“That there’s one less wall between you and me.”
Not knowing how to answer that, I ask, “What else?”
“Do I feel? Scared.”
I don’t need any elaboration here, either. With my father gone and Anne hostile and Margo soon returning to Chicago and me to New York, what becomes of us as a couple is a huge question.
“Bad timing, huh?” he asks with an unapologetic look. “Selfish of me?”
“Confrontational,” I reply, then plead, “I can’t go there, Jack. Right now, I’m only thinking of now. Dad is gone. He can’t answer our questions.”
“Yeah, and that’s another thing,” he says. “I’m fucking pissed at him for leaving us up in the air.”
I almost laugh. This is more my Jack. “Maybe he told us everything he knows.”
“Everything? Like what happened in the days leading up to that night on the boat? Like what he knew about my mother’s family estate? Like whether he was your biological father?”
Turning to fully face him, I jiggle his arm. “Don’t be angry. Not today.”
He raises his brows and looks to the ceiling. I’m not sure what he sees there, but when he returns to me, he is calmer. Something new, this self-control? Maturity? Compassion? Sheer force of will?
Whatever, it is welcome. “Besides,” I say, “Paul will help.”
“Has he said anything?”
“Not today. It was enough that he made introductions when I didn’t remember people. I mean,” I wince, “old high school friends? I’d already seen Deanna Smith and Joe DiMinico, but… Alex LaRouche? Angie Ballantine? Mark Miller? And there was Paul, whispering names in my ear. He’s definitely on our side.”
I do believe that. Paul will help us get to the truth. First, though, we have the funeral to survive.
Funerals have a way of stretching on when the deceased leaves a long list of hymns, readings, and eulogies, with the names of people to deliver them. The hymns and readings are a mystery to us, since Dad wasn’t a regular worshipper. The eulogies are more predictable. One is given by a fellow judge, one by the lieutenant governor of the state, one by Paul. Tom didn’t name any of us to speak. We can only guess that when he wrote his letter, he didn’t know whether Margo and I would even come. And Anne, well, Anne is not the kind of speaker he wants to paint a lasting picture of him. For one thing, she is a woman and Dad was a man’s man all the way. For another, he would have known she would be too weepy to say much.
What do I remember of this day?
I remember Margo’s husband and sons appearing in time for breakfast after flying in from Paris. She had told them not to come, and given that none of the three really knew Dad, the fact that they cut short their trip to be with Margo is special. I’m envious of that. More, I’m relieved that Joy has her cousins with her.
I remember wearing the little black dress that Margo ordered online yesterday for early-morning delivery today. The eminent personal shopper, she chose different ones for each of us. I may have a full wardrobe of black in New York, but I’m not in New York, and neither Joy nor Anne has anything remotely appropriate to wear to a funeral.Jeans and Joedoes have a sundress rack, but the offerings are beachy and short.
I remember the church choir singing “Be Thou My Vision,” which took me right back to childhood Sundays with Mom, and “Eternal Father, Strong to Save,” since Dad was a JAG in the Navy, and “Amazing Grace.” I remember the arched windows running the length of the nave, clear-glassed and multipaned, and the pastor’s voice, another throwback to my childhood.
I remember wanting to sit beside Jack—who wore a tie and jacket and looked so respectable that I hated it—but ending up between Anne and Joy. I held Joy’s hand, or she mine, while, sitting in the row behind, the so-respectable man in the tie and jacket put a hand on my shoulder at discreet moments. I remember the godawful ride behind the hearse to the grave by the sea.
Dad does have a beautiful spot. It is deep into the cemetery, in one of the older sections within sight and sound of the surf. Gathering here, we are fewer in number, mostly those who were closest to him. I stand with Jack and Joy—because Anne is with Bill, and Margo with Dan, Teddy, and Jeff, and, really, is there anyone to question it? Jack and I were best friends back then. It stands to reason he would support me now.
I remember a string of graveside prayers, the lowering of the casket, and Joy clinging to me when the first clod of dirt hit mahogany. I remember needing to touch each of my sisters as we turn to leave. And then there are others to thank before they walk back across the grass to their cars. Seeing blonde hair in retreat, I realize it is Lily and wonder, briefly, if she is here to make sure my father is well and truly gone.
Then I stop short, and not out of guilt at this uncharitable thought. A woman stands alone, facing us from the very rear of the gathering. Dressed all in black—black blazer, slacks, and glasses—she looks vaguely exotic or would, if not for her hair. Though exotically dark, it is pulled into a messy bun that has nothing to do with style. Her beach waves simply won’t otherwise behave. I know. We’ve discussed it dozens of times.
“Look, Mom!” Joy cries on a note of delight, but I’m already running forward.
“Chrissie,” I say and hold her tightly for a long, long minute. “You did not have to come.”
“Where else would I be? You’re my best friend.”
“Thank you,” I say. Drawing back, I take what feels like my first deep breath in hours. Chrissie represents such a sane part of my world that the sight of her brings instant relief. “Did you just drive up? I didn’t see you in the church. You should have satwithus.”
“Oh, no,” says my friend. “I didn’t make it to the church. Bad traffic out of the city, and Kian had a nightmare accident in his Captain America undies that I couldn’t leave for the nanny, so I was late. And anyway, I’m here under the radar, just for you. And Joy,” she adds with a brighter smile and open arms for my daughter. “Joyzie. I’msosorry about your grandfather.” The hug barely ends when the direction of those dark glasses shifts to the man who has come up by my shoulder. “This is Jack.” Suddenly shy, even nervous, she holds out her hand.
“The notorious Chrissie,” Jack remarks. I’ve named her as one of the reasons I love my life in New York, but whether he respects that or resents it is up in the air. I can’t see his eyes. Like Chrissie’s, they’re behind sunglasses. “You look familiar,” he says.
