Seize the Day (6 page)

I
sat on Walter's front steps in tears and in shock as the Prince George's County coroner drove off with his body. None of his neighbors came by to see what had happened. They stood in front of their houses looking, pointing. They were curious but not concerned enough to come over and find out what happened. And that's what drove Walter to hang himself—he didn't feel anyone cared.

He felt alone. He felt vulnerable. He felt he had no purpose. I was not guessing those feelings. He wrote them to me in an e-mail that I discovered as I sat there at his house. Knowing I was the one he chose to write his final words to, the one he chose to find him, made me feel creepy and proud at the same time. I read the e-mail on my cell phone more than once:

“Calvin, the first time we met, I wasn't that nice to you. I'm sorry. It was at a teacher's meeting and I said, ‘Yeah, good luck with that,' when you said you wanted to make a difference in our students' lives. I was sarcastic because I had the same ambition but didn't feel like I had accomplished anything close to that. And when I'm off my meds, everything seems worse than it is. That's what I'm told by psychiatrists, anyway.

“I'm bipolar, they say. Not many people know it. It's not an easy existence. Meds all the time or there's no telling what I will do or say when I'm not on them. I hid it from the school; I was good at that. I hid it from you. But I wasn't good at hiding the reality from myself. And right now, I just don't feel like there's a reason to be here anymore, you know? I'm no good to the kids I taught, even though I loved every one of them and I hope they make it in this unfair world.

“My family? Well, my parents are gone and my brother, Donovan, lives in California with his girlfriend. He never calls me. Never visits. Haven't see him in almost ten years and haven't talked to him in seven years. My son, Junior, he lives right in Alexandria, but he doesn't call or come to see me. If I'm no good to my own brother and son, then who am I good to? What am I good for? I'm just tired of it all, tired of feeling this way. It's tiring. It hurts. It's best I rest. And I don't deserve to be here longer than you. Who decided that you should die? That's not fair. Live your life, brother. Thank you for being a friend to me.”

I was frozen there, unable to really process all I had read, what I had seen, what I felt. I was hanging on to life and Walter took his. That was hard for me to fathom. I viewed life as a blessing. To give it away spoke to how messed up his head had to be. Worst of all, I had no idea he was in so much turmoil.

It never showed. He was quiet mostly but engaging when we played golf and when we spent time together at school. He talked about meeting women and going on dates, which made me think his social life was active. He never mentioned a brother in California or his son; never knew he had a child. I'm guessing he was too embarrassed to bring them up when they didn't communicate.

Ironically, I had just read an article about Lee Thompson Young, the young actor from the TV show
Rizzoli & Isles
who shot himself and how he had been diagnosed as bipolar. His father in the paper talked of the dramatic mood swings he suffered when not on his medication. And here was Walter saying the same thing in his e-mail to me.

Processing it all made my head spin. The image of him hanging there, lifeless, will always be in my head. I told the officers who arrived what happened. They looked at my cell phone to read my exchange of texts with Walter. They questioned me about his attitude, his mindset. Did he have enemies? I told the officer: “You know, it never occurred to me that he never talked much about friends. And he didn't say anything about enemies. He didn't say anything about anyone, really. He would mostly listen when we played golf and laugh. He'd mostly talk about school or students and sports. That was it.”

The cops stayed there for hours. They eventually roped off the garage and left me there alone with my confused thoughts. I didn't know what to do. Going home didn't seem right. But neither did staying there.

The last thing I needed was to worry about someone else with all that was going on with me. But Walter needed a proper burial. I realized that. I needed to contact his brother in California and his son. It seemed I was the only one to do it.

Thornell had met Walter a few times on the golf course. I gave him a call first while sitting on Walter's front porch. I was relieved he answered; it was close to eleven o'clock at night.

“Man, you're not going to believe this.”

“What? The doctors said something?” Thornell said, assuming my news had to be about my condition.

“No, dog, it's my man, Walter, who played golf with us a few times.”

“The history teacher who works at your school?”

“Yeah, him,” I said. “So, he texts me to come visit him at his crib. And I got here and he was hanging from the garage rail. He killed himself.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Yeah, crazy. He killed himself, man. He was hanging there, his neck snapped and his eyes were half open. On top of that, he sent me an e-mail saying that basically he was bipolar and didn't feel a need to be here anymore.”

“I can't believe this,” Thornell said.

“You
can't believe it? Imagine walking in and seeing your friend hanged, dead. I'm not even sure what to do with myself. What to do about this whole situation?”

“What do you mean?”

“He said he has no family other than a brother in L.A. and a son right over in Alexandria that he hardly speaks to. No woman. Parents passed away. He e-mailed me and texted me so I could find him. He deserves a proper burial. And looks like I'm the only person to do it.”

“Call his brother. Call his son. Let them know what's happened. Maybe they'll step up. And why didn't they talk anyway?”

“Not sure. He didn't say. But, I mean, do I go and look through his stuff to find his brother's and son's info? I don't want to violate him, even if he is dead.”

“If you're the only one who is really his friend, then you have to take charge. I know that's probably the last thing you want to do right now…”

“You damned right. I don't even know where to begin. But I'm going to see if I can find his brother's info. I'll start right there. Let me go back into his house and see what I see. I'll call you back.”

After the police wrapped up their investigation, which took much of the night and some of the next day, I went back into Walter's three-bedroom home in search of…I wasn't sure what to search for, actually. The police took his cellphone as part of their investigation. And because I viewed privacy as something sacred, it was hard for me to rummage through his belongings.

But if I was going to do what needed to be done, I had to do it and get out of there because I suddenly felt spooked out. I turned on every light I could find. I stood in his kitchen and after a few minutes, I finally decided to start in a bedroom he seemed to use as an office. It had two bookcases, a file cabinet and a desk and chair. On the desk were self-evaluation forms he started but did not complete. Everything was so neat. It was as if he cleaned up before taking his life.

Next to a pile of books that included a dictionary and a Roget's Thesaurus was a stack of AT&T phone bills. I was hesitant to go through them, but maybe he had called his son and brother and their numbers would be on the bill. I was grateful Walter resisted technology and did not receive his bill online. So I opened the most recent bill. There were calls to Gardena, California, which I knew was very close to L.A. And there were calls to Alexandria, Virginia. I didn't want to take the bills with me, so I wrote down the numbers and hoped that they were the ones I needed.

Before I left the house, I was glad I found Walter's keys on a hook in the kitchen. I didn't want to leave his door open, knowing I'd likely have to return. I picked up a photo Walter had of him and his parents. They all looked so happy. The smile on his face was as wide as the picture frame. He looked to be about eighteen. I wondered if he'd ever been more content.

I set it back down, turned off the lights and made it to my car. I was not sure whom to call first, but chose Walter's brother, Donovan; he lived in California, so it was only about nine at night instead of midnight like in D.C.

I dialed the number without knowing what I was going to say. And instead of hanging up, I figured I'd come up with the right words if he answered. He did.

“Hi. Is this Donovan?”

“Yeah. Who's this?”

“My name is Calvin Jones. I live in Washington, D.C. and I'm friends—was friends—with your brother, Walter.”

“Yeah. And?”

“Well, tonight, I'm sorry to say, Walter killed himself. He hung himself in his garage.”

“Really?” Donovan said. There was not any shock in his voice. Worse, there was no sorrow. I refused to say anything.

“OK, well. Thanks for calling me,” Donovan finally said.

I was immediately angry. “Wait, that's it? I tell you your brother killed himself and that's all you have to say?”

“Walter had problems, OK?” he said. “I haven't seen or spoken to him in years.”

“That doesn't mean he's not your brother. Did you know he was sick, was bipolar?”

“Of course I knew that. Listen, I don't mean to sound uncaring. Walter was fine on his meds. When he did not take them, he was irrational and hard to be around. And most of the time he didn't take them. So, it was best to just stay away from that behavior.”

“Best for you, not for him. Not being in his life contributed to his troubles. You said you haven't talked to him in years, but he's been calling you, as recently as last week. I looked at his phone bills. So he tried to let you know he was troubled, but you didn't call him back?”

“Who are you again?”

“I'm Calvin. Walter and I worked together; we taught at the same high school. We played golf together. And he asked me to come to his house tonight. I found his body hanging in his garage. He wanted me to find him.”

“Well, I don't know what to say,” Donovan claimed.

“Are you going to come here and give him a proper burial?”

“Ah, when? I'm not sure. What's his insurance situation?”

“I don't know. But a family member should be taking care of this, not me.”

“He has a son, you know?”

“I found that out tonight. But what are you saying? You're not going to be a part of this for your brother?”

“I'll talk it over with my wife and my nephew and we'll figure it out. Is this a good number to call you back?”

“It is. So you're going to call his son?”

“Yes, I'll call my nephew right now. Thanks for calling. I'll call you tomorrow.”

I continued my drive home, but did not quite recall the ride. That had never happened before when sober. Too many times I had too much to drink to be driving, but made it home safely and did not remember much of the ride. This was different. After hanging up with Donovan, the magnitude of what happened occurred to me as if in a dream.

A man was dead. My friend. I found him hanging like a pig on the back of a truck in New York's Chinatown. That image haunted me.

It made me think: What were his last thoughts before kicking that chair to start his hanging? How tormented was he to end his life? Why do so many who suffer from bipolar disorder refrain from staying on their meds? Lastly, I thought, what could I have done to prevent this tragedy?

That last question haunted me as much as the image of Walter dangling by his broken neck. Did I see but ignore warning signs? Did he send me signals? The last time I saw him, we met for a round of golf at Landsdowne Country Club in Northern Virginia. Thornell could not make it, so it was just Walter and me. We had lunch in the grille before our round, and…now that I think about it, he talked more than usual. He talked about the challenge of teaching today's kids and how it had made him feel less and less effective.

“Our purpose is to teach, you know?” he said. “But when you have these parents who seem to be working against you, it makes the job harder than it has to be.

“Listen, this kid was graduating and needed a B in my class to maintain his GPA to get into Virginia. I talked to the kid the whole semester about getting work in on time, coming to class consistently, the whole thing. His mother came to school midway through the semester and had the fucking nerve to get mad at me for the C-minus he had at the time. It took everything in me to not slap the shit out of her.

“And it wouldn't have been because she was yelling at me in front of her child, my student. But I wanted to slap her because she was doing her son a disservice. He needed to hear her say, ‘Son, you have to do better. It's your responsibility to raise this grade. Your future is in your hands.' Instead, she yells at me as if I've done something wrong.

“I pulled out my grade book and showed her that he missed one quiz, scored a seventy-two on one test, seventy on another and had missed three classes. He actually averaged out to a D, but I liked the kid and gave him the benefit of the doubt. So, when he does almost exactly the same in the second half of the semester, what am I to do? I don't want to hold a deserving kid back. But, at the same time, he's got to do the work. Now I'm morally compromised. That shouldn't happen—and wouldn't have happened if the mother just did her part instead of coddling the kid.”

“So,” I asked, “what'd you do?”

“I gave the kid a B,” he said. “I sold out to the mother. That bothers me a lot. I… I don't know. It makes me feel unworthy of the job.”

“No,” I said, “you didn't sell out to the mom. You did what you thought needed to happen for the kid to succeed. That's what sometimes happens with us. You had a tough decision and you chose the kid, not the mother.”