What I saw, whom I saw, what I heard, and what I
observed inside the house at 1914 Weldon Terrace,
Brookline, Massachusetts, after the funeral.
Platters of baked ham, London broil, and carved turkey
breast. Herb-crusted salmon. Roasted potatoes seasoned
with rosemary and sea salt. English cheddar, Bel Paese,
and Port Salut. Concord and sultana grapes on the vine.
Spinach salad with candied walnuts, diced Fuji apples,
cherry tomatoes, and peach vinaigrette. Croissants and
brioches. Butter cookies and berry tarts. Coffee, regular
and decaffeinated. Black, green, and peppermint teas.
The Reverend Andrew White, who delivered the eulogy
at First Presbyterian Church on Harvard Street.
Monica Van Dorn, who confided to him the deceased was
like a sister to her, though they hadn’t spoken in ten years.
Helen Farmington, who ate deviled eggs and reminisced
with Dana Caldicott, who sipped tonic water, about the last
dinner party. “Her stuffed veal chop was the best I’ve had.”
Richard Schmidt, a Goldman Sachs managing director,
who admitted to Tyler Danton, the famous trial attorney,
that he’d carried a torch for the lady who was laid to rest
that morning. “Let’s keep this entre nous, counselor.”
Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Enders, who lived a half mile away
on North Kerrigan Street and hadn’t known the deceased
well, but deemed it proper to pay their respects and raise
a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in her memory.
Katherine, daughter number one, now residing in Marin
County with her architect husband, Peter Meehan, who
spoke about his designs for a new office complex with
Caroline Schmidt, who talked about her latest book on
Keats, then excused herself and left without Richard.
Diane, daughter number two, who, to the family’s distress,
at twenty-one converted to Roman Catholicism and joined
the Carmelite nuns, but in her novitiate decided her calling
wasn’t God, it was culinary school, and whom the line cooks
in the Chicago Loop restaurant called Sister Sous-Chef.
Ethan, child number three, still known, at thirty-four, as B.B.
(“Baby Brother”), accountant turned graphic artist, now living
in Montreal, who arrived in town fifteen minutes before Mama
passed, her body in the hospital bed his first sight of her since
he crossed the border four years, seven months, one week ago.
The children dressed in dutiful black, one eyeing the Baccarat
goblets in the armoire, one inspecting a Tiffany lamp on an end
table, and all of them, between the kisses and commiserations,
casting glances at the Warhol above the sideboard.
