The Christmas List (8 page)

“Hi.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and swung around.

“I'd ask where you've been, but I don't need to, do I?”

“James.” She held a hand to her chest. “You're . . . what are you doing here?”

“Where should I be?”

“But the paper said . . .”

“I know. I read it.” Kier looked over the mountain of shopping bags. “I'm sorry you were so broken up by the news. You must have been devastated.”

For a moment she just looked at him, speechless, then recovered. “You know shopping is how I cope with tragedy. It's therapy.”

“Looks like group therapy. You must feel like a million bucks. Or is that just how much you spent?”

Her expression relaxed. “Oh, honey, I'm so glad you're okay. What would I have done without you?” She reached out her arms.

“Let's find out. Take your things and go.”

“James,” she purred, smiling seductively. “C'mon Jimmy.”

“And leave the credit card.”

Traci pouted. “This isn't fun. Let's celebrate you being alive.”

“You've already celebrated my death.”

When it was clear he wasn't relenting, her expression changed from seductive to disdainful. She stopped to gather her bags, and lugged the first batch to the door. “Would you give me a hand?”

“No.”

“Pig.”

It took her six trips to carry everything out to her car. On her last trip he said to her, “The credit card.”

She pulled out her wallet, extracted the card and threw it at him. “There.” It landed on the floor a few feet from him. “It's true what they say about you. All you care about is money.”

He nodded. “Apparently likes do attract.”

“You know what they call those things?” Lincoln said to Kier over his second drink, the din of the pub forcing him to speak loudly.

“What things?”

“What the paper did to you.”

“Libel.”

“Well, besides that. They call them premature obituaries. It's not an erroneous obituary, because everyone's going to have one sometime. It's just premature.”

“Yeah, that's profound,” Kier said, uninterested.

“It's not the first time it's happened. I looked it up. It's happened to some pretty big names: Paul McCartney, Queen Elizabeth, Ronald Reagan, Mark Twain, Margaret Thatcher. In fact, the death of Pope John Paul II was announced three times.

“The newspapers reported twice that Ernest Hemingway had died. They say that he read a scrapbook of his obituaries every morning with a glass of champagne.”

“Didn't Hemingway commit suicide?” Kier asked. He sipped his beer. “Did people trash them too?”

“Of course they did. They were movers and shakers. You
can't make omelets without breaking eggs and you've made a lot of omelets my friend.”

“Omelets? I'm a freakin' Denny's.”

Lincoln laughed. “When do you give Brey the heave-ho?”

“Monday.”

“I'd like to see the look on that fool's face when he sees you.”

“I'm sure it will be unforgettable.”

Lincoln set down his beer. “So how are you doing? Really?”

“I'm okay.”

“Good,” Lincoln said after a short pause. “That's good.”

“You expected otherwise?”

“Well, I wasn't sure. There were some pretty harsh things written about you. And you did just break up with your girlfriend.”

“That's a good thing.”

“I know. But that doesn't make it any easier. Look what a waste Pam was, and I still gained twenty pounds after she left me.”

Kier grinned.

“What?”

“I saw Pam a month after you two separated. I asked how she was doing. She said, ‘Great, I just lost two hundred pounds of ugly fat.' ”

Lincoln sneered. “Tossing that hen was the smartest thing I've ever done.”

“The trick, Lincoln, is to not let what other people think bother you.”

“Really, I wish I could do that. Beer helps.”

“It's easier when you consider that three percent of the population are certifiably insane. And the rest of them are idiots. Why would you care what idiots think?”

“That's the spirit, old boy,” Lincoln said, raising his drink. “To the idiot masses.”

Kier looked at Lincoln, his hand wavering with the upheld glass. He raised his own, “To the idiot masses.” Both men took a long drink.

That night Kier had a dream. He was in a spacious hallway with dark-varnished floors and lined with tall, arched windows covered in silk drapes tied back with elegant golden ropes. There were potted orchids and African violets by each window. The ceilings were high, hung with brass and crystal chandeliers, and the walls were covered with an ivory silk. Soft harp music filled the room but he could not see where it was coming from.

The hall was vacant. As he looked around he saw that at the far end of the room was an ornate closed casket made from burled walnut and fastened with copper corner pieces and handles.

He wondered who was inside. He crossed the room but when he reached the casket he was suddenly afraid to look. He lifted the heavy lid. Inside was a woman he knew that he had seen before but didn't recognize until she opened her eyes.

“My son,” she said.

“Mom?” She smiled lovingly and a calm feeling came over him.

“My dear, sweet boy. I miss you. We all miss you.”

Kier didn't understand. “All?”

“Look and see.”

He turned from her to look around the hall, but there was still no one there. He turned back. “I don't . . .” His mother was gone and inside the velvet-lined casket lay Sara. Her skin was a waxlike pallor yet she was still beautiful. Almost involuntarily he spoke her name, “Sara.”

At the sound of his voice her eyes opened, looking through him. She spoke and her voice had a sweet, faraway resonance. “Jim, why did you leave me when I needed you the most?”

“I, I . . .” He had no answer. “I'm sorry.” His eyes filled with tears. “I really am sorry.”

“Me too,” she said softly. She looked at him without anger or malice, just sadness.

“Where is everyone?” Kier asked.

She didn't answer but closed her eyes again.

“Sara, come back.” He crouched next to the casket. “Sara, where is everyone? Where is Jimmy?” He looked around the room, hoping to see him.

Suddenly an old man entered the parlor. The man stopped near the room's entrance to write in the guestbook. Then, leaning on his walker, he hobbled across the room. As he neared, Kier thought he recognized the man but couldn't remember from where. It took the man several minutes to reach the casket. Without acknowledging Kier, he stood by his side, staring intently at the corpse.

“Thank you for coming,” Kier said.

The man turned to look at him. To Kier's surprise there
was a gleeful smile on his face. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.” Then, turning back to the corpse, his smile changed to a scowl and he spit into the casket. “Rot in hell,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Kier turned red with anger and raised his fist. “How dare you. She was a good woman.”

“Woman?” the man said.

Kier looked back. His own body was now lying inside the coffin.

“Second best day of my life,” the old man mumbled as he hobbled off. “Second best day of my life.”

Kier woke with his heart pounding. He was soaked in sweat and his face was wet with tears. As consciousness flooded back, his chest grew heavy with sorrow. He had lied. He had lied to Lincoln. He had lied to himself. The newspaper article, the Web comments
had
bothered him. Deeply.

How had he come to this place? When had he decided to be
this
? To be hated by strangers as well as those who knew him best, separated from his wife, disowned by his son, and his only friend, Lincoln, his lawyer, was paid a sizable monthly retainer. The truth was, he was more like everyone else than he wanted or pretended to be—he wanted to be loved. He wanted to be missed.

Kier got out of bed, threw his wet shirt on the floor, then headed downstairs. He went through his normal motions, made himself some toast and coffee, went outside and retrieved the newspaper. He sat at the kitchen table eating and reading, less out of interest than to distract his thoughts from his pain. As he thumbed through the pages of the paper he suddenly stopped at the obituaries where a name caught his eye: James Kier. He set down his coffee. Second column to the left, third from the top was his name. Only this time
they got it right; it was the other James Kier. There was a small photograph of the man not much larger than a postage stamp. Kier thought he was not an especially good-looking individual. He was balding, his crown covered with a wide comb-over, and his face narrow and homely. Still, there was something about his expression that made him attractive. He looked happy and good-natured. Kier read the obituary.

James A. Kier, “Jak,” son of Dick and Bette (Beck) Kier, was born September 26, 1962, in Arcadia, California. He passed away Friday at the age of 47.

James's childhood years were happily spent in California where he excelled at basketball and played on the team that went to the California State finals. He graduated from Arcadia High School in 1979. In April 1982 James was married to the love of his life, Martha Elizabeth Long of Monrovia, California. James moved his family to Utah after his mother took ill and he lovingly took care of her until her death. For more than two decades James worked as a school bus driver for the Wasatch School District and for three years straight was voted “World's Best Driver” by the children. He would remember their birthdays and no child was ever teased or bullied in his presence. His favorite saying was “Not on my bus!” To many children he was their best friend and they would often confide in him their deepest secrets.

James was a great barbecue chef. He enjoyed fishing and spending time with family and friends.
James's humble, caring, and sincere ways were felt by all who knew him. He will be missed.

Left to cherish his memory are his wife, Martha, and his three children: Dan Kier and his wife, Linda; Margie Potts and her husband, Joel Eric; and Bonnie Kier. He is also survived by one sister, Ebony Brooke of Pasadena, California.

Preceding James in death were his parents and his brother, Tom.

In his honor, there will be a memorial service at his home (3540 Polk Avenue) on Sunday, at eleven
A.M.
until noon. Public is invited. The family has requested that in lieu of flowers, a donation be made in James's name to his favorite charity, the Primary Children's Medical Center children's medical fund.

Kier looked down at his watch. It was a quarter to ten. Maybe it had something to do with his dream, maybe not, but for reasons he couldn't fully explain he felt he had to go to this man's memorial service. He tore the article from the paper, then went back upstairs, showered, put on a suit and tie and went to find the other James Kier's home on Polk Avenue.