“Good speech, sis,” says Henley after I grow bored and start looking out the window. He begins rooting around inside the door of the limo, in search of snacks.
“Hey look,” he says. “Free animal crackers.”
He opens the box and bites the head off each animal, then puts the half-eaten cookies back in the box.
“Why are you being gross?” Gabriella asks.
“I just want the heads,” Henley says. “You know, at Chinese funerals, everybody gives the family money. And then the family is supposed to burn joss paper to give the dead person ghost money that they can spend in the afterlife.”
“I could burn some incense,” says Gabriella.
“Please don’t,” I say.
“So what’s going to happen now?” Henley asks.
“Well, we are going to put him in a box in the fucking ground,” I say.
“No,” he says. “I mean with Nylo.”
Alistair and I look at each other.
“Dad has talked to us already about what will happen at Nylo when he dies,” says Alistair. “As far as the company is concerned, Caitlyn will just keep running it and nothing will change.”
“Nothing will change,” I agree. Although my statement comes out sounding more despondent than firm.
We arrive at the cemetery and the limo driver parks in the gravel lot. All around us, other mourners that I vaguely recognize but don’t feel like acknowledging are slamming doors and finishing hushed cell phone conversations.
“Look at all those grackles,” says Gabriella, pointing at the sky over the tombstones. “They’re coming this way.”
We watch the birds swoop and swarm for a moment. I see a glint in Henley’s eye.
Bernard has parked his convertible so that it takes up a whole row of spaces. I suppose this is an effort to keep it from getting scratched. It looks like some kind of Roman chariot. I’m certain that Bernard’s will decrees he is to be buried with his car, and I think for a moment how satisfying it will be to lower him into the ground with his moldering priapic corpse sprawled against the Italian leather.
Henley walks over to the convertible as if mesmerized, staring at the oncoming birds. The path to the gravesite is in the other direction and we all wait for him.
“Henley!” I finally yell, as he stands there with his back to us, leaning over the car as if in a trance. He jogs back and we all begin walking to the big finale of the day’s entertainment. Olivia and Jane and Ben catch up, and we form a nucleus of family. I notice Henley wiping cookie crumbs from his hands and slacks, and he gives me a malevolent grin that I don’t quite understand.
During the ceremony, I keep looking at Henley, who keeps looking at Bernard. Every once in a while, his eyes dart up and he stares again at the swarming birds, which seem to be covering the sky like a Biblical plague.
As the oldest child, it falls on me to toss the first shovelful of dirt onto the mahogany coffin. I do so dutifully, just wanting to be done with this horrible day. I can easily imagine Dad making a lame joke from down there. “Hey, knock it off! I’m trying to sleep!”
We all throw some dirt on him and then file back to our cars. Olivia and Jane seem relieved that it is all over. They lean against me as we walk. Ben hangs back, giving us space. As we near the cars, Henley grabs my arm, cackling with glee.
“Oh, goddammit,” we hear Bernard shout. He begins running. We see birds leap out of his car and disappear into the sky, covering the smooth leather and glossy paint with ropy streams of gritty feces. They must have been feasting on Henley’s scattered crumbs.
Henley jumps up and down. He is so proud of himself. Honestly, I am astonished. I bark out one small laugh and then catch myself, not wanting to sanction Henley’s sociopathic behavior.
8
That night I sleep at the office, which means I am awake at 5 a.m. Wednesday morning. I wait around in the conference room kitchen, wearing a bright pink dress, hovering over a carafe of civet coffee with my head low until an assistant arrives with a plate of muffins and bagels at 6. Her eyes widen when she sees me sitting there already, but she recovers quickly and gently sets down the platter. I chow down on a carrot muffin that’s more like a piece of cake while finishing the pot of coffee.
I take the elevator up to Dad’s floor. In his empty office, I feel his absence acutely. I lie down on his couch and let myself cry a little. His smell lingers, haunting the place: the smoky sandalwood of his aftershave and the sweet lime coconut of his hair oil, the secret cigarettes that have soaked into the wallpaper and wood paneling. Sneaky smoking is a habit we share, but neither of us ever managed to acknowledge it in the other.
Then it hits me: I never got to smoke a cigarette with Dad and now I never will.
Why didn’t I ever just stick a Dunhill in the corner of my mouth and ask him for a light? Why did we have to be so close to each other but so far apart? What good is that kind of dignity of distance now?
I wipe my eyes and stand up. I guess this is all mine now. I go through his drawers, looking for any messages or sealed envelopes with my name on them. I’m not sure what I expect to find. I lie back down on his sofa, curling into fetal misery. No mom, no dad. I am an orphan.
When Devi arrives, bleary-eyed and puffy, we give each other space. I ask her to bring up more breakfast food: plates of bacon and poached eggs, pitchers of orange juice, cookies-and-cream donut holes from the bakery on the corner. She is glad for the distraction, glad for my exacting demands. I am happy to have someone to order around so
