One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die

CHAPTER FOUR

For a person with an extraordinary gift for using her own voice, Dr. Harris seems remarkably tone-deaf when it comes to the voices of others. Our next caller is Garnet from Saskatoon. He wants to talk about respecting the dignity of the dead. He’d been at a friend’s funeral the week before. The man was estranged from his family, and his ex-wife had arranged for an open-casket funeral with her ex-husband lying in state wearing his Ray-Bans. When Dr. Harris rattles on about King Tut being buried with golden chariots and a fleet of miniature ships, Garnet sniffs that she seems to have a special talent for missing the point. The good doctor is two for two.

Louise and Garnet were strong enough to deal with Robin Harris’s empathy challenges. Our next caller won’t be. Danny is a sixteen-year-old boy who was in a car accident at the beginning of the summer. He was driving, and his brother was killed.

Over the talkback, Nova warns me that because Danny is fragile, I must keep Robin Harris in check. There’s another cloud on the horizon. The caller following Danny is Dr. Gabriel Ireland. Today is his fortieth birthday, and it’s not shaping up to be a good one. Nova has decided against blocking his call.

Danny has agreed to let me paint the broad strokes of his situation for our listeners. I explain Danny’s role in the death of his brother and his fear that he will never feel normal again. Then I turn it over to him. Danny waits a beat too long to begin, and Dr. Harris pounces.

“You wonder if you’ll ever feel normal again, Danny,” she says. “Each grief has its own rhythm. In time you’ll…”

I cut her off. “Why don’t we let Danny tell us how he’s feeling?”

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.