Chapter 7

Suddenly, it was Friday night. Tim wondered where the time had gone...especially when it seemed so interminable. He still had nothing written and the funeral was in the morning. Words that seemed all right when he thought of them were crap when he wrote them down. He felt as though he'd used up an entire ream of paper trying to figure out something to write that would adequately encapsulate his father. Uncle Jim was going to give the life sketch...so he didn't need to deal with every period of his life. ...but the eulogy. It came from the Greek meaning good word. Good words about Sam were thick on the ground...but which ones were the right good words?

This is going to be horrible.

"Tim?"

Tim looked up and then around at the crumpled pieces of paper littering the floor and the desk.

"I think I should have brought my shredder with me." He smiled.

Naomi smiled in reply. "You're worrying about it too much, Tim."

"Easy for you to say."

"I know. It's time to go."

"Yeah. I've never understood this tradition, Mom. Let's all get together and stare at a dead body."

"That's not what it's for and you know it."

"I'm sorry."

Naomi walked over and pulled Tim to his feet. "Come on, Tim. It's not going to go away...no matter how much we might want it to."

"Yeah."

Naomi put her arm around Tim's waist and led him out of the study.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Oh, Tim, I just can't get over how much you look like your father."

Tim tried to smile. He couldn't even remember who it was he was talking to at the moment. An old friend of the family, probably. That's what they all seemed to be anyway.

"Last time I saw you, you were knee high."

Yep, a family friend.

"You shot up like the proverbial weed."

"Judy," Naomi said, walking over to rescue Tim, "I didn't see you come in. Marilyn's been wanting to talk to you."

"Marilyn? Oh, what a dear." Naomi jerked her head toward the door as she led the woman away.

Tim turned and felt his heart lift just a little and he walked quickly to the group at the door.

"Hi, guys. Thanks for coming," he said, knowing it sounded inane.

Abby instantly started hugging him. "Oh, Tim. I'm so sorry about this. It's just terrible and I hope you're doing okay." The speech, which Tim had assumed was just revving up, stopped suddenly and Abby just hugged him instead.

"Thanks, Abby," Tim said and carefully extricated himself from her arms. He looked at the others with the closest to a smile he'd felt in days.

"We weren't certain we would make it, Timothy, but Director Vance allowed us to leave early," Ducky said, giving Tim a quick hug.

"And then, of course, we let Gibbs drive," Tony added. "We would have let Ziva, but we were a little worried about actually getting here."

"I am a very good driver," Ziva said and then hugged Tim and whispered in his ear. He didn't understand the words. They must have been Hebrew. When she let him go, he wanted to ask what she had said, but couldn't find the words to ask. Just the expression in the way she had spoken them had been enough to bring him almost to tears...not that it took much right now.

Tony only shook his hand, but he had such a tight grip Tim felt he might lose his fingers. Gibbs patted him on the back.

Ziva looked around at the other people, Naomi with a small knot of people, Sarah hugging one of her friends and then she looked at Tim again.

"In Israel, it is customary to mourn in silence unless the mourners wish to speak. I take it this is not how mourning works here?"

Tim shook his head. "No, but...I kind of wish it did. I don't know half these people. They're here to see my dad...in his coffin." He felt his lip start to shake a little and bit it. "I've never understood this custom. I didn't get it when my grandpa died either. This is more for them than it is for us."

"Does it bother you so much, McGee?"

Tim sighed. "Not really. I don't think anything would seem right to me right now." He gestured for them to come further into the room. "I'm glad you guys are here, though."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

They stayed for the rest of the time, mostly talking to Tim but occasionally rescuing Sarah from well-meaning visitors and speaking to Naomi. It was Abby who first noticed the photo tribute set up for Sam. There were photos of him as a child, in the Navy...but the bulk of them showed Sam as they had met him: in a wheelchair...a professor and father. One series of photos, in particular, caught Abby's attention and she waved Tim over.

"What?"

"What's this picture, Tim?" she asked eagerly.

Gibbs saw Tim flush a little and was happy to see something on his face besides shock and grief.

"Oh, that's nothing really. I didn't know Mom had decided to use that one. I would have vetoed it."

"What is it, Probie?" Tony asked. "You guys look like you two are having a Western shootout."

Indeed, the first photo was of Sam in his wheelchair with his back to Tim who was standing straight up with his fingers miming holding a gun. He was about twenty years old, still gawky but with that round baby face, his head turned toward the camera with a fake-intense expression. The next photo was of them separated by about five feet, Tim still faking his gun and Sam with his own intense expression. The third photo was them, about ten feet apart, now facing each other, Tim's finger gun aiming at his dad and Sam with his own hand out shooting a fake gun.

Tim laughed and ran a hand through his hair. "It was...kind of."

"What, Tim?"

"Dad and I...we had these...quote wars."

"Quote wars?" Tony asked, grinning.

"Yeah. We would be talking and then one of us, usually Dad, would suddenly say a quote and the other would have to respond with a quote that either agreed with or contradicted the one first said. We would go back and forth until one conceded." Tim hesitated and then laughed again. "That would be this last photo."

Gibbs had to suppress a chuckle of his own. Tim had his hands over his heart and was melodramatically collapsing to the floor.

"I take it you lost, McGee?" he asked.

"Yeah. I usually did. I can't believe Mom still...no, I take it back. I can believe she has these pictures. I can't believe she's showing them."

"What about this one, Timothy?" Ducky asked, pointing to a photo of Sam wheeling his chair down the middle of the street.

"Oh, that..."

Gibbs watched with interest as Tim talked, almost happily about the memories displayed on the memorial. In fact, after a few moments of encouragement from Ducky, he began offering explanations without urging. He had never told them so much about his father, or even his family, before. That he wasn't forgetting why they were all there was obvious when Tim would occasionally falter as he spoke and give a shaky smile.

Finally, though, they were the only ones still at the funeral home and Gibbs noticed Tim giving side glances toward the open casket at the opposite end of the room. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Tim anywhere near it the entire time they'd been there. Granted, they had missed the beginning, but Naomi had gone over a few times and Sarah at least twice during the hour he'd been paying attention. Tim...not at all.

When the conversation petered out, Gibbs made eye contact with Tony and Ducky who got the hint and began winding up.

"McGee," Gibbs said as the others began speaking to Sarah and Naomi.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"You have a minute?"

"Sure."

Gibbs gestured and Tim fell in step with him...until he noticed that they were headed toward the casket; then his pace noticeably slowed, although he didn't stop.

"What is it, Boss?"

"Come on, McGee."

"I know what you're doing. There's no point in looking. All that's in there is a body. My dad isn't there. He's gone."

"Then, it won't hurt to look."

Tim kept walking but Gibbs could see his reticence. When they got to the casket, Tim looked...and looked...and then shook his head.

"How's the eulogy going?"

"I've filled up an entire ream of paper with nothing but crap," Tim said, not looking away. "I'm sure he had a reason...but I don't know what it was, and I can't say anything worth saying."

"You were talking about your dad for nearly an hour tonight, McGee."

"That's different. When there's an audience, when it really matters, I can't string two words together."

"That's not true."

"Yeah, it is. I barely made it through my valedictory speech in high school...and that was mostly because I had to for my dad. He's not going to be there tomorrow." Tim didn't look away from the casket, but he wiped a tear. "He won't ever be there. I won't be able to do it. I can't make speeches."

"You have plenty of times."

"No, I haven't, Boss."

Gibbs smiled and put his hand on Tim's shoulder. "Before you were officially on my team, you were in Autopsy with Abby, trying to talk to Watson, keep him from doing anything stupid and tracking the money. Grayson was about to kill his wife. In a split second, you decided to talk to Grayson over the radio or whatever and tell him you were the FBI and that he should give up."

"That wasn't a speech, Boss."

"When Landon was ready to kill Abby, you stood there in that room with everyone listening to you, and talked down a crazy loon by writing your story on the fly."

"That wasn't–" Tim tried to protest.

"And before that, you stood up to me in the elevator to protect your little sister. You apologized but you didn't back down."

"Those weren't speeches, Boss."

"No, they were a lot more important than a simple speech. People's lives were on the line and you stepped up and did your job. You did your job and you did it well. Maybe they weren't long speeches, but you did it. You didn't even stutter and you stuttered all the time back when you first started. When it matters, McGee, you do it right. ...and you will tomorrow, too. You just need to loosen up a little and stop expecting to be some amazing orator. Just talk about your dad like you did tonight. I'm not saying you shouldn't jot down some ideas of what you want to say, but don't think of it as a speech. You're talking to people about someone you love."

"He's my dad," Tim said softly.

"Exactly. That's all that matters."

"Boss..."

"Yeah?"

"If I get stuck should I just tell everyone to 'stick it'?"

Gibbs was a little startled and looked over at Tim find him laughing...and then suddenly crying.

"You think that would help, Boss?"

"Maybe."

"I don't want to say good-bye."

Gibbs squeezed Tim's shoulder. "But you have to, McGee...and since you do, why not say it in the best way possible...by showing everyone else why your dad was such a great guy?"

"I hate that he's gone."

"I know the feeling."

"Does it go away?"

"No...but it does fade...if you let it."

"Tim? Are you ready to go?"

Tim wiped his eyes and finally looked away from the casket. "Yeah, Mom. I'm ready."

"Let's go."

"Okay." He looked at Gibbs for the first time. "Thanks for coming, Boss. See you tomorrow."

"We'll be there."

Tim's mouth quirked in a kind of half smile. "So will I."