Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [240]
Payton held a couple of more dinners for old Bears, and while it was never stated, the purpose was to say good-bye. “I was there with about thirty other guys,” said Jimbo Covert, the star offensive lineman. “Walter took time to go around to everybody personally and grab you and say, ‘What are you doing?’—just getting the down-low on how you’d been. Can you imagine how strong of a person he had to have been to do that? He knew he was going to die. He absolutely knew . . .”
By late July, Payton’s health took a terrible turn. He had been living at his home in West Dundee, but when his kidneys began to fail, Payton moved back into the house at 34 Mudhank, which—even after leaving ten years earlier—remained the most comfortable place he’d ever known. Because of the presence of Jarrett and Brittney, Walter never fully divorced himself from the residence. He came and went as he pleased, still used the fishing pond and the shooting range and a cozy zebra-print chair. In particular, Payton enjoyed the garden room, which was located in the basement and filled with plants. “It was a great place to meditate,” said Ken Gallt, the designer of the room. “When Walter died Connie let me know how much he loved it in there.”
In the ensuing years Connie has told warm stories about those final months, when the family came together as one. The recollections are, at best, gross exaggerations. Walter had to be convinced to return to 34 Mudhank, and initially did so because he knew Luna Picart, the beloved nanny, would once again be cooking his meals (and if anyone could get Walter to eat, it was Miss Luna). Walter never shared a bed with Connie, instead alternating between the rooms of Jarrett and Brittney. “He would migrate,” said Jarrett. “At the time I didn’t get it, but now I think it’s so cool. He wanted to share himself with us.” Walter spent many of his first few full-time weeks back at the house either napping or sitting on the front porch alongside Quirk, his omnipresent assistant. “It was really a strange time,” Quirk said. “Walter was in and out. He was coherent, but he wasn’t the normal Walter. We’d sit out there in the summer sun. We’d sit in two chairs and he kept saying, ‘I don’t know what you’re so worried about, Ginny. I don’t know what you’re so worried about.’ ”
Quirk fought to hold back the tears. Payton’s insistence of no negative news had left him in the dark when it came to details—but not to the grand picture. He certainly grasped the bleakness. “Because this is serious, Walter,” she would say. “Because . . .”
Payton heard none of it. “Relax,” he’d say. “I’ve got it covered.”
Suhey stopped by on most days, and often took Payton on drives around the neighborhood. With the windows rolled down, Payton could lean back and soak in the breeze. Sometimes, they’d sit together in the car and listen to The Monsters of the Midday, the show he had cohosted with Dan Jiggetts and Mike North. “He even called in one time,” said Jiggetts. “Just to say hello.”
On occasion Suhey or Quirk or Mark Alberts, a business partner, or even Connie would take Walter to Dairy Queen or Kentucky Fried Chicken. He liked heading to Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago and seeing the cow statues. “One time we got stuck in traffic and he started getting pains in his stomach,” said Alberts. “Walter would try and rock himself until the pain went away. That time, I had to turn off the expressway and take side streets