Jamie breaks down talking about how quickly his mother turned for the worse, I carefully observe the reactions from the crowd. I file these looks away in my brain for reference in the future. I wouldn’t have to pay such close attention if only I could still conjure these emotions naturally. But I haven’t felt remorse, I haven’t felt sympathy and I haven’t shed a genuine tear in as long as I can remember.
The other two speeches are delivered by two of Juliette’s childhood friends. I listen to the adulation and respect in the stories they tell; I laugh when the crowd laughs and bow my head when the crowd cries, just like I’m supposed to. When the pallbearers lift Juliette’s coffin and Louis Armstrong plays, I pull out of Claire’s grasp and escort my son down the aisle, closely following his mother’s body. Juliette wasn’t the first to die, and she wouldn’t be the last.
* * *
“Jamie,” I call when he finally exits the funeral home, “why don’t you walk with us?”
Jamie extracts himself politely from a stranger’s embrace and shuffles quickly to my side like a good obedient son. He is almost exactly my height, with the same thick, dark brown hair, mine developing dignified silver at the temples. Most of his good genes come from me.
Seeing a group approaching to offer condolences, I feel immediately exhausted and turn south on Madison Avenue, hurrying Jamie and Claire along. I don’t have the energy to fake it with these people. Several teenagers, must be Jamie’s friends from school, are huddled together smoking cigarettes on the southwest corner of Eightieth Street. One of them reaches out a fist as we walk by, saying, “Sorry, bro.” Jamie fist-bumps him and nods with a tight-lipped smile as I pull him closer to me.
Claire fishes out a Kleenex from her handbag and dabs at the sweat beading on her upper lip. The heat doesn’t bother me, and I rarely sweat. I think she looks sloppy using tissues, so I hand her the pocket square from my jacket. As we walk east on Seventy-Eighth Street toward Park Avenue, I see a taxi pull up in front of our destination, and I watch Katherine slither out with her third husband.
I stop walking, stalling our group—I can’t bear the idea of sharing the elevator ride to the penthouse with my ex-mother-in-law and her shiny, replacement husband. Claire takes this opportunity to wrap Jamie in a kindhearted embrace. As soon as she pulls away, I follow suit and squeeze my son into my chest. I scan my surroundings for witnesses, but unfortunately, no one saw the hug. Disappointed that my shows of affection garnered no attention, I release Jamie and we walk the rest of the block to Katherine’s apartment in silence.
I elongate my stride, leaving the other two behind, and quickly walk to Katherine’s to get this charade over with. Claire and Jamie watch as I kiss both her cheeks. I hold her waist and look through her. If you didn’t know me, you would call me sympathetic. Genial. Honest. Katherine revels in the attention, playing the part of mourning mother to perfection. I feed off this, and it helps me fall into the performance we put on in public.
Swarms of funeral-goers enter the palatial apartment, marching through the required rounds, commiserating with Juliette’s family and close friends. Although we’ve been divorced for a decade, Juliette never remarried, so the crowd treats me as a grieving widower, and they all lavish me with hollow gestures of comfort. I delight in the attention from their frivolous posturing, wondering if all the kindness could lead me to have real feelings about Juliette’s death.
Claire is keeping to herself near the bar, plucking bobby pins from her hair and arranging them in patterns on a mother-of-pearl coaster. Surprised by my approach, she stammers to attention, yanking the last pin from her hair, causing it to cascade down her shoulders.
“Have you seen Harrison?” I ask, not quite looking at her.
“He walked in a few minutes ago with Ethan and Elizabeth. I think he’s still talking to Katherine.” Claire is affectionately stroking my forearm, looking for some trace of loss or bereavement in my face.
“Charlie wasn’t with them?” I muse hopefully.
“No, I didn’t see Charlotte,” Claire responds with disappointment. “It would be pretty inappropriate for her to be at Juliette’s wake, don’t you think?”
“Hmm.” I swallow hard, momentarily picturing Charlotte in a lacy black bra. I shake the image out of my head and move toward Harrison, leaving Claire alone with her champagne and stack of bobby pins.
Harrison’s fat, ruddy face lights up when I approach him, and he promptly puts down his cocktail, freeing his hands to pull me in for an awkward embrace. I hate it when he does this.
“Peter! How the hell are ya? So sorry to see you under these circumstances. Juliette was such a lovely girl. Beautiful. Just beautiful. Shame. Shame to see her go so young.” Harrison keeps a sweaty palm on my shoulder and shakes his head. I shrug off his hand and crack the bones of my neck. I stand nearly six foot two, and Harrison is the only man in the room taller than I am.
“Thank you, Harry. And thank you for coming,” I say, not caring at all. “I see you brought Elizabeth and Ethan. Charlie’s not here?”
“No.” Harrison shakes his head. “My daughter is in Phoenix doing some charity thing with kids over there. Something noble and important, as usual.”
“Right, out there doing God’s work, like Juliette used to do.” I’m not listening to Harrison. Instead I’m looking at Claire and Jamie and watching how their interaction seems a little too familiar, a little too comfortable.
“Seriously, now, you all right?” He seems to be attempting genuine sympathy. “Everything working out with the custody stuff?”
“Custody shouldn’t hit any snags. There are details to work out with Juliette’s estate but all that is tied up in trusts...” I begin moving away from him, terminating the conversation. I approach Claire and Jamie to investigate whatever’s going on with them.
I watch several times as Claire stops herself from leaning over to pet Jamie’s hair like a mother would. Jamie has Juliette’s narrow angular features positioned on my strong-chinned, high-cheekboned face. Like his hair, his eyes are mine, a striking hazel-green, with emerald rings rimming the iris and gold flecks scattered inside. Good genes.
“Hey, kiddo,” I say, mimicking the family sitcoms I feel I should emulate in this situation, “how’s it going?”
“It’s fine,” Jamie responds, dropping his head to his chest. “I’m okay.”
“You need any help getting ready to move into my place?” But I’m not listening to Jamie’s response. And I’m not listening when Claire tells me to stop touching her ass in public. I would like to listen and attend to my family, but I just can’t bring myself to care.
We met while I was working for a prestigious law firm. I had graduated first in my class from Columbia Law and was offered ludicrous starting salaries and promises of professional distinction at many firms across the city. I was quickly bored with the work; the courtroom wins came easily to me, and I didn’t feel the clientele was bringing me the sort of challenge or notoriety I was looking for.
I was working toward a better future for myself and was open to exploring all avenues, so I accepted an invitation to a talk and reception given by Eileen Cutler, one of the foremost environmental
