Although many actors and actresses were in attendance that day, Nora Minton Niles was not among them. I hadn’t expected her to come—I knew she was overwhelmed—but she’d sent five thousand white roses, so many that they lined the aisles and were arranged around the coffin, which was placed in the center of the stage. Beside the coffin was an empty director’s chair with Tyler inscribed on the back-rest; next to it, on a table, was a megaphone. I was staring at this absently when I heard a buzz move through the crowd. Elizabeth Banks had arrived.
She was wearing a heavy black dress with a large hat and veil, and leaning heavily on her maid. From the hesitant, uncertain way she was walking down the aisle, I knew that she was probably drunk. Even from fifty feet away, I could hear the sound of her sobbing.
“It’s all right, Miss Elizabeth. It’ll be all right,” her maid said. Her voice echoed in the sudden silence. Although Elizabeth was having difficulty even staying on her feet, nobody rose to assist her. Finally, an usher gestured toward one of the pews, and the maid helped Elizabeth into a seat three rows in front of us, next to David Rosenberg. As Elizabeth sat down, it looked to me—although I couldn’t be sure—like David moved slightly away from her.
I do not recall much of the service itself—what the priest said, or the eulogies, or the music that was played. What I do remember is the faint shouts of the people outside pressing against the door; the steadying grasp of Hanako, who kept hold of my arm; and the sobs of Elizabeth, who never stopped crying. I watched her through the entire service, and I could feel my anger rising. She had not acknowledged my presence or even glanced in my direction. If there had ever been a doubt about where her affections lay; if I’d ever allowed myself to think that I might mean something to her, then her behavior on the day of Tyler’s funeral disabused me of those notions. For it was clear she didn’t care for me, not in the least. I knew that our friendship was over.
After the service, a caravan of dozens of cars made its way to the Hollywood Cemetery. Hanako and I did not join them. Instead, she guided me back toward her car, shielding me from the cameras and grasping hands. When we were almost to the sidewalk, though, a reporter pushed through the crowd and stopped in front of us. “Jun, Jun!” he called out, waving his notebook. “Is it true that you and Tyler were riding double on Elizabeth Banks?”
The crowd went quiet as everyone awaited my response. But then, Hanako stepped in front of me and faced the reporter. She did not excuse herself or explain what she was doing there with me. She did not chastise him for being inappropriate. She simply fixed him with a cold and withering look, a glare so devastating that although he was several inches taller, she appeared to be looking down at him. She stared at him this way for what seemed like half a minute. Then, lowering his head, he slinked away.
We didn’t speak during the drive back from the service, and when we reached my house, Hanako looked at me squarely. “I’m afraid to leave you alone, Nakayama-san.”
“I’m fine,” I said, trying to sound steady.
Hanako glanced down at her hands now. “You must take care of her.”
“Who?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Elizabeth. You must take care of her. She has nobody else.”
I did not know how to reply to this, so I nodded at her vaguely. It was difficult for me to think kindly of Elizabeth. It was difficult to think of her at all.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, I bade Hanako goodbye. As I made my way back to my own front door, I realized that I’d forgotten to thank her. I turned quickly, but the car had already gone around the corner. And it was only years later that I came to understand how difficult this day must have been for Hanako, how generous she’d been in escorting me. Absorbed as I was in my own sense of shame, I failed to comprehend this at the time. I failed to see that she’d put her own reputation at risk for the sake of a friend who did not deserve her, for someone who was not even half the man she believed and maybe wished him to be.
Weeks passed, weeks I spent mostly at home, seeing no one but my servants. The maid soon resigned, then the chauffeur and the gardener, citing family obligations and better employment elsewhere; none of them could look me in the eye. Just Phillipe remained, and he was my only company. I tried to amuse myself by reading and drawing him into an occasional game of chess, but mostly I walked aimlessly through the rooms of the mansion, which suddenly felt like a museum after closing hours. Indeed, sometimes when we spoke to each other in the cavernous front entranceway, I could faintly hear the echoes of our voices.
I did not hear from Elizabeth, although I read that she’d been escorted home twice by the police, who found her stumbling drunk outside of the Tiffany. And I did not hear
