“Look out!” someone yells at me. I dodge sideways just in time. A drone the size of a basketball whizzes by my head. Maxim is standing on the front porch piloting it, and I see Olivia and Jane beside their cousin, looking glum and embarrassed. I take a long drag of my cigarette and then tromp up the front porch stairs.
“Are we ready to go?” I ask my daughters, not bothering to wish Maxim a happy birthday. Jane nods vigorously and Olivia shrugs. We say our goodbyes. I tell both Gabriella and Henley to come visit me in Brooklyn this week. I don’t say goodbye to Bernard, who seems relieved that I am leaving. Alistair is busy showing some children how to make the Helping Hands action figures spin around on one finger.
“Has anybody heard anything from Dad?” I ask my useless siblings. They all look at each other blankly and shake their heads.
“Well, when he shows up, tell him to call me,” I say.
On the drive back home, Olivia and Jane spend the whole time complaining about their evil little cousin and his creepy hobbies, including the mutilated, pinioned, and dissected bodies of small animals that he collects: squirrels, opossums, raccoons, birds, and even something he said was a fox but looked “just like a little terrier,” according to Jane.
“He calls it his taxidermy,” says Olivia.
“He kept coming up behind me and like leaning against me,” says Jane. “Just, like, wrapping himself all over my shoulders and legs. He wouldn’t stop. I think he was getting something out of it. He would get all red in the face and giggle.”
“If he makes you uncomfortable, you totally have my permission to bop him right in the face,” I say. “I don’t like him either, but the little one is nice, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, Julian’s sweet,” says Olivia.
When we get home, I keep the girls up eating ice cream and gossiping about their aunts and uncles. When I start to see them fading, I ask if they want to watch some TV or a movie. I’m trying to squeeze in as much face time as possible this weekend, before I have to be alone again for another two weeks.
When Ben half-heartedly asked for full custody, I think he was surprised I agreed. Everyone was surprised. I loved how monstrous it made me feel. But he is a better nanny than any I could ever hire. And the idea of him living alone as a swinging bachelor made me sick. So now I am the swinging bachelor. I am the fun one. I am the one they will run to when they are old, when they want the truth about life.
“We’re bushed, Mom,” says Olivia. Jane doesn’t even say goodnight. She just goes up to her room and falls asleep facedown in her bed.
“Your family is so much more fun than Dad’s family,” says Olivia, giving me a hug before taking off for her own room. “Except for Maxim.”
“My family?” I say. “It’s your family, too!”
“Ha, yeah, right,” says Olivia.
I take the elevator up to my room, checking again to see if my father ever arrived. But there are no messages from him. I’m just about to text Bernard when my phone rings. It’s Alistair, who has never quite learned the etiquette of texting first.
“You’re up,” he says, short of breath. “Oh god, none of us know what to do. I’m so sorry to call you like this, but we are all freaking out over here. Bernard just took off at top speed. I guess he’s going to swing by your place to pick you up?”
“What’s wrong?” I say. “What’s the matter? You have to slow down and explain yourself.”
“It’s Dad,” he sputters. “One of his maids found him in the shower. He fell down or something. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. They’re saying he’s dead. But that can’t be true, can it?”
I crumple to the floor, my hands shaking. I scramble for the phone, which has fallen through my fingers. When I pick it back up, I accidentally hang up on Alistair. I frantically tap at the screen but can’t seem to remember the code to unlock the phone, or maybe it won’t unlock because of my sweaty fingers. I keep pressing the buttons but nothing happens.
7
In the pew at St. Patrick’s, the girls are bookended by me and Ben. They seem to be handling everything okay, which is more than I can say for myself. This is a full Catholic funeral service, and the bleachers are packed.
There are reporters here from New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, The New Yorker, New York Magazine, and even from The Guardian. They all want to interview me, and I am too shell-shocked to fend them off very well. They are blending in with work acquaintances and Dad’s old board game buddies and low-level executives he was mentoring, and honestly the entire funeral is just a giant fucking unplanned mess. Luckily, almost everything I have said so far to these vultures has been garbled and unusable for any stories they might be trying to file.
I should have been better at bringing everyone together and making sure this goes smoothly, but I just don’t have it in me, and so everything has fallen on Angelo Marino, my father’s personal lawyer and best friend. Angelo Marino has done his best, but the past two days have been a whirlwind of shock and grief and funeral arrangements, and until we got here, we didn’t even know whether it would be me or Alistair speaking at the vigil.
I don’t have anything prepared, and Alistair is terrified
