When we arrived at his house I was disappointed to find there was no cake, and shocked when he said we’d have to make it ourselves. I thought it best to come clean with him.
“Listen, Brett. You’re OK, but I feel a little funny baking a cake with you.”
“Don’t worry. We’re not really baking anything. We’re going to make the batter and just eat that. We won’t even use the oven.”
That sounded OK, but really in the end it was not that dissimilar to making a proper cake, and when he started sifting the flour, I nearly made a run for it. I didn’t though. I held out. We finished the mixture and were just digging into it with large wooden spoons when we heard the front door open and a voice say, “I’m home!”
My body froze and stayed that way until the kitchen door opened a crack and Mr. White’s head came through the door.
“Is that Jasper Dean?”
“Hello, Mr. White.”
“Hi, Dad,” Brett said, which struck me as odd. I had stupidly assumed he called his father Mr. White at home.
Mr. White pushed the door open and came into the kitchen. “You two making a cake?” he asked, and, looking at the mixture, added, “Let me know when it’s ready and maybe I can have a piece.”
“Ready? It’s almost finished,” Brett said, beaming at his father.
Mr. White laughed. First time I’d ever seen his teeth. They weren’t bad. He came over and stuck his finger into the bowl and tasted the thick chocolate.
“So, Jasper, how’s your father?”
“You know, he is what he is.”
“He certainly gave me a run for my money,” he said, chuckling to himself.
“I’m glad,” I said.
“The world needs passionate men,” Mr. White said, smiling.
“I suppose,” I said, and as Mr. White went upstairs, I thought of all Dad’s long catatonic periods when passion meant remembering to flush the toilet.
Brett’s room was more or less a typical teenager’s room, except it was so neat I felt my breath might make a mess. There were a couple of framed photographs on the desk, including one of Brett and Mr. White standing with their arms around each other’s shoulders on an oval- they looked like actors from a mushy television movie about a father and son. It didn’t look in the least bit real. Above Brett’s bed was a great big crucifix hanging on the wall.
“What’s that for?” I asked in horror.
“It was my mother’s.”
“What happened to her?”
“Stomach cancer.”
“Ouch.”
Brett walked to the window with slow, hesitant steps, as if crossing unfamiliar terrain at night.
“You don’t have a mother either, do you? What happened to yours?”
“The Arab mafia.”
“OK, don’t tell me.”
I took a closer look at Jesus strung up there, his long-suffering face looking down at an angle. He appeared to be studying those sentimental photographs of Brett and his father. His unhurried eyes seemed to be contemplating them with a certain sadness. Maybe it made him think of his own father, or of how sometimes you get resurrected when you least expect it.
“So you guys are religious?” I asked.
“We’re Catholics. You?”
“Atheists.”
“Do you like school?” Brett asked suddenly.
“What do you think?”
“It’s not forever. That’s what I keep thinking. It’s not forever.”
“Just be grateful you’re not fat. Once you’re out in the real world, you’ll be fine. No one hates a thin man.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Brett sat on the edge of his bed, biting his fingernails. I admit now, there must have been a fog in my perception that day. I missed all the signs. I didn’t interpret the nail-biting as a cry for help or as an indication that he would soon be rotting dumbly in the earth. After Brett’s death, I dissected that afternoon in my head countless times. I thought: If only I’d known, I could have said something, or done something, anything, to change his mind. Now I wonder, why do we wish our loved ones back to life if they were so obviously miserable? Did we really hate them that much?
The day of Brett’s suicide, a Monday.
It was recess and everyone was fondly reminiscing about a Saturday night party. I was smiling because I felt lonely and unwanted, and it seemed to me that everyone in the phone book from A. Aaron to Z. Zurichman had been invited except me. I imagined what it would be like to be popular for an afternoon, and decided it meant I’d have to high-five everybody as I walked down the hallways. I wouldn’t like that, I was thinking, when I heard a voice shouting, “Somebody jumped! Somebody jumped!”
“Another suicide!”
The school bell rang and wouldn’t let up. We all crossed the oval and ran toward the cliffs. A teacher ordered us to return, but there were too many of us. You’ve heard of mass hysteria- mass curiosity is even more powerful. There was no turning us back. We reached the edge of the cliff and peered down. The waves were smashing up against the rocks, as if digesting: there was a body down there, all right, a student. Whoever it was, all the bones must have shattered on impact. It seemed as if all we were looking at was a school uniform tossed about in a washing machine.
“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.
II
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.