The Beach Scene

April 3, 2006

Went to the funeral today. Walter’s wife, Martha, was in hysterics. I can’t say I blame her. It was awkward being there, seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn’t know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I know little about his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she’d never met her before. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand and told her I was sorry. I don’t make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship, it’s the least Walter deserves of me.

One other thing—the package. It’s still sitting there in my study, mocking me. That’s how it feels, anyway. Should I open it?

(Later)

Finally, he worked up the courage to pop open the end of the tube and slide out the painting Walter sent before he died. I feel silly now, thinking how I feared to look at it. The painting shows two wooden chairs on a beach facing the surf with a murky sun hanging in the sky. Something in the perspective seems off, but it’s hard to put my finger on. At least I can tell what the painting’s supposed to be. Some of the modern art Walter used to love so much always seemed like random scribbling to me. Perhaps this is evidence of my complete lack of culture.

Still, as benign as painting is, there’s something I don’t like about it. Something creepy. Maybe it’s the simple fact that it was last touched by the hand of a man who took his own life, but I think it is something more.