Friend's death a great sorrow

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

I haven't seen him in years; I haven't thought of him in a long, long time. And yet the news of his death saddens me. The world feels changed, somehow, knowing he's no longer in it.

He was a tall, lanky, Ichabod Crane kind of man, a lawyer, not a teacher, but as curious as a child and as unconventional as a child too.

He wore bright clothes, red and green trousers, yellow sweaters, hats that were checked or plaid. He never minded standing out. I suppose he was used to it. He was always the tallest in a crowd.

His wife called him Charles. "Charles" said this. And "Charles" did that. But everyone besides Madeline called him Charlie.

I met him a lifetime ago, in Atlanta, when my children were small and I was reluctant to leave home and leave them. I'd accompanied my husband to a meeting where everyone knew everyone else, where everyone was older and accomplished, where I felt out of place and out of touch. I met Charlie's wife first. She and her friend Flo went out of their way to include me in activities. They must have known how awkward I felt and how lonely because they took me under their wings right from the beginning.

Their husbands did the same. A long friendship began in Atlanta though I didn't know that then. The relationship evolved over time.

Once a year, sometimes a couple of times a year, I would find myself with these people, on a bus, or in a car, riding around places that until then were only names on a map. I spent more time with Madeline than I did with Charlie, because Charlie spent his days in meetings. But at night, husbands and wives would get together over cocktails and dinner and over a period of years, I learned a lot about Charlie just from watching him work a crowd.

He loved being on center stage. He loved people, loved life, loved sitting around at the end of a day, with a beer in his hand, puffing on his pipe and philosophizing. He had an opinion about everything, which he never hesitated to share, sometimes to Madeline's chagrin. He could be noisy, argumentative, stubborn. She was a peace-maker, laid-back, a lady.

I guess they made a strange pair, but it never seemed that way: Charlie in his primary colors and Madeline in her pastels; Charlie well over 6 feet tall, Madeline just over 5 feet; Charlie letting out an ear-piercing whistle to get someone's attention across a room, Madeline never even raising her voice to shout a name.

He was a devoted husband and a devout Catholic. He never missed Mass on Sunday no matter where he was. He loved his church, his faith, his sons, his wife. He carried rosary beads with him. He openly talked about the importance of God in his life.

I know he prayed for my soul. I never went to church on all those Sundays we were together. The church had changed. I had changed. Our relationship was over. "You'll go back someday," he always said.

I never got a chance to tell him he was right. I stopped going to those annual meetings. They stopped going. I don't remember the last time I saw Charlie.

He died on Jan. 9. I found out three days ago. "The afternoon of Dec. 27 while dressing for his daily three mile walk, Charles had a massive stroke," Madeline wrote.

Charlie told me a story I have never forgotten. A lady walks into a store to get some pistachio ice cream but there is none. A clerk assures her he'll have some in the next day. The lady returns but there is still no pistachio ice cream. The clerk again says tomorrow.

The lady comes back. Once more she's disappointed. She hollers at the clerk. He swears definitely tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes and the lady stands at the ice cream case and goes ballistic. She hurls ice cream across the store. She attacks the clerk. She's arrested.

And over what? Over pistachio ice cream. The things most people get upset about are pistachio, Charlie said.

I will never see Charlie again, not here anyway. This isn't pistachio. The loss of a good man never is.