When it is time, Alistair walks up to the altar first and immediately freezes. He clutches the lectern while the priest looks on encouragingly. Alistair has actually been holding up better than I would have expected, but now it seems like the public speaking is fucking him up more than the tragedy of our father’s accidental death.
“Prescott Nylo was a legend in business, a legend in game design, and a legendary competitor and friend,” he finally manages to choke out. “But for me, he was just a dad. A very good dad.”
He shuffles his notes. He looks around. He coughs.
“Jesus, he looks like he’s about to throw up,” whispers Henley, leaning forward from the pew behind me. “You’d better get up there and save him.”
I stand up discreetly and approach the altar. The aging Irish priest has gunk-covered spectacles, a sunburned scalp, and food crumbs in his luscious beard.
“We always knew our dad was proud of us,” Alistair eventually continues. “How many people can say that? We always knew that he loved us, and I hope that wherever he is now, he knows that we love him and that we are proud of him.”
Polite applause breaks out. Alistair stumbles down from the podium and gives me a long hug as he makes his way back to his seat. His eyes are dry. Only Gabriella has broken down in tears so far this morning, and even this seemed forced to me.
I glumly ascend the podium myself. I reach into my pocket and pull out some hurriedly scribbled notes, but when I smooth them out on the lectern, they don’t seem to make any sense.
I look out over the congregation. Henley—that demon—is grinning at me. Bernard and Phoebe look exhausted. Maxim is in fact totally asleep, and Julian is trying to stay awake but keeps nodding off. I don’t blame them. Is there anything more boring and soul-crushing than a full-length Catholic funeral?
Olivia and Jane look up at me expectantly, and I remember that I am supposed to be representing the strength of the family. I am supposed to be representing the permanent, unshakable power of the Nylo Corporation. I am supposed to be a living symbol of our family’s excellence, cunning, and creativity.
“I don’t care who you are,” I begin, my clear voice filling the room. “It doesn’t matter if you are a good person or a bad one, a rich person or a poor one. Prescott Nylo wanted to make you happy, or at least take away your cares for a few minutes on the long, unswerving road to oblivion. We all loved him passionately, those of us who knew him. But he was more fun than any saint. He was better at cards, at Sea Farmers, at Twilight Struggle, at jacks, and at Tetris than Satan. There is that old trope of challenging death to a game in exchange for your immortal soul. Well, Prescott Nylo didn’t just win games against death and the void and meaninglessness of existence and all that: he invented new games.”
I look over at the priest, who seems to be both encouraging and confused in equal measure. I don’t believe in God, but I know that our dad did somewhat and that he went to mass every Sunday, as well as on the extra holy days of obligation. What a fucking waste of time.
I sigh and glance up at the ceiling before continuing.
“The world is a shittier place now that our dad is dead. That is just a fact. We have all been robbed of so many new games and toys, and those of us here who were actually his sons and daughters and grandchildren and friends have all been robbed of future good times, of future demented laughter, of future immeasurable joy. We are all going to have to work very hard from now on to give back everything that he gave to us. But he taught us well. Thanks to him, all of us here celebrating his life know how to kick back, to slack off, to play hooky, to procrastinate, to dawdle, and to fritter away a lazy hour in the company of the ones we love. Now we get to give it all back. He had his turn, and he spun the wheel and he made his move. And now it is our turn. Thank you all for coming. We will miss him so much.”
I sit back down to thunderous applause, but I hardly hear it. Giving a good speech makes everyone grateful because we all feel so terrible and embarrassed when somebody gives a bad one. Olivia and Jane lean against me, snuggling, and even Ben gives me an appreciative nod. We settle in for the long Catholic mass that follows.
When it’s finally time to go to the cemetery, Bernard refuses to ride with us. He doesn’t trust Phoebe to drive his champagne-colored convertible—a hideous antique testament to dwindling testosterone, and about as energy-efficient as a coal-burning steamboat—so he says he will follow us.
“The point of not driving yourself is that you might be too broken up with grief to drive safely,” says Henley. Bernard gives him a withering look.
“I’m sad,” says Bernard. “Same as you.”
“Of course, you have your sweet family to take care of,” adds Henley. “You have to be strong for them and not show any emotion. We get it.”
Henley, Gabriella, Alistair, and I pile into a limousine that takes us to Calvary Cemetery, to the family plot where Mom already lies buried. Olivia and Jane ride with Ben. All three of my siblings look nervously at me as soon as I sit down and get situated, as if expecting me to rip off my own face and then spray them with acid saliva from a set of razor jaws extending from my neck hole. They know my moods better than me,
