Elizabeth set the pillows at the head of the bed, then pulled up the blue goose-down comforter; she’d matched UCLA’s school colors—powder blue, gold, and white. Now she lamented that it all seemed rather precise and bland. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the bed covers would soon be beneath a cascade of unwashed laundry, books, papers, and food wrappers. She compared Beau’s side of the room to that of his roommate, whom we had not yet met, and whose décor was anything but bland. Above the Star Wars bedding the roommate had neatly pinned wall-to-wall Star Wars movie posters. For the next nine months, Beau would awaken to a black-clad Darth Vader, Luke and Leia holding blasters, and Han and Chewie, the Wookiee, beneath the Millennium Falcon.
My son had given me a concerned look when he’d first stepped into the room. “What the hell?” he said.
Mary Beth laughed at both the décor and at her brother’s seeming misfortune. I didn’t want Beau to prejudge a person he had not yet met. A college roommate, I knew, was like a spouse. The room would be the home to which they both returned for the next nine months. What was that saying about not having the ability to choose your family?
Apparently not your freshman roommate, either.
Beau had spent an entire day answering questionnaires about his likes and dislikes, his habits, his hobbies, the music he listened to, how late he studied, and how early he woke, so the school could pair him with someone with similar habits and interests.
At least in theory. I was relatively certain Beau had never written the words “Star Wars” in any answer.
Ever the good soul and optimist, Elizabeth said, “It’s a bold statement. He must be confident in who he is.”
Elizabeth had been, as expected, melancholy since leaving home the prior day to make the long drive from Northern California to Westwood. She did not see this trip as a beginning for Beau, but as an end; she was losing her firstborn, her baby boy.
“You didn’t bring anything to put up on your walls,” Elizabeth said.
“It’s fine,” Beau said, pacifying his mother’s concern. “I have a bulletin board, and I brought some family photographs to put up.” He looked at the desk clock. “You should get going. I have an orientation at three.”
To remind him, three young women stopped by the room to walk to the orientation with Beau. My son wasn’t rushing us, but he was moving on. Beau needed to get away, and I understood why. He needed a fresh start, a place where he wouldn’t be reminded of what had happened, of death. He needed a place far enough away that he couldn’t be called home to every family function or crisis. Life had punched Beau in the face, as it had punched William Goodman and Todd Pearson. He was recovering in his own way.
It was part of growing up. It was part of realizing you don’t know a damn thing about the world, that at times, you weren’t even playing the same game.
I had said goodbye the night before we left Burlingame, as Beau and I reclined on the leather sofa in the family room watching a Seinfeld rerun. Elizabeth had gone to bed to read, and Mary Beth was out with her cousin. I had wanted to say something from my heart, but I struggled to find the right words. Then I thought of William’s journal, which I had not yet finished, though I neared the end. The entries provided perspective, as William’s stories had provided me with perspective before I, too, went off to college.
“You’re a good man,” I said, lowering the volume on another George Costanza tirade. “You’ve become a good man. I’m proud of who you’ve become.”
Beau put down a bowl of ice cream, sensing—or perhaps dreading—this father-son moment. “Thanks, Dad.”
“I’ve already been to college, and I have no desire to go back. I can’t live in your dorm room. You’ll have to figure out things on your own, just as I did. You’ll have to determine who you are, the man you’re going to be. You’ll have to decide if your word stands for something or rings hollow. You’ll have to decide if you will treat women with dignity and respect, whether you’re the guy who gets drunk at every party and does something stupid he wakes to regret.”
Beau nodded and with solemnity said, “Which were you?” He chuckled nervously, then added, “I won’t be that guy, Dad.”
I was rushing, trying to beat my tears. I thought of a conversation I had with William in 1979. “You’ll have to decide if you’ll have a relationship with God, and what that relationship will be. I hope you do.”