“Thank you.”
I was on the verge of leaving, when I stopped. “Tomorrow, at St. Paul’s, at some point I want to say something, a eulogy, sort of. Carter asked me to say something for him.”
It felt like every eye in the place turned to me, but of course it was just the immediate family and Marilyn, really. “Carter asked you to speak?!” asked his incredulous father. Tessa and Marilyn just stood there dumbfounded.
“Please, it will be easier to explain tomorrow. It’s not going to be hurtful or anything like that. I just… it will be easier to explain tomorrow. Please?”
“Uh, yeah, okay. Whatever,” he mumbled. Tessa just stood there stock still, her mouth open. We excused ourselves and moved off. I stopped to talk to one of the funeral directors and gave him my name and that I would help as a pall bearer. He jotted something down, and then we left.
“Carter told you to say something?” asked Marilyn after we settled the kids in her minivan.
“It will make more sense tomorrow,” I promised her.
After we got home, the kids were sent to bed. I headed into my den to start making some notes and typing something up. Marilyn stuck her head in after a bit to say she was going to bed, and I just looked up and gave her a quick kiss. I was going to be a bit longer.
I must have stayed up half the night typing and then retyping. I didn’t sleep much, either, afterwards. I just hoped I had written something that Carter would have liked.
The next morning we bundled the kids off to church. St. Paul’s was packed, all the way back into the annex. We sat in the middle, and I made sure I was sitting on the aisle. We went through the normal liturgy, and when it was time for the eulogy, the pastor stopped and said, “Giving the presentation on Carter is a family friend, Carl Buckman. Mister Buckman?” He stepped back, and I stood and walked up the aisle.
I was kind of nervous as I walked up to the lectern. My mouth was dry as I pulled my notes from my pocket and spread them out. I looked out on the audience, and down to my friends and family, and took a deep breath.
“Thank you. My name is Carl Buckman. I knew Carter probably as long as almost anybody in this church except for his parents. When Tusker and Tessa headed off to the hospital when she went into labor, neither of their parents were around, and my wife Marilyn was out shopping, so I got the call to come and keep an eye on their older son, Bucky. A few weeks later we were invited to the christening, here at St. Paul’s. We seem to have come full circle.
In a lot of ways, Carter was just a pretty average kid. He liked to do the things that any other nine year old did. If you took him to the beach, he’d swim and chase seagulls and build sand castles. He liked watching his brother ride his motorcycle, but he wasn’t a racer himself. He went to school and did well. His favorite season was the summer, when he could run around with his friends and goof off.
And then Carter came down with leukemia. Cancer is an ugly disease, and in a young child it’s at its ugliest. Like everyone here, I watched as Carter went through the rounds of chemotherapy and treatment, and hoped and prayed that each new treatment would be the one that did the trick, the one that brought him back. The doctors tell us that we’ve never had as much hope as we have now, and that someday soon childhood leukemia will be a thing of the past. We aren’t there yet. Carter didn’t make it.
At times the treatment seemed worse than the disease. Carter just stoically stuck it out. He never complained to me, although I made sure to give him the chance. The medicines ravaged his little body. Carter kept going. He kept smiling for the others.
Here’s the reason I asked to speak today. Carter knew he was dying. I think I’m the only person he told. Two weeks ago he and I were talking and he told me that it wasn’t working, that he wasn’t getting any better. He asked me what I thought, and I told him the truth, that I thought he was right, he wasn’t getting any better. The funny part was that his face lit up and he said, ‘Thank you! You’re the first person to tell me the truth!’ Then he said that everybody was giving him a lot of BS about getting better, only he didn’t say BS, and then he worried he was going to get in trouble for using a bad word. I laughed and promised I would keep his secret. With all that was happening to him, he was worried about saying a dirty word. What a sweet guy.
And then he asked me to do a favor for him. After he died, he wanted me to tell his parents he was sorry. I didn’t understand, so I asked him, ‘Sorry about what?’ It didn’t make any sense to me. He told me he was sorry he had been such a burden to them; that they had to spend so much time trying to make him feel better when it wasn’t working. He was sorry that his brother was taking a back seat to him. He was sorry he made his parents cry. I asked him if he had told his parents what he was telling me, and he said, no, that they were spending all their time trying to cheer him up, and he didn’t want them crying because he knew he wasn’t going to make it. He would rather go through the chemotherapy then make his mother cry any more. I saw what the chemo was doing to him. It wasn’t pretty. I don’t know if I could handle it. He went along, though, just to make his mother feel better because they were still trying.
So, Carter, I did as you asked. In the Army we’d say you were off doing reconnaissance for us, finding out where we’re going to go. I doubt I’ll ever make it to Heaven, but it’s nice to know you are checking it out for me ahead of time. You can find the good places to goof off up there.
As for everyone down here, let me finish with this. I’ve known some really brave men in my time — soldiers, policemen, firefighters — men labeled as heroes, but here’s the God’s honest truth! The bravest man I ever met was a little boy named Carter Henry Tusk. Thank you”
Chapter 116: 1994
By the time I finished my little speech, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. It was hard for me to tell for sure, though, since I was crying and could barely read the paper I had written it down on. I was working from memory at that point. Over in the front row, Bucky was crying, and Tusker and Tessa had their arms around each other and were weeping.
We all pulled ourselves together, though, and I sent Marilyn and the kids out to the car. I had to help carry the casket out to the hearse with the rest of the pallbearers. Once we were done, I was in the car behind the limo carrying the Tusks, with the other pallbearers following. At the cemetery, we laid Carter to rest, and then went back to the church for a memorial lunch in the parish hall.
At the lunch Tessa wrapped me in a big hug and thanked me. Tusker told me, “You should have said something, man.”
I shook my head. “What? Carter asked me not to, and there wasn’t anything else you could have done other than what you were already doing. I didn’t tell Marilyn, either. Sometimes there just are no good answers.”
He sighed and shook my hand. “I know. I just wish it could have been different.”
“Did you and Tessa ever think about having any more children?”
He shrugged at that. “We thought about it a few years ago, but decided two were enough. It’s too late now in any case.”
“Really? Tessa’s my age, right? She’s what, 38 or 39?”
At that Tusker gave me the first smile I had seen in weeks. “It’s not her, it’s me! I got snipped a few years ago.” He made a scissors motion with his fingers.
My eyes widened at that. “I had no idea! When did you do that?”
“Oh, I guess around five or six years ago. Tessa wanted to get off the Pill and we decided we didn’t want any more kids. Now that I think about it, you and Marilyn must have been away on vacation or something.”