Not now, Dad. You're supposed to leave the real world out in the parking lot.
“Nicole and I are separated, Dad. You sometimes seem to forget that.” He also forgets that I go back to being eight years old when I'm here. How could I have an estranged wife?
“An old man can't hope?”
“An old man should concentrate on the game, because I'm cleaning the old man's clock.” I'm trying to refocus him, but I'm having a tough time.
He looks at his program, so I think maybe he's getting back to baseball. Unfortunately, he isn't.
“Judge Kasten told me about your stunt in the courtroom.”
Uh, oh. I'm caught, but not backing down. “You mean the stunt that got my client acquitted?”
“I mean the one that could have gotten you disbarred.”
“It was worth the risk,” I parry.
“In the future, you might want to substitute solid preparation for risk taking,” he thrusts. “By the way, how are you doing on the Miller appeal?”
“The ruling could come down anytime,” I say. “I'm hopeful.” Dad is worried about something as trivial as a death sentence in the fourth inning?
“You need to understand that even on a retrial, it's a case you can't win,” he says. “I covered all the bases.” “Speaking of bases, Garciaparra is up.” This seems to work, and our legal careers are moved to the back seat. More fake money is about to be put on the table.
“Garciaparra will foul off the first pitch. Eight hundred bucks. Nine to two.” He seems pretty confident, so I just as confidently tell him that he's on.
Clemens winds up and Garciaparra lines one down the right field line. I'm on my feet. It's curving … it's curving … fair!
“Fair ball! Fair ball! Fair ball!” I scream. I hate cheering for something against the Yankees, and everybody around us is staring at me with disdain, but my competitive juices are flowing. I turn to my father in triumph, and he has bowed his head appropriately in defeat.
“Can't even watch?” I crow. But it's more than that. In a brief, terrible instant, I realize that in fact he can't watch, can't speak, can't even sit up. He falls over and his head hits the railing in front of us, and then he slumps to the ground, his body grotesquely wedged between the seats.
And then I start screaming, screaming louder than anyone has ever screamed in Yankee Stadium. Screaming louder than anyone has ever screamed in any stadium.
But my dad can't hear me, and I'll never be eight years old again.
THE CROWDAT THE FUNERAL SEEMS LARGER THAN the crowd at the stadium, except everyone here finds themselves compelled to talk to me, to convince me they knew my father, and to let me know how sorry they are. It's supposed to make me feel better. It doesn't come close.
The cemetery itself covers miles and miles of gently rolling hills, which would be beautiful and uplifting if they were not dotted by endless rows of headstones. Can there really be this many people buried here? Have their loved ones all felt the same kind of pain I am feeling?
I tell someone I want to deliver the eulogy, but I dread the prospect of it. Laurie tells me I don't have to, that no one will think less of me if I don't. She's right, but I go up there anyway. I look out at the crowd. It seems as if the only people in America not at this funeral must be the ones lying under all those headstones.
“All of you knew Nelson Carpenter in your own way,” I begin. “Like everyone, he had his labels, and he wore them proudly and well. To many he was the District Attorney, a brilliant man whose devotion to justice was complete, and who would go to any lengths to ensure that everybody received fair and impartial treatment under the law.
“To many of you he was simply a friend, and when you had Nelson Carpenter as your friend, you didn't need many others. Because he wasn't simply there if you asked for his help; he had a sixth sense that could see through you, and a generosity that would provide that help without you ever having to ask.
“But I knew Nelson Carpenter as a father, and that makes me luckier than any of you. Because his family was his world, and let me tell you something, there was no better world to live in.”
My throat feels like it is in a vise the entire time, but I don't cry, just like I didn't cry at my mother's funeral three years ago. But I remember having my father to share the pain with then, and I could focus on supporting him. Now it's just me.
Only child becomes even more only.
Afterward I'm walking toward the cars, nodding thank you to the remaining four or five million people who are just now approaching me. Philip Gant, U.S. Senator Philip Gant, soon to be ex-father-in-law Philip Gant, walks toward me.
Philip was my father's oldest friend, and though that friendship always struck me as rather unlikely, it was remarkably strong and enduring. Their relationship is what originally brought their offspring together. Philip was upset when Nicole left me; I always thought that she must have had a harder time breaking the news to him than to me.
Philip dominates every room he is ever in, even rooms with no walls, thousands of people, and rolling hills dotted with headstones. As he comes toward me, everyone else seems to melt away. He taps me on the shoulder with authority. Philip does everything with authority.
“Magnificent eulogy, Andrew. I knew Nelson longer than anyone here, and let me tell you, every word you said was true.”
It is typical of Philip that even when he is trying to be nice, he secures the upper hand, this time by assuming I need his confirmation that I really knew my father.
This time he's gone too far. “Thank you, Philip. I appreciate that,” I lash back.
“I spoke to Nicole,” he says. “She was very upset.”
I nod, since I know this must be true; Nicole was quite fond of her father-in-law. I am actually surprised that she wasn't here.
“Terrible,” he says, shaking his head. “Just terrible. You just let me know if there's anything I can do.”
I nod again, Philip heads off to a limousine the size of North Dakota, and his chauffeur holds the door open for him as he enters. I turn and see Laurie, who has been great throughout this. She takes my arm and squeezes it gently.
“You okay?” she asks.
“I'm okay,” I lie.
I don't feel like going home, so we go to a sports bar named Charlie's. It is my favorite restaurant in the entire world; in fact, it is the best restaurant in the entire world. In fact, every single item on the menu is better than every item on any other menu at any other restaurant in the entire world. Some people think I overrate Charlie's. I think those people are stupid.
Anyway, Charlie's feels more like home than home, so this is where I want to be. We go to our favorite booth in the corner, the one next to the video trivia game. We order burgers and beer and I start planning my life as an orphan.
The first thing I'm going to have to do is go back to my father's house. I'll need to go through his papers and his personal possessions, and make sure that everything is in order. That's not going to be easy. Laurie promises to help, but I feel like I want to do everything by myself, like it's some rite of passage I have to go through.
Within a short time we're laughing and joking, punctuated every few minutes by my feeling guilty that I'm laughing and joking. But we're enjoying each other's company, and it feels good.
Laurie and I have only been sleeping together for two weeks, a total of four times. Each time has been better than the time before it, and the first time wasn't too shabby. She has blue eyes which she claims are green, and when you stare into them you feel like you're on a gorgeous beach on a gorgeous day drinking a gorgeous drink with an umbrella in it.
She's also the best investigator I've ever known, smart, tough, and relentless, at least when she doesn't let her integrity get in the way. She's an ex-cop and I'm a lawyer, which probably explains why I think all my clients are innocent, and she thinks they're guilty. It's the difference between law school and the police academy. We bridge this gap by agreeing that the clients are all entitled to the best defense possible.
I hesitated a long while before letting things turn sexual, to say nothing of emotional, with Laurie. I've been
