The Three Weissmanns of Westport

'Embarrassing?' Annie was shocked. Did things like that happen, just like that? 'Just like that?' she said. 'Just like that?'

'You think I should have done an apprenticeship? Yes, just like that, just like that, the way any change happens, any realization, any... well, any falling in love.'

'I don't do things just like that,' Annie said. 'I do things gradually.'

'Good. Then you can fall in love with a wonderful woman gradually.'

'Oh, Miranda, you know what I mean. It's just... well, I'm surprised, that's all. And I guess I feel a little betrayed.'

'It's not like I joined the Confederate Army.'

'And I'm worried, too,' Annie said. 'I mean, is this another one of your stunts? Because, Miranda, there's a little boy involved.'

A dreamy look came over her sister's face. 'Henry,' she said.

'You're not doing this just to get to Henry, are you? That would be really sick.'

'You know what?' Miranda said, giving her a kiss. 'For once, you don't have to worry about me, Annie. You really, really don't.'

Annie wondered if that could ever be true. She said, 'I guess I'm really happy that you're happy, Miranda.

'Mommy knew,' she added after a while.

'Knew what?'

'About Leanne, I think.'

'Maybe.' Miranda drummed on the kitchen table nervously for a few seconds, her lips pursed, tears running down her cheeks. 'Maybe. She knew a lot.'

Miranda and Leanne had decided to stay in the cottage together with Henry. 'And guess what?'

'What?' Annie was worn to the bone with surprises. What could really be a surprise except death, always a surprise, that inevitable surprise?

'Leanne and I are getting married.'

'Oh, for God's sake, Miranda.'

Miranda smiled. Innocent. Ingenuous. Enraging.

'I thought you didn't believe in marriage,' Annie said. 'What, you only believe in gay marriage?'

'I believe in this marriage.'

The simple sincerity of her words, the naivete, struck Annie. She could almost feel her mother's finger poking her back, her whispered Go on, be nice, you know how your sister is...

Miranda held up an unopened box of saltines for Annie to see.

'Her crackers,' Annie said.

They had a good cry, a noisy one in which they held each other and rocked back and forth like old men at prayer, then reverently, wordlessly, opened the box and ate crackers with almond butter spread on them.

When Miranda told her that she was staying on in the cottage with Leanne and Henry, Annie did wonder what was to become of Aunt Charlotte. Would she have to go on the auction block along with her chairs?

But Aunt Charlotte was going somewhere much more pleasant, and close enough for Leanne to see her every day. She was moving in with Cousin Lou.

'You can't do this,' Rosalyn had said when she heard Lou's plan. 'You hardly know the woman. This is not an old-age home, Lou.'

But Lou was adamant. To take under his wing a woman who, it turned out, was the fourth cousin many times removed of Mrs. James Houghteling was something he could not resist.

'Like family,' he said with relish.

Mr. Shpuntov, followed by his attendant, shuffled past them, headed for the kitchen.

'And a friend for your father,' Lou said.

'Lou, for God's sake, what are they going to do together? Play handball? This really is the limit. Beyond the limit. We don't even have enough room.'

'We will,' he said. 'Once we move into that lovely old house in foreclosure on Beachside Avenue.'

'The Maybank house?'

'The Maybank house. The house I just bought.'

The funeral home was not far from the Central Park West apartment where Joseph and Felicity were still living. They were not scheduled to move out until the following month, and he had offered to have people back to the apartment after the funeral.

'Betty would have liked that, I think,' he said to the girls.

'Betty is dead,' Annie said.

They were going to Annie's apartment instead. The French professor had returned to Paris the week before.

'Well! If Annie's got her place back, and Miranda is staying in Westport with her bankrupt lesbian lover, maybe we should buy our apartment from them,' Felicity said when she heard this, remembering how the Cape Cod house had appreciated. 'I'm sure they'd be reasonable. I mean, it's all in the family, after all.'

'Maybe we should not,' Joe had replied.

And so Felicity returned to her search for a downtown loft with a doorman.

Betty had died young enough to have a full house at her funeral, Joseph thought as he entered the funeral home. He wondered if he would have the same opportunity, and felt a bit sorry for himself, believing as he did that he would die so old that none of his friends would be alive to attend the service. He recognized everyone — couples, widows, widowers, second-marriage couples, grown children, grown grandchildren. So many people from his life with Betty. They all greeted him with a mixture of grief and curiosity. How was he taking it? they wondered. Not well, he wanted to answer. My Betty is gone. I let my Betty go. Instead, he gave a stoic smile and a warm handshake here, a lingering and meaningful meeting of the eyes there, a hearty hug, a brave kiss. I let my Betty go, he thought through his tears. And she is gone.

Lou said nothing to Joseph, just gave him a handshake, then grabbed him in a tight hug. Rosalyn asked about Gwen.

For a moment Joseph could not think who Gwen was.

He saw Annie and Miranda. He noticed how like Betty they looked, though they looked so different from each other. Annie's boys were there. They left their mother's side and came to his. They called him Grandpa Josie.

The girls followed. They cried in his arms.

Everyone is here, he thought. And no one.

Frederick Barrow came to Betty's funeral, too.

'I hope you don't mind,' he said to Annie, embracing her. 'I know it's awkward — Felicity and all. But your mother was a wonderful woman. And...' He paused. 'So are you,' he said, pausing again, then: ''Life's but a walking shadow.''

Annie tried not to cringe. Cringing at a man expressing his condolences, even with a slightly insensitive quote from Macbeth, was ungracious. But surely one was allowed to be ungracious on the day of one's mother's funeral? One was certainly numb. One alternated between vacant silence and bitter tears. One quibbled mentally with quotations. One laughed. One was utterly out of control. And one cringed.

Well, so what? she thought. My mother is dead. Why doesn't everyone go away and leave me alone without my mother?

Frederick ducked his head, almost shyly, then lifted it. His eyes sparkled. 'It's been a while, hasn't it?'

Was it possible that Frederick was flirting with her, on the day of her mother's funeral? She made a motion to move away. He took her hand. 'Annie,' he said hoarsely, 'I mean it. I know now is not the time. I'm truly sorry about your mother. But I also wanted to tell you that I know I haven't been... well, I haven't exactly behaved the way I would want to... but I'd like to pick up where we left off... try again...'

There was Josie staring blankly into the distance, standing alone. Why was he alone? Where was Betty? Where is my mother? Annie wondered. I want my mother. The room was too warm. Frederick wanted to pick up where they'd left off.

She withdrew her hand. 'How is Amber?'