Halloweeen

It's funny, Jess, because the closest I've ever felt to you was at the Taylors' house, this Halloween, dressed ridiculously as Truman Capote. Mark was the more dashing Tom Wolfe. The better writer. Certainly the less self-absorbed writer, which is really saying something. Why didn't I think of that?, I remember thinking. I was sitting on the ice chest in the kitchen, an ice chest being the worst place at a party to sit. Then we were talking. We were talking about family, about how family exasperates and buckles your knees without warning -- and ultimately, how we try to cope with the disappointment. I ended up sharing this story about my dad that I'd never told anyone before. I understood that you understood, and it was nice. It was such a relief.

In early October, you and Mark showed up at the Tift Merritt show at the Shedd. I'd had those tickets for weeks -- for weeks! -- and you and Mark saunter in and, looking beautiful, take your seats in the front row. Why didn't I think of that? I remember thinking. Carey and I tried to sneak up front, only to get bumped while Tift smiled patiently. She remarked something but my embarrassment made me deaf. Later, Carey met Tift next door, and like she did with Kathleen Edwards a few weeks later, made a connection I don't know how to make.

I'd leveraged my EW credentials before the show to get Tift on her cell phone for an "interview" -- really, just a gushfest on my part -- so the plan was to bring Tift down to Zenon to you and Mark. For some wine and adoration. But some wealthy Shedd donorette stepped in and not even Carey's charm could save Tift from that obligation. At Zenon, we brainstormed 1965 Halloween costumes. We drank wine and teased and we didn't need Tift. Again, I was struck by your generosity and strength. Zenon closed a week later. I can't think of a better send-off, personally.

What I'm saying is, take all the time you need. No messing around now. You've got some work to do but you're more than equal to it. Miss you and love you,

Jason