Big Summer(87)

“Smart,” Darshi murmured. I agreed. Announcing that someone had a genius for living excused all kinds of material shortcomings. Never finished that dissertation, or committed to a relationship, or a job? No worries! Your life was your art!

“My sister had a brilliant future ahead of her. It is a tragedy that her days were cut short.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jerking. “Miss you, sis,” he whispered. As he sat down, my mother started to cry. The rabbi walked back to the lectern.

“And now, Drue’s friend Daphne Berg will speak.”

My father squeezed my hand. My mother patted my shoulder. Darshi pressed her lips together in a tight line. I got to my feet, smoothed out my jumpsuit, and walked to the front of the room, with the eyes of the crowd on me. The trip couldn’t have been more than ten yards, but it felt like it took me forever. I unfolded the sheet of paper I’d had in my pocket and smoothed it out on the lectern. “Drue and I went to school together, right here at Lathrop,” I began. “I met her in the sixth grade. I remember thinking that I couldn’t believe someone as beautiful and as glamorous as Drue even noticed me. She always had a kind of star quality, even in sixth grade.” That got a few laughs, and I felt myself relax incrementally. “Drue was everything people said. Funny, and sharp, and smart, and beautiful, and occasionally ruthless.” That got a little more laughter. “Like her brother said, Drue had a talent for life. When you were with her, you were always your most interesting self. Any party she walked into got more fun. And every day could turn into a vacation, or a party, or an impromptu trip to the Hamptons.” I heard a woman sniffle, a man noisily blowing his nose. I unfolded the piece of paper that I’d printed out that morning, a poem I’d read in high school, called “To Keep the Memory of Charlotte Forten Grimké.” “This is for Drue,” I said, and began to read.

Still are there wonders of the dark and day:

The muted shrilling of shy things at night,

So small beneath the stars and moon;

The peace, dream-frail, but perfect while the light

Lies softly on the leaves at noon.

These are, and these will be

Until eternity;

But she who loved them well has gone away.

Each dawn, while yet the east is veiléd grey,

The birds about her window wake and sing;

And far away, each day, some lark

I know is singing where the grasses swing;

Some robin calls and calls at dark.

These are, and these will be

Until eternity;

But she who loved them well has gone away.

The wild flowers that she loved down green ways stray;

Her roses lift their wistful buds at dawn,

But not for eyes that loved them best;

Only her little pansies are all gone,

Some lying softly on her breast.

And flowers will bud and be

Until eternity;

But she who loved them well has gone away.

Where has she gone? And who is there to say?

But this we know: her gentle spirit moves

And is where beauty never wanes,

Perchance by other streams, mid other groves;

And to us there, ah! she remains

A lovely memory

Until eternity;

She came, she loved, and then she went away.



The night before, I’d been working on my speech, and I’d asked my father for advice. If you don’t have anything good to say, he’d counseled, read a poem. I knew the one I’d chosen wasn’t a perfect fit—Drue was many things, but “gentle spirit” was not among them. Still, the poem had the benefit of being more about the world the departed had left—the flowers, the mist, the moon—than about the departed herself. But I loved the line about the muted shrilling of shy things at night. And I loved the idea of Drue as “a lovely memory, until eternity.” All of that promise, and none of it fulfilled.

I looked out into the audience. My mother was sniffling. Drue’s father sat, stone-faced and unmoving. Trip Cavanaugh was crying. As I refolded my page, Lily Cavanaugh started to tremble. First just her neck, her head, then her shoulders, and finally her entire torso, every part shuddering as if she’d been doused in ice. Her husband appeared not to notice, moving his hand up and down and up and down again even as she shook as if she was coming apart underneath his palm. Pat, pat, pat. Then, as I watched, Mrs. Cavanaugh bent forward from her waist, opened her mouth and gave a terrible keening shriek, a noise that reminded me of a sound I’d heard when a neighbor’s cat had been hit by a minivan; an agonized, animal howling. It went on and on and on, endlessly, as if Mrs. Cavanaugh no longer required air, until, finally, Trip Cavanaugh took one of her shoulders and Robert Cavanaugh took the other, and the two of them hoisted her upright. I’d meant to take my seat but found that I couldn’t move, as Robert Cavanaugh’s eyes pinned me in place. For an endless moment, he held his wife and glared at me, before helping his son half-walk, half-carry Lily Cavanaugh out of the room.

I walked down the aisle and collapsed in my seat, hearing Nana’s voice in my head. Shut your mouth, you’re drawing flies. In my pocket, my telephone buzz, buzz, buzzed. Darshi raised an eyebrow. I pulled the phone out to mute it and saw a picture of myself, a shot that must have been taken twenty minutes ago as I was walking into the school. The jumpsuit’s fabric flowed over my body, the wide legs making my waist look small, the neckline flattering my chest. In my red lipstick and my dark glasses, I looked as close to glamorous as I’d ever been. I hated myself for the tiny thrill I felt, admiring myself while my friend was dead and my friend’s mother was wailing out her grief. Hang in there, Leela had written. She’d added a lipstick emoji, a manicured-hand emoji, and two red hearts, one whole, one broken. I put my phone back in my pocket as Rabbi Medloff returned to the podium. “Please rise and join me in the mourners’ Kaddish,” he said. The room filled with the sounds of movement as everyone got to their feet and the rabbi began to chant, in Hebrew, the prayer for the dead.