Good Riddance(42)

Holden spoke next. “My mother was, as most of you know, smart, stylish, even—some might say—charming. She was politically astute and generous when it came to a few pet charities, emphasis quite literally on ‘pet.’ She was passionate about this city, about her home and its furnishings and, yes”—he looked toward the priest—“its knickknacks. She liked to travel. She could take a cruise that lasted six months, or so it seemed to me as a child. And what made that all right? Modeling Princess Elizabeth, who left her children behind when visiting her subjects all over the globe. I think you know where I’m going with this: Bibi wasn’t the most maternal woman in the world. She had me at forty in the last gasp of a marriage and, as she liked to say, with her last egg.” He surveyed the room, eyebrows arched. “Dad? You here? Apparently not,” which got a nervous chuckle in the room.

He continued, “If you’re doubting Bibi’s capacity for great love, just ask any one of the champion French bulldogs who worshipped the ground she walked on. By the way—anyone need a dog?” More nervous chuckles.

I was half-appalled, half-thrilled, wondering if Holden was drunk. The priest seemed frozen. A white-haired man in the front row stood, walked up the altar stairs, met Holden at the rostrum, and said, “If I may.”

“Be my guest,” said Holden. He flipped through the notes he hadn’t yet consulted. “Oh, right. I forgot to say that she graduated from Vassar and was proud of that, though Smith was her first choice.” He shrugged. “In her own way, she loved me.” He nodded. “Yes, I think that’s an accurate statement.”

The man now had his arm around Holden’s shoulders. He identified himself as the husband of Bibi’s younger sister, Mary Jane. “I think our nephew suffered a shock—we all did. Bibi was fine one day. And then the call came from the hospital.” He tilted his head toward Holden, a silent acknowledgement of It’s the shock talking.

Holden softened his unwanted-son expression long enough to say, “Thank you. I’m good now.” Meaning: Go back and sit down.

He closed with “I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself up here.” He started his descent, then darted back to say, “Thanks for coming.”

Was that it for Bibi’s good-bye, two lame eulogies? The mourners were stirring, whispering. The priest read the Twenty-third Psalm and said that the family would form a receiving line in the vestibule. And please don’t forget to sign the guest book.

How to escape? Only one of the aisles led to the receiving line. I excused myself across a row, and headed for the front door that was farthest from Holden. I ignored the guest book, but once past it, I stopped, backtracked. I’d come, hadn’t I? Politicians attended the funerals of their mortal enemies. Estranged children and long-lost friends turned up after decades of not speaking. I might as well go on record.

I was the first to sign. As I pondered whether I should set an example and write a word or two of condolence, I heard a male voice calling my name.

Holden’s. He was gesturing toward the meager line of mourners. “You should be here, too,” he shouted.

I pointed to my own breastbone. Me?

More motioning. Here. Come here.

Does one argue with a man in shock, who pays you alimony, who is alone in a receiving line except for Aunt Mary Jane and Uncle Reg?

I did look the part this day, slightly mournful and dignified in my big black hat and dark glasses. My coat—also black, part cashmere, with mother-of-pearl buttons as big as Ritz crackers—had been purchased by its first owner at Bonwit Teller. As soon as I stood next to Holden, my inner actress came to the fore. “Thank you so much for coming,” I said to the mourners. Or “ I’m Daphne” with no further designation.

When the last mourner had either embraced me or shaken my hand, and his baffled aunt and uncle had departed, I said to Holden, “Didn’t see that coming.”

“Cardiac arrest. No history of heart trouble.”

“I didn’t mean your mother. I meant your pulling me into the receiving line. Why confuse people? They might think we’re back together.”

“So? I never see them.”

“But—”

“Hardly anyone knows we got divorced.”

“Well, this could’ve been a good time to catch them up, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t. I was married and divorced in the space of—what was it—nine, ten months? My mother didn’t advertise that, and I don’t think she ever forgave either of us.”

Instead of pointing out that I was innocent of any wrongdoing except stupidity, I said, “That was some eulogy you delivered. I could’ve done better and I didn’t even like her.”

“That’s cruel. People know me. And it did get a few laughs, didn’t it?”

I said something quasi-kind along the lines of “I’m sure many found your honesty . . . refreshing.”

“Maybe I should’ve talked about the good times. Like a birthday party instead of her abandoning me for six months. Well, not abandoning. I had a nanny. I was no worse for the wear. I probably didn’t even notice she was gone.”

“It’s never easy, even when they’re not candidates for mothers of the year.”

He must have thought we had entered a confidence-sharing zone because he volunteered, “I’m seeing someone.”