Thirty-Six
“He was a maverick, a genius, and the most brilliant man I have ever met. He was also my mentor, and my friend, and the world
will never be the same without him in it.” I keep thinking about Clara standing at the front of the church, how her voice
cracked, how she burst into tears. My own tears dried up when Clara walked up there. I wish I had called Scarlett back when
she left messages on my phone all those days. She had wanted me to speak, wanted to know who else should be speaking, but
I never called her back.
This is what I get. A series of people who didn’t know my father like I did, talking about him, sharing memories, when I should
be the one standing up there.
Scarlett is the last to speak, flanked by Paloma and Nico who don’t seem to have realized their father has died, or, if they have, haven’t been able to process it yet.
Nico reaches behind Scarlett and pokes her.
Halfway through Scarlett’s speech, he starts playing with a truck he has brought with him.
I see a few people scowling at them, whispering to one another, doubtless about their insensitivity, their lack of awareness, lack of grieving.
Children grieve differently, I want to tell them; it may not emerge today, but it will manifest sideways, in ways we cannot possibly begin to predict.
I want to run up there and scoop Paloma and Nico up, take them far away where they won’t be judged. I want to berate Scarlett
for turning this into theater, for there she is, beautifully made-up, her hair blown out, huge black Gucci sunglasses covering
her eyes, a skintight black crepe dress clinging to her every curve, and a strategically placed black fascinator on her head.
Who wears a black fascinator to a funeral? Who even has a funereal fascinator? Fascinators are supposed to be pink, or cream,
or pastel colors. Not black, with, I realize with shock, a crystal tarantula sprawled on top of the netting.
She looks like a black widow, and I have to believe this is deliberate. Scarlett loves nothing more than being the center
of attention.
I turn to survey the crowd. Hundreds of people have shown up, so many there is an overflow in the two church halls. I recognize
many employees from ipryy, people who have toiled alongside my father, putting up with both his rages, and his extraordinary
charm.
There is Gus, who my father once called “a fucking dope with bad hair,” despite his being one of Marty’s longest and most
loyal employees. My father had to crawl to Gus’s house with an offer to double his salary and company stock to win him back.
By the end of that evening the two of them were sitting on the cedar deck of Gus’s apartment, getting drunk on beer and laughing
as if nothing had ever happened. That was my father’s charm.
There is Tim Wellesley, head of corporate PR who my father blamed for every bad piece of press ever written, who was also
the first person my father called when they had to strategize for a forthcoming release. “This man’s a genius,” said my father,
frequently, just as frequently screaming at him for allowing “fucking journalists” access to information.
There is Keith Berger, head of Legal, who my father regularly called into the office to celebrate a successful litigation case. A Warriors fan, he was usually at my father’s side for the live games in his office.
There are hundreds of people my age, some of whom I recognize from the office, many of whom I suspect may or may not have
crossed paths with my father, but have shown up to pay their respects.
At the end of the service there’s a slideshow with pictures of my father, and it is this, finally, that sends me over the
edge. The photos are set to one of his favorite Led Zeppelin songs, “Thank You.” As Robert Plant’s voice fills the church,
it’s as if I’m being squeezed so tight I can hardly breathe. A montage of memories fill my head. My father arriving at my
doorstep in his classic Mustang. My father and me sharing ice cream on a park bench. My father grabbing me and putting me
on a swing in a park, laughing in delight when he pushes me so hard, I almost go over the beam. My body heaves in a bid to
keep the sobs inside.
Someone passes me a handkerchief, and as I bury my head in the large square of soft cotton, giving in to silent sobs, my body
shaking, I see it is Jerome. He puts his arm around my back, holding me tight.
I miss my father so much. How do I get through the rest of today without him? How do I get through the rest of my life?
The world comes back to Marty’s house. Hundreds, maybe even a thousand, people, to drink wine, beer, eat the tiny hors d’oeuvres
being passed around by handsome young men in black-and-white uniforms. Scarlett has had the foresight to organize tents. And
flowers. And high-top tables. And chairs. And sofas on the grass. It is like walking into an enormous bar mitzvah, but without
the music.
She stands at the entrance, receiving people, and beckons me over.
I can’t. I don’t have it in me to join a receiving line and talk to strangers; to hear their stories, to comfort them or thank them for coming, tell them how much it would have meant to my father.
I wait for Scarlett’s attention to be diverted before darting into the house.
“I’m sorry.” A young waiter stops me. “There are portable bathrooms outside. We’re not granting access to the house.”
“I’m Missy. I’m his daughter.” I don’t mean for this to come out in a withering tone, but nevertheless, it emerges in a withering
tone. I enjoy his mortification and subsequent apology as he steps aside.
Inside, the caterers have taken over the kitchen. They look at me with vague curiosity, too busy sliding trays into the oven,
garnishing tiny lines of tuna tartare on cucumber slices with fronds of dill; filling shot glasses with gazpacho topped with
tiny cubed hard-boiled egg whites.
A woman steps through the French doors from the garden. I don’t know her, but smart woman, I think. She avoided the front
door to sneak into the house, and stops a busy waitress to ask whether she might have some water.
“Ask someone over there.” The waitress is on her way out, balancing a tray of spinach and Gruyère puffs, and nods in my direction.
“I’ll get it,” I call out, filling a cup with filtered water from the fridge.
The woman, middle-aged, comfortably frumpy, a kind face, narrows her eyes after she drains the water. “You’re his daughter,
aren’t you?” I nod.
“I was one of your father’s nurses at the hospital.”
“Thank you so much for everything,” I say. “I’m sure you made him comfortable.”
“He was comfortable, but it was such a shame to see him so confused at the end.”
I look at her, not understanding. I saw him the day before, and he seemed fine. Frail, tearful, fragile perhaps. But confused? No.
“He didn’t seem confused to me,” I say. “He seemed mostly unconscious. Or asleep. He woke up briefly and . . .” I choke up,
remembering how he apologized for my childhood, wished he had been a better father.
She nods and smiles. “That often happens at the end. When loved ones appear there is often a moment of clarity and recognition.
It’s a wonderful thing, and completely inexplicable, as if they are allowed to come back from wherever they are in order to
say goodbye.”
“What do you mean, ‘wherever they are’?”
“I don’t want to upset you,” she says. I insist she tell me what she meant. “He was mostly unconscious, but when he was awake,
he seemed agitated and upset. He didn’t recognize any of us, and didn’t know where he was.” She leans in, lowering her voice.
“He didn’t recognize his wife,” she whispers.
I feel a stab of satisfaction that he recognized me, but it is quickly replaced with an unsettled feeling I can’t quite put
my finger on. There’s a question at the back of my mind, as if the cogs are whirring, but not quite fitting together. He was
confused, I think. He didn’t recognize Scarlett. What is she trying to tell me, or rather, what am I not putting together?
“Were there other visitors he didn’t recognize?” I ask as it slowly dawns on me.
“He didn’t recognize anyone.”
Anyone?
“Do you recall him signing anything?”
She shakes her head. “I wasn’t the only one on duty, though. But—” she frowns “—I wouldn’t have thought he was in a position
to sign anything. He definitely wasn’t compos mentis. The poor man had no idea what was going on at the end.”
I knew it. I knew my father wouldn’t have signed those papers getting rid of me.
Clara took advantage of his confusion to sign the company over to her.
I knew my father. However flawed he was, and God knows he was flawed, he would never have done that.
If he was unhappy with me he would have spoken to me directly; he would never have kicked me out and installed Clara. Not if he was of sane mind.
“What was your name again?” I ask. Linda Collins, she says. I nod, and when she leaves, I make a note in my iPhone. I have
no idea yet what I am going to do with this information, but if I need her, I need to be able to find her again.
I go back outside then, fueled by a rage that is unexpected, that has me feeling more alive than I have in days. My father
is dead, I think, but I am alive. I have absolutely no idea what I am going to do, but as his daughter, I will not sit back
and let his legacy disappear.
A hand on my arm causes me to turn. “Missy!” Scarlett kisses me on each cheek. “How are you?”
“Holding up,” I say. “How are you?”
“Holding up,” she echoes, sighing dramatically.
“Scarlett, can I ask you something? Did you know about Clara coming to the hospital and having my father sign papers?”
Scarlett shakes her head. “Papers? No. I don’t know anything about that. She did come to the hospital, but it was to say goodbye.”
“Was it on Thursday?”
Scarlett thinks, before nodding. “Yes. It was Thursday.”
“And did you sit with them?”
“No. I gave them privacy.” She shrugs, unconcerned if it has nothing to do with her, or her children, and turns as someone