Steve Toltz - A Fraction of the Whole

“Who is it? Who is it?”

People were crying, grieving for someone. But who? Who were we grieving for? Students were already climbing down the steep path to see.

I didn’t have to see. I knew it was Brett. How did I know? Because Charlie was standing beside me on the cliff edge, and the only other friend I had was Brett. I had personalized the tragedy; I knew it was something for me - and I was right.

“It’s Brett White!” a voice confirmed from below.

Mr. White was standing right there, peering down like the rest of us. He straightened up and swayed on his feet. Before he ran down the path and waded into the sea and took his dead son in his arms and sobbed until the police pried Brett from his cold, wet hands, there was a long moment when everyone gaped at him and he just stood there on the cliff edge crumbling, like a Roman ruin.

Brett’s suicide note fell into the wrong hands. It was found in his locker by a couple of nosy students, and before it was turned in to the proper authorities it had passed around the whole school. This was it:

Don’t be sad for me unless you’re prepared to be sad your whole lives. Otherwise forget it. What good’s a couple of hard weeks of tears and regret if a month later you’re laughing again? No, forget it. Just forget it.

Personally, I thought Brett’s suicide note was pretty good. It cut right to the heart of the matter. He had measured the depth of human feeling, found it shallow, and said so. Well done, Brett, wherever you are! He didn’t fall into the trap of most suicide notes- people are always assigning blame or asking forgiveness. Rarely does anyone leave any helpful tips on what to do with his pets. I suppose the most honest and lucid suicide note I ever heard of was by the British actor George Sanders, who wrote:

Dear World, I am leaving you because I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool. Good luck.

Isn’t that gorgeous? He’s so right. It is a sweet cesspool. And by addressing the note to the world, he doesn’t worry about leaving anyone out. He’s succinct and clear in his reasons for ending his own life, makes a final poetic insight, then generously and considerately wishes us luck. I’m telling you, this is the kind of suicide note I could really go for. It’s a hell of a lot better than the crappy suicide note I once wrote. It said:

So what if life’s a gift? Haven’t you ever returned a gift? It’s done all the time.

That was it. I thought: Why not be a surly smarty-pants right to the end? If I was all of a sudden magnanimous, it just wouldn’t ring true. But really, I’m not even the suicidal type. I have this stupid habit of thinking things are going to get better, even when all evidence is pointing to the contrary, even when they get worse and worse and worse and worse.

Brett was buried in tan slacks and a blue shirt. Smart casual. Mr. White had bought the clothes two days earlier. They were on sale, but I heard he wanted to pay full price. I heard the clerk had argued with him. “Ten percent off,” he’d said, and Mr. White refused the discount and the clerk laughed as Mr. White threw the full amount on the counter and ran out, demented with grief.

Brett laid out in his coffin, hair combed back. Odor? Hair gel. Expression molded on his half-bled white face? Peaceful slumber. I thought: This is your unblinking eclipse. The long frozen plunge. Your soft awkward stutter cured by oblivion. So what’s to be sad about?

The morning of the funeral was bright and sunny. A gentle fragrant wind made everything seem frothy and not worth worrying about, almost suggesting that grief was an overreaction. The whole class had the morning off; students in other years could come too, but it wasn’t compulsory. The cemetery was conveniently located only a kilometer from the school, so we all walked together, about one hundred students and a few teachers who were there either to mourn or to supervise- both, if they had it in them. Most of the group wouldn’t have said hello to Brett while he was alive, but now they were lining up to say goodbye.

We all gathered around the grave waiting for the priest to begin, standing in the kind of silence that’s so silent the clearing of a throat can frighten you to death. I thought our school uniforms made us look like postal workers congregated to mail a colleague back to God. I imagined “Return to Sender” stenciled neatly on the casket.

The priest began. His eulogy reached me as though through a coffee filter. I got drips. He described Brett as “weary of this world” (true), “mortal and weak” (also true), and “eager to join his Lord, Our Savior” (unlikely). Finally he said melodramatically that “suicide is a mortal sin.”

Now hang on a sec!

OK, Brett took his own life, but he also answered Hamlet’s question without tearing himself all up inside, and even if suicide is a sin, surely decisiveness is rewarded. I mean, let’s give credit where credit is due. Brett answered Hamlet’s dilemma as straightforwardly as ticking a box.

To be

Not to be

I knew this sermon was just an ancient scare tactic that had survived intact through the ages while practices like draining someone’s blood with leeches when they have a runny nose had long ago been dismissed as old-fashioned. If there is a God, I doubt he is such a hard-liner. Rather, I imagine him greeting the men and women who take their own lives like a police chief surprised when a wanted criminal turns himself in. “You!” he might say, not angry so much as slightly disappointed that he won’t get the credit or the satisfaction for the capture.

The casket was lowered, and the sound of hard clumps of dirt hitting its lid made it sound empty. Brett was thin. I’d told him that no one hates a thin man. No one, I thought now, except hungry worms.

Time passed. The sun like a golden lozenge dissolved as it slid across the sky. I watched Mr. White the whole time. He stood out as luminously as if he’d been highlighted in yellow fluorescence. He was suffering the ultimate public humiliation: through neglect or faulty parenting, he’d lost his son, as surely as if he’d put him on the roof of his car and driven away without remembering to take him off.

After the sermon, the principal, Mr. Silver, walked over and placed his hand on Mr. White’s shoulder. He twitched violently and shrugged off the hand. As he walked away, I thought: Well, Brett, there goes your father, there he goes to pack away your hollow shirts and your empty pants.

That’s what I really thought.

Back at school, a special assembly was held in the quadrangle. A counselor stood up and talked about youth suicide. He asked us all to reach out to our wobbly peers and be on the lookout for signs. His description of a suicidal teenager sent little shockwaves through the crowd. He had described every person there. That gave them something to think about. The bell rang and everyone wandered off to class except our year. The decision from above was that we were just too sad to learn calculus. I felt understandably unsettled. I could feel Brett’s presence. I saw him on the podium, then his face in the crowd. I was certain that pretty soon I’d be seeing his head on my own neck. I knew I’d have to abandon that place, just leave it behind and not look back. I could see the school gate was wide open, tempting me. What if I made a run for it? Or even better: what if I walked?

My reverie was interrupted by the sound of some metaphysical finger-pointing. Several students were discussing the possibilities of Brett’s current location. Where was he now? Some said he was in heaven; others supposed he was back where he started, in the subarctic darkness, wondering when he’d move up in the reincarnation queue. Then someone with Catholic tendencies said, “His soul will burn forever, you know,” and I couldn’t let such a nasty thought sit there without spitting on it, so I said, “I think you should find whoever does your thinking for you and ask them to update.”