A Tear-Stained Letter - 201 Poplar (chapter 2) by Vern Beachy

I woke up on June third to a half-empty bed.

This, I was slowly beginning to realize, would be my new norm. I glanced over to Melinda’s side of our queen-sized bed and reached out for her, knowing that she wouldn’t be there, but I reached anyway.

I had to.

I needed to.

This new “norm” was not a nightmare after all, but yet it WAS. I was just waking up from what I knew was my worst day ever and I found myself short of breath; starving for oxygen. My heart was now racing faster as my mind awoke to the new reality of not having my wife with me.

Not having my wife with me in this lifetime, ever again.

Oh Melinda, what did you do? Why did you leave me? The tears started to roll down my cheeks.

Again.

That, too, is my new norm.

I filled the hopper on our coffee grinder with beans. This day and the days ahead I would be the one to do that chore. Melinda usually ground the beans the night before and set the coffee pot to kick in and begin brewing early in the morning. I would hear her grinding the beans from the bedroom in the evenings and it sounded like bubbling grease in a hot pan. I would smile and thank her for making the coffee when she got back in the bedroom and began her nightly routine of taking off her makeup and slipping into her sleep shirt.

Sure. You’re welcome…would always be her response.

This morning the coffee grinder sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. The sound woke Brandon on the couch and he looked into the kitchen and asked how I was doing.

I lied and said ok.

I looked down at my hands and realized I was holding the business card of the smaller homicide detective that knocked on my door late last night.

It WAS a nightmare, but this was true. There was no ‘waking up’ from this thing.

I walked over to our living room window to glance out at the driveway. It was empty. I knew it would be, but I just had to look. I needed to have something normal happen this morning and grinding the beans and starting the coffee pot were my grasp at being normal in what I knew was going to be an abnormal day.

What does the future hold? I couldn’t see. I was buried in a dense, black cloud. I wanted to see a life preserver tossed my way.

Something.

Something to grab onto and pull me out of this nightmarish situation. There didn’t seem to be any escape and the thought of curling up and allowing me to sink to the bottom crossed my mind more than once. Actually, only two things occupied my thoughts: Melinda and sinking.

Melinda.

Sinking.

Dying.

Relief, as in: I need some.

Detective Mitch Oliver said to call him after 8 this morning. I didn’t remember everything he told me the night before, but I did remember that little bit of information. He also told me that an autopsy may be conducted on Melinda’s body. I had enough experience as a journalist covering a gamut of crime stories that I knew an autopsy, usually, is Standard Operating Procedure when dealing with unexpected death. As a common courtesy I expected to get a call from the Medical Examiner sometime this morning seeking my permission to conduct the test.

I never did get that call.

I looked at the clock and it was straight up eight. I thought about last night and what one police officer said to me during one of my many frantic calls: It’s late and no one is at work, why don’t you wait until 8 tomorrow morning and call us. Maybe then we can help you look for your wife.

I wondered if that officer could wait until the next morning if his wife was missing.

I ignored his advice and I frantically kept trying to find out what happened and that’s what prompted the late night visit from two Memphis homicide detectives.

I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers for Oliver’s office. He answered.

Homicide, Detective Oliver.

This is Vern Beachy.

Yes, Mr. Beachy (no “L” this time again, I think he learned his lesson), what can I do for you?

What can you do for me? Let’s see, um…how about bring my wife back? That would be a wonderful start of this conversation. I resisted the urge to tell him that he got my name wrong last night.

Anything else happened on my wife’s death?

No. I think they should be done with the autopsy by now and I’ll have more information soon, I think.

So, they are doing an autopsy?

“Well, yes, don’t you remember I told you last night?” I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was getting exasperated with me and I really, really, really didn’t care. I cared about getting more information than what he dribbled out last night and I was continuing to get the same respect he would give to a suspect. I wanted to be clear and tell him again I LOST MY WIFE! CAN’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT AND NOT TREAT ME LIKE A SUSPECT?

“No…what you told me is they MAY do an autopsy.” I didn’t hear a definite in that comment. There is a big difference in MAY and WILL. I guess that explained why I never got a call asking for my permission. It wouldn’t have mattered, I would’ve given the ‘ok’ anyway but I just wanted to be informed.

‘May’ and ‘Will’

‘Bleachy’ and ‘Beachy.’

Oliver told me, yet again, that he wasn’t the lead detective on the case and if I had more questions I would have to wait until Monday because the detective was off on weekends. Waiting until Monday was not something I was in the mood for nor did I feel I should have to wait.

Can you give me the number for the detective who was in charge and I’ll call them?

Sorry…we can’t do that.

Why not?

Because we can’t.

I couldn’t understand why I was coming up against a brick wall when I just wanted to get more information about my wife’s death. MY WIFE’S DEATH! Can’t you understand I can’t wait and I CAN’T TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER? Can’t you understand I am not the usual clientele you deal with on a daily basis? I just want some answers! Please.

Can I speak with your supervisor?

I had spent a few years in the military, but even if I hadn’t I know a little something about the chain of command. If I didn’t get satisfaction where I was I was going to go up the ladder. That’s how things are supposed to work, right?

She won’t be able to tell you anything more than what I just did.

I can tell Detective Oliver bristled at my request, but I really didn’t care. There was a pause and then an agitated woman got on the phone. I don’t remember what she said her name was, but I could feel her rolling her eyes as she put the phone to her ear.

What do you want Mr. Beachy? She said in tone that signaled irritation. No, it was more than just irritation; she actually yelled the question at me.

First of all I want you to stop yelling at me.

Mr. Beachy, I will yell at you if I want!

I pulled the receiver from my ear and looked at it not exactly sure why I encountered the wrath of those two detectives at the downtown headquarters at 201 Poplar. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I did know one thing: I wanted this conversation to end. I reluctantly placed the call like I was asked, but now I want it to end.

No you can’t! And I hit the off button on the receiver.

I stood there for a moment; half expecting them to call me right back and apologize. Yeah, silly me for thinking that but, like the medical examiner’s call, it never came.

I looked at Brandon and I think he was expressing the same blank and confused look I was sure I was showing. I was going to offer him a cup of coffee but, like the sleeping arrangement last night, he already decided to help himself. I was relieved because the less I had to deal with that morning the better.

The phone started ringing, but it wasn’t the cops to offer an apology.

Friends.

Family.

More crying. More questions. More stunned and dumbfounded expressions on my part. The numbness was slowly taking over my body and I still couldn’t catch my breath. I started shaking again and found it difficult to drink my coffee without wearing some of it but I didn’t care. I didn’t care if my shirt was riddled with coffee stains. I didn’t care if my clothes looked like I just threw them on after they were in the hamper for several days. I didn’t care if I combed my hair. I didn’t care if my socks didn’t match.

I didn’t care. I just didn’t care about a lot of trivial things and everything else besides my wife fell into the trivial category.

The toilet stopped up and is flooding our bathroom: that would certainly fall in the trivial category.

If the house were to suddenly catch on fire: again, more trivial garbage.

A late spring tornado was destroying part of East Memphis and the city was being evacuated: trivial.

The stress is making my MS symptoms shoot through the roof: utterly and completely trivial.

Everything else, it seems, is trivial because how can it NOT be? It can’t NOT be.

My parents arrived from their home in southern Missouri and my Mom was holding a box of Kleenex. Good, I am in need of that and I could tell they each had their own boxes in the car and they were probably empty. I was also in need of a sympathetic hug from them…and I got that. Nothing in my childhood years could’ve prepared me for this scenario and Mom and Dad knew that, but they also knew when I needed to revert back to my childhood and feel safe in my parents’ arms. I did that and I did feel a bit safer, but I knew that was no substitute for my wife.

The phone started ringing again and Mom took over the answering duties because she knew I was in no shape to deal with it.

The crying continued. The phone kept ringing but the one person I expected to call never did: the owner of the Condo where Melinda took her life. Weeks and months later I would realize how glad I was that Melinda spared me from discovering her body. Almost two years later I was sitting in a support group for suicide survivors and a guy was telling his story: His fiancé, using his gun, shot herself in front of him. It was at that moment that I realized Melinda purposely kept from me the utterly atrocious duty of discovering her body or witnessing a final act of desperation and hopelessness.

My brother, Darren, a year my junior and the pastor who joined Melinda and me together in marriage, walked in the door. He didn’t knock. He didn’t have to. Much later he would tell me that as he was pulling the rental car into our driveway he would think “There is death in this house and what the Hell am I going to say?”

There is death in this house.

What the Hell am I going to say?

He said the perfect thing and it was profound in its simplicity: “I don’t know what to say.”
All too often friends will try to offer cereal-box platitudes they think will make the situation better: I know how you feel has got to be the absolute worst thing to say. No, you DON’T know how I feel! How could you possibly know? The truth is: people who say that don’t have the first clue. As I sat in a support group meeting for suicide survivors more than a year later I was thinking I could empathize with the victims in the room but I would NEVER –EVER- presume I knew how any one of them felt. The feelings are personal and run deep. But saying the feelings run deep imply there is an endpoint. In my case, there isn’t an endpoint because the feelings are “me.” I was well-beyond rock bottom.

We had an antique clock on our mantle that was a gift from my Grandmother. It is one of those wind-up models which last about a week on a full turn of the key. The clock sat atop an antique radio at the foot of Grandma’s staircase in her Washington, Iowa, home for years and years and years. The manufacturing date stamp on the inside said 1896. It chimes every 15 minutes.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…chime.

It still kept on ticking off the seconds, minutes and hours even though it felt like time -and my entire world- had stopped in its tracks. No clock key would wind this baby up.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

Chime.

I didn’t have our car and had only one crutch. The cops impounded our car because it was at the scene of a death. I always kept one crutch in the house and one in the car. That way I wasn’t completely like a fish out of water when, or if, I went somewhere. I could get by with just one crutch, for a short time and for an even shorter distance. More often than not Melinda would be with me and I would grab her left shoulder to help steady myself while using the crutch on my left side. We would go to a local restaurant for breakfast on the weekends and she would offer her shoulder for stability even before I had shut the door to the car. The restaurant close to our house was Perkins and I would always have a side of grits. She hated grits and rolled her eyes at me every time I ordered them. That memory makes me smile.

I told Detective Oliver I needed to get our car and Melinda’s effects.

Hmmm…effects. That sounded like one of the many cop and detective shows Melinda and I would regularly watch: effects. Her purse, her cell phone and anything else she had with her that night.

Detective Oliver told me I could come down to headquarters and pick them up on Monday. Headquarters for the Memphis Police Department was in a downtown building located at 201 Poplar. I knew where it was…everybody does. The building and its address was always on the news for some reason or another. 201 Poplar is where the killers and robbers and gang-bangers would go first before being taken to jail, which was also at 201 Poplar. If you asked a friend to pick you up at 201 Poplar the first question you would get is: Why? What did you do?

In addition to Graceland on Elvis Presley Boulevard, 201 Poplar was probably one of the most well-known addresses in Memphis, at least to Memphians.

The police HQ building was a 20-minute drive from our house in East Memphis. It may as well have been 100 miles away. My parents, Brandon and my brother had all left after the weekend. My brother took a flight from Memphis back to his home in Maryland where he immediately got behind the wheel of a big U-Haul truck. Darren was in the process of packing the truck and moving his family to Illinois when he got the call about my wife. He immediately booked a flight and walked into our house to help.

I had no car and only 1 crutch and was not in the mood to stumble from a parking lot into Oliver’s office, which he told me was on the 11th floor of the big, brown brick building known as 201 Poplar.

Couldn’t someone bring my car and Melinda’s stuff to me because I have a hard time getting around? I seemed to recall the motto “To Protect and to Serve” emblazoned on cop cars somewhere. Maybe it was only on the cop cars on TV or in the movies and is not part of the MPD logo…but it should be.

No, was Oliver’s reply.

Why not?

Well, Mr. Beachy, we are not in the business of providing a shuttle service for citizens.

I wasn’t asking someone to take me to the airport or the convenience store for a gallon of milk or a pack of cigarettes or anything like that; I just wanted Melinda’s purse and our car. That’s it. It was, I thought, just a simple request.

I reminded the smaller detective that I didn’t have a car and I have a hard time going anywhere with just one crutch. But he knew all of that. He saw me stumble around our living room the night before and I told him and the bigger detective that I couldn’t get around very well because I have multiple sclerosis. But even then I was floored and shocked by his response;

But, Mr. Beachy, you’re a young man why can’t you get down here?

Wow. Where do I start with that? Yes. I am young. Forty-two to be exact. But a rather menacing disease set up shop in my body eight years prior and it appears to be camping out for the long haul. Getting me down to 201 Poplar was a long haul and – need I say it again? I JUST LOST MY WIFE! I didn’t know how to react to that. Instead, I just asked again;

Please?

No. When you get down here Monday we won’t take much of your time and it’ll be fairly easy.

Monday.

Two more days including this one. Two more days of wondering what exactly had happened. Two more days of wondering what the cops were going to tell me. Two more days of living without my wife.

The cloud that surrounded me suddenly became darker and I seriously doubted if I could continue living for another 48 hours until the smaller detective, or someone else, would give me the slightest hint of cooperation or the appearance of trying to meet my desperate needs.
When Monday did come around I realized several things: that I was, indeed, still alive and Detective Oliver had lied to me again. He said my visit to 201 Poplar would be quick and easy. It was anything but easy. In fact, he guided me around in a way that made it very hard for me and very humiliating. As I write this I don’t think Oliver purposely treated me like a second class citizen, but his ignorance was on display in spades.

I got a ride from a friend who dropped me off in front of the building so I wouldn’t have to schlep from a parking garage in the downtown area. I started walking haphazardly to the entrance. I had to think about every move and rely on just one crutch to keep me from falling: right foot move ahead, now the left, grab the crutch tighter…now, right foot ahead, then the left…

Steady.

Easy…take your time. I had to take my time, there was no other choice. I didn’t want to fall and wondered if I could even get back up if I did. I didn’t want to test the theory; I just wanted this to be over.

The building at 201 Poplar was not unlike many other relatively new buildings in a city; it is very handicapped assessable. But there is a huge difference between handicapped “assessable” and handicapped “accommodating.” When I finally reached the Info desk I further realized that “accommodating” was not in the PD’s vocabulary.

Out of breath as a result of the journey from the curb, I asked the officer at the desk for Detective Oliver. The man pointed down a long hallway and said the bank of elevators would take me to the 11th floor where I would have to make a left, go down another hallway and go in the doors marked “Homicide Division.” My eyes followed where his hand was pointing and saw a hallway full of people milling around, going here and there, some in handcuffs and escorted by two officers and all of them with a look of dread on their faces. This was the endpoint for many, but also the beginning of a sea-change in their lives if they were so inclined.

I noticed the side arms of the detectives that moved about here and there escorting the criminals to jail or the judge’s chamber, or both, and thought if I had one of those in my house I wouldn’t BE here right now. I just wouldn’t BE in this world anymore. I also wouldn’t BE hurting or out of breath all the time. I wouldn’t BE a widower.

Bones kept me alive, to be honest: my bones and how they began to ache when I was told my soul mate took her own life. I didn’t think I could be responsible for someone else’s bones aching.

My thoughts consistently began to run in the realm of my demise, but it wasn’t the demise that I focused upon, it was a reunion. The fact that I would – most likely –be reunited with Melinda and that was what I wanted most of all. That was the only thing that would bring me comfort in a completely uncomfortable situation. Months later my brother, Darren, said he heard a great analogy for suicide that brought clarity to the issue. He said people do not jump from burning buildings because they want to die; rather they want to escape the flames.

Melinda wanted to escape the flames.

I looked down the hallway and viewed it much like a novice hiker would look upon Mt. Everest: a nearly impossible journey to scale a nearly impossible and improbable mountain.

I turned my attention back to the officer staffing the info desk;

Would you call Detective Oliver and tell him to meet me here?

No.

Why not?

Because that’s not the way we do things around here. I was sick of that answer and even if I wasn’t dealing with the death of my wife I would be sick of that answer.

I looked down the long corridor again and tried to mentally prepare myself for the journey. The brick wall on the right side of the hallway would help stabilize me as I tried to coax my legs --first the right and then the left-- into carrying my body to where I needed to go.

My leg muscles could get the job done, I knew that. But multiple sclerosis has nothing to do with muscles. It has everything to do with nerves, or more accurately, the misfiring of those nerves. I feel like the lower half of my body is in a vat of glue and that glue is just on the verge of setting up. Not quite a solid but not a liquid either.

I had long since quit “gliding” while I walked like a normal person would. I may be on the same flat, smooth surface everyone else is, but that flat, smooth surface feels like it goes up at a severe angle and I breathlessly struggle to get to the top.

I looked around the info booth hoping there would be a wheelchair sitting by at the ready for anyone who needs it. I need it, but a chair was not there. I started out on the marathon to find the elevators which would take me to Oliver’s office. I didn’t look but I hoped my scowl would adequately convey my disgust to the officer occupying the booth.

Right…left…steady…repeat.

Right…left…steady…rest…repeat.

I eventually strung enough of those actions and rest periods together to put me in front of the elevator banks and I hit the “UP” arrow. The doors opened and more people with the look of dread on their faces emptied into the hallway. I waited until everyone who wanted to ride the car was inside and I slowly hobbled into the elevator, turned around and pushed the “11” button and watched the doors close. I assumed no one else was going to the homicide division because I was the only one to push that particular button.

I am sure there were conversations as I rode up to each of the button-pusher’s destination, but I didn’t pay any attention. It didn’t matter to me. I didn’t care about much of anything anymore. I cared about getting my wife back, and barring that impossibility I would settle for more information and not just the slow drip, drip, drip of details offered thus far by Detective Oliver.

The elevator doors opened at the 11th floor. I got out, turned left and hobbled to the wooden door with the small section of tempered glass and the words “HOMICIDE DIVISION” stenciled in white. I used my back to push open the door which led into a small foyer with four non-descript chairs and yet another uniformed person acting as a gatekeeper.

I told him (or her…I can’t really remember) that I was here to see Detective Oliver. The uniformed man (or woman) told me to have a seat and Oliver would be right with me.

I wanted to tell the male or female gatekeeper that my eyes were puffy and red because I have been crying for several days because my wife died…but I didn’t because he or she didn’t ask. Probably because he or she saw this situation on a daily basis and it wasn’t something new to him or her. It was new to me and I hated it.

I sat in one of the non-descript chairs and the tears started gently rolling down my cheeks again. It wasn’t the chest-heaving sobs I experienced numerous times since late Friday night, but they hurt just as much.
Oliver walked into the foyer and asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. Refreshment was the last thing on my mind and it angered me that he would use a casual tone to his voice to ask, like I was just some friend who had stopped by to shoot the breeze or chew the fat or whatever he called it.

No. The scowl was back on my face.

Come on back and we’ll get you taken care of. He motioned me to follow him to the bank of cubicles in the back. Oh, great. More walking, or in my case: more hobbling. When will it end?

I had no idea.

Oliver began to tell me that I had to sign for Melinda’s purse, her cell phone, wallet and credit cards before he would give them to me.

No problem…where do I sign?

Oh, I don’t have them. They are in the property room.
Where’s that?

I’ll take you there…it’s just back downstairs and in the next building…not very far.

‘Not very far’ to him was completely different than ‘not very far’ to me. Not very far to me was the distance between our bed at home and the bathroom. Eight steps at most…sixteen for a round trip. That wasn’t very far. Now he was proceeding to tell me that I have to follow him back out to the hallway, over to the bank of elevators, down 11 flights, down another long hallway and out to a different building.

I was still out of breath from the trip up because my legs were in that vat of ‘almost-setup’ glue and my breathing was still labored BECAUSE I LOST MY WIFE TWO DAYS AGO!

Is there any way YOU could go down, get the stuff and bring it back to ME?

No. I wasn’t really surprised by the answer given his track record of helping out.

Why not?

Because Property won’t release her effects until you sign for it. It’ll be okay…it’s not far and you can take your time.

Not far. More than eight steps and sixteen for a round trip? That was my benchmark for a distance that was ‘not very far’ and I was sticking to it. Given Oliver’s cooperation so far, however, I felt I had no choice but to begin this marathon trip he labeled as ‘not very far.’

Oliver had what I am sure he considered helpful advice for me; Take your time.
I had no choice. It took me some time to do anything, especially going the distance he was talking about. We made it to the elevator and he pressed the “G” button and our decent got underway.

When the doors opened on the ground floor I noticed there were more people milling around, going here and there and all were sporting that look of dread on their faces.

Oliver told me to go left and down the long corridor to the next building. He also told me, once again, to take my time. Yes, that helped…at least I know he is not going to sprint out in front of me and leave me to wander the halls on my own. I staggered to the right side of the corridor so I could at least lean on the wall as I struggled to get where I was going, or where he was taking me.

Take your time, we’re in no hurry.

Right…left…tighten the grip on my crutch…drag my right arm along the wall for stability…rest.

Repeat.

Breathe.

I was breathing heavily because I was beyond tired. I leaned against the wall with every excruciating step because I didn’t want to fall and I was oh so close to doing that. I was reminded of that commercial where the old woman had fallen and she couldn’t get up. When I am tired and fall down, sometimes I can muster the strength to lift myself back up.

Most times I cannot. The glue is just too strong and gummy.

I received yet another helpful caution from Oliver to take my time.

People were passing us in the hallway as they scurried about and I was out of breath, breathing hard like I had just run a marathon. This little journey may have been easy for someone who doesn’t have MS, but to me it was the equivalent of running up a mountain.

Right…left…tighten the grip on my crutch…drag my right arm along the wall for stability…rest.

We met two female deputies and their eyes opened wide when they saw me and they rushed over and grabbed my arms to hold me up. At that point I was on the verge of falling and Oliver was still offering his “take your time” advice.

“What is he doing to you?” the first female deputy asked me as she urged me to stop and rest. That was the first inkling of compassion I had witnessed since the whole 201 Poplar excursion began. Oliver told the deputies that we were just going to the property room and that we would be fine.

Yeah, right.

The other female deputy asked Oliver why he didn’t get me a chair.

Good question. He didn’t have an answer but then Oliver offered to go find a chair for me and that he would be right back.

Finally! Someone actually suggested getting me a wheelchair so I wouldn’t have to look pathetically helpless as I struggled to make it to the property room where Oliver insisted they needed my signature on some stupid form.

The two female deputies stayed with me and held my arms as Oliver slipped into a nearby office in search of a wheelchair.

Or so I thought.

Silly me. I was wrong yet again.

Oliver came back a few minutes later with a chair. Not a wheelchair, mind you, but one of those cheap office chairs with the plastic rollers on five legs that spread out from the center post in a star pattern.

Have a seat and I will pull you to the property room.

Dumbfounded…expression…on face…mouth…agape…stunned…silence.

I sat down because I was nearly falling down at that point. Oliver grabbed the backrest of the chair and started pulling me down the long corridor and outside to the next building. The walkway in between the buildings was made of decorative brick and, needless to say, the little, cheap plastic office chair rollers were not suited for outside ventures. It reminded me of what some idiots would do in a silly little office game that involved an after-hours party, too much spiked punch and too many unoccupied office chairs.
I was nearly tipped several times as the cheap, little plastic rollers tried to negotiate the decorative brick.

There were more people milling about here and there and I was being pulled on this office chair, holding my one cane and looking down at the ground because I didn’t dare look anyone in the eyes. This went on for a few excruciating minutes.

STOP! I’ve had enough and I put my feet out to slow Oliver’s momentum.

What’s wrong?

I just have to stop.

Why?

Because, don’t you realize how humiliating this is for me? Even as I asked the question I knew the answer, otherwise he wouldn’t be pulling me in an office chair like a dunce who got into trouble in grade school.

Well, yes, but it’s better than trying to walk, right?

He didn’t have a clue. I would rather crawl on my hands and knees over a mile of broken glass than be subjected to his office chair ride one second longer. I needed to get off. I couldn’t be utterly debased any further. I felt like I was being defiled while I tried to collect my wife’s purse, wallet and cell phone.

I eventually made it to the property room and on my own power. I signed his silly little form and picked up her stuff (which Oliver placed in a brown paper bag).

It wasn’t all of her stuff, but Oliver didn’t tell me that. He told the person in the property room that he needed Melinda Beachy’s things, all but the nylon strap she used to hang herself, and the knife she used to cut the strap from a cooler. I later found out Melinda grabbed one of friend’s beverage coolers on her way out of his place, used a knife to remove the nylon carrying strap and used that to end her life.

I didn’t know how she did it but I remember asking Oliver for more details. He answered my question with a question meaning there is an evasive tactic in play.

Are you sure you want to know?

Not really…but I did ask and I expected an answer. I didn’t think that was asking too much, but apparently Oliver thought so.

He never did give me an answer.

I staggered out of 201 Poplar completely humiliated, wifeless and nearly lifeless.