Good Riddance(43)

“Lucky her.”

“She knows what happened between us—you and me. After I told her, she refused a second date, and a third, because of what it said about me. She thinks I used you.”

“I’d like to have been a fly on the wall when you made that confession. Why would you even do that on a first date? Oh, I know—twelve steps? Rehab inspired you.”

“Except I never made it to rehab.”

The funeral director had entered the vestibule, had collected the guest book, and was standing by in obsequious fashion. “Sir? Are you coming?” he finally asked.

“Do I have to?”

“Have to what?” I asked. “Because I hope it’s not the cemetery you’re skipping.”

“No, the crematorium.”

The funeral director said, “Not at all. Most don’t.”

Holden said, “Okay, thanks. You’ll drop off the ashes?”

“Of course.”

When the funeral director had bowed his way out of the church, I said, “You forgot to tell him not to bother you; just leave the ashes with your doorman.”

“Don’t be mean, Daff.”

I had been mean. I touched his forearm. “Okay. Finish what you were saying about the girlfriend. Obviously she agreed to give you another chance.”

“I’m seeing a shrink. That was one of the conditions to reestablish trust with Julie.”

I was tempted to mimic his “reestablish trust” as both psychobabble and a fib, but all I asked was “If everything is so fine with Julie, why wasn’t she here today?”

“I told you. I couldn’t show up with a new woman by my side when hardly anyone knew about our divorce.”

“So they’d find out right here in the receiving line. ‘Yup. Single again. Didn’t my mother tell you? No, don’t feel bad. It was never meant to be. Say hello to Julie.’”

“You know why Mother kept it under wraps? She thought people would talk, might say, ‘Like mother, like son.’”

I had to ask, didn’t I, before parting; before never crossing paths with him again, “Is everything going to you?”

He looked up from whatever text he was writing. “Are you asking about my mother’s will?”

“I am.”

“I have no idea. Nor would it be any of your business.”

“It’s kind of my business, because I didn’t know when I signed the scroungy prenup that I’d be out on my ass and living on paltry alimony payments. You do realize that I’m struggling?”

“Like you were when I met you. And that was struggling without an alimony check every month.”

“I think a raise is fair, considering your new circumstances. And as Julie pointed out, you used me.”

“You really think this is the time and place?”

I looked around with some stagy gaping. “What place? An empty church right after I did you the giant favor of standing next to you and accepting condolences for your mother? I was duped into marriage. And when a woman signs a prenup, she doesn’t think, This is what I’ll be living on.”

“Because you thought this—us—was forever?”

“I certainly didn’t expect I’d be out on my ass in a year.”

“Correction: You threw me out.”

Technically, he was right, but why litigate that now? “I’m assuming you’re getting everything—the apartment, the money, the furnishings, the artwork, the ceramics. You need to do some deacquisitioning. I can help, in a way.”

“What way?”

“After you liquidate all that, you can give some to me.”

He expelled a Ha that was pure scorn. “As compensation for coming today?”

“No. Out of fairness and to help clear your conscience. You knew from the get-go that the prenup would be my living wage until I got back on my feet. I sure as hell didn’t. I signed it under false pretenses.” I added, for good measure, “A jury would award me damages for pain and suffering. You’re going to be richer than ever while your only ex-wife is living in squalor. We could be the plot of a tragic opera.”

“You stand by that—pain and suffering and squalor?”

“I live in an apartment that could fit into”—I gestured around us—“this vestibule, no, two-thirds of it.”

“Didn’t I buy you that apartment?”

“See? You have no idea what my situation is. No, you did not buy me the apartment. I rent.”

“I have to talk to my lawyer and the trust attorney—”

“Those tightwads? They’ll both say no. And let me say on Julie’s behalf—hire someone with a heart to draw up your next prenup.”

“That’s a leap. I’ve only known her for a few months. And I’d prefer to leave Julie out of this—”

“Fine. Do you have a check with you?”

“Who would hit up a man at his mother’s funeral?”

“Don’t change the subject. I didn’t know this would come up today. But carpe diem.”

That was true. My demand wasn’t premeditated. I’d planned nothing more than slipping into a pew and leaving before any condolences needed to be expressed. I seemed to be making progress, though. “I don’t see any reason to wait until your mother’s assets are distributed. We can end this conversation right now if you promise to put a check in the mail—”