blotched with anger. “I told your producer this would happen if she put his call through. Gabe is hijacking your show, and he's making me look bad.” Her eyes meet mine. “It's either Gabe or me,” she says. “Cut him off or I leave.”

Nova's voice on the talkback is tight. “Stay with Gabe, Charlie. I know voices, and Gabriel Ireland is in real trouble. We have a caller named Boomer on line two. He thinks he can help. At the very least, he'll give everybody a chance to take a deep breath.”

I shrug. What the hell? It's Halloween— the night for trick or treat. I switch my mike on.

“Gabe, why don't we chill awhile and listen
to what another caller has to say.”

Gabe laughs.

“I'm not going anywhere, Charlie.”

Robin takes off her headphones and starts jamming her notes into her briefcase. I give her an apologetic smile, open line two and glance at my computer screen.

“Good evening, Boomer.”
I say.
“I see that
you identify your hometown as wherever your
Harley will take you. So are you on the road
now?”

“Nope, getting too old to drive in the dark.”

Boomer's rumbling bass makes me reach for the volume control.

“My pattern now,”
he says,
“is to ride
the Hog until sundown, pull into a motel,
crack open a cool one and wait until you come
on the air.”

“Proud to be part of your day,”
I say.

“Thanks, Charlie D. Anyway, I just wanted
to let Gabe know that I had a dark star of my
own. I was with this lady for two years, and it
was stellar—especially in the dark. This lady
and I were cut from the same cloth. We both
loved to ride our Harleys. We both loved the
band Pantera and the Meatlovers Pan-Scrambler
at Humpty's. Most of all, we loved taking long
showers together. There was a little place on
my lady's back that she couldn't reach, and she
liked me to soap the spot with Zest. She and I
had a lot of fine moments, but there was something
about the smell of Zest on that woman
that was so good it made me cry.”