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Authors: Sheldon Siegel
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steps of thecity’s magnificent Grace Cathedral, which sits atop Nob Hill. Hissecond trophy wife, Shari, a one-time model and former S&Greceptionist, smiles politely. She’s certainly come a long way sinceshe was a giggly nineteen-year-old working our phones four years ago.From her appearance, you would never have a hint that she and Art aregoing through a nasty divorce.
I lean over and say just loud enough so Rosie and the two of them canhear me, “Well, Art, I guess it depends on how you’re using the word‘fucking’ in this context.”
Rosie stifles a chuckle. Shari keeps smiling. Art ignores me. Theywalk inside.
“They never knew what hit them,” Rosie says.
Bob had told me a few months ago he wanted a funeral just like PrincessDi’s, except Bruce Springsteen would sing “Born to Run” instead ofEiton John singing “Candle in the Wind.” As it turns out, the funeralBeth Holmes has arranged isn’t far from Bob’s wish.
The front steps of Grace look like the Academy Awards. The TVcameras, minicams and A-team reporters are here. The service itself isgoing to be filmed. Two traffic copters hover overhead. Some peopleare here just to see the celebrities. Everybody is dressed to theteeth. A thousand people are expected.
Rosie is being a good sport. Funerals are difficult in the best ofcircumstances. Funerals for assholes in your ex-husband’s former lawfirm are really tough. Even during the darkest times of our marriageand divorce, we always went to funerals together. It’s our unspokenpact. We wait for Doris to arrive.
I’ve never really been very good about funerals. It goes back to mydays as a priest. When you’re the low priest on the totem pole, youtend to get a lot of funeral duty. I remember doing five of them inone day for people I’d never met. I felt bad for the families. I didmy standard spiel, said a few words to the families and left. Toughgig, funerals.
The paparazzi remain at a respectful distance and I have naive hopesthis will not turn into a circus. Then Skipper’s black Lincoln arrivesand the feeding frenzy begins. The cameramen jockey for position asthe reporters shove microphones into his face. His longsufferingwife, Natalie, a well-known society matron, looks embarrassed. Skippermouths appropriate sentiments about attending his partner’s funeral andsays the DA’s office is working day and night to solve the case. Tohis credit, Skipper seems to be resisting the urge to turn Bob’sfuneral into a press conference.
My former partners file past without saying much. Chuckles tries toignore me, but his wife stops to chat. I’ve always liked Ellen. Forthe life of me, I can’t figure out how an outgoing interior decoratorwho serves on the symphony and opera boards has managed to stay marriedto Chuckles for thirty-two years.
Maybe she’s a closet tax-code junkie.
Doris arrives with her daughter, Jenny. I hug them and they shakehands with Rosie. Jenny’s pretty face is pale and she looks sad in herdark dress. She’s taking this harder than I would have thought. Dorisnever warmed up to Rosie.
It goes back to the bad old days after we got divorced. Things werepretty acrimonious between us when I first started working at theSimpson firm. We had a big fight over custody. Big mistake on mypart. If I had a chance to do anything over again, I would have letRosie have custody from the beginning.
It’s amazing how otherwise rational people can turn into jerks whenemotions run amok. We finally called a truce when Rosie’s mom and mymom got together and told us we were going to screw up Grace’s entirelife if we didn’t stop acting like idiots. I’m glad we listened tothem.
“Pretty rough time, Doris,” I say.
“You got that right.”
I turn to Jenny.
“How are things at Stanford?”
“One more semester to go.”
“Are you still thinking about law school?”
“I’m not sure. I applied to UCLA, Hastings and Boalt. We’ll see. Ihave a lot on my mind.”
I’d like to be twenty-two again
I lean over and say just loud enough so Rosie and the two of them canhear me, “Well, Art, I guess it depends on how you’re using the word‘fucking’ in this context.”
Rosie stifles a chuckle. Shari keeps smiling. Art ignores me. Theywalk inside.
“They never knew what hit them,” Rosie says.
Bob had told me a few months ago he wanted a funeral just like PrincessDi’s, except Bruce Springsteen would sing “Born to Run” instead ofEiton John singing “Candle in the Wind.” As it turns out, the funeralBeth Holmes has arranged isn’t far from Bob’s wish.
The front steps of Grace look like the Academy Awards. The TVcameras, minicams and A-team reporters are here. The service itself isgoing to be filmed. Two traffic copters hover overhead. Some peopleare here just to see the celebrities. Everybody is dressed to theteeth. A thousand people are expected.
Rosie is being a good sport. Funerals are difficult in the best ofcircumstances. Funerals for assholes in your ex-husband’s former lawfirm are really tough. Even during the darkest times of our marriageand divorce, we always went to funerals together. It’s our unspokenpact. We wait for Doris to arrive.
I’ve never really been very good about funerals. It goes back to mydays as a priest. When you’re the low priest on the totem pole, youtend to get a lot of funeral duty. I remember doing five of them inone day for people I’d never met. I felt bad for the families. I didmy standard spiel, said a few words to the families and left. Toughgig, funerals.
The paparazzi remain at a respectful distance and I have naive hopesthis will not turn into a circus. Then Skipper’s black Lincoln arrivesand the feeding frenzy begins. The cameramen jockey for position asthe reporters shove microphones into his face. His longsufferingwife, Natalie, a well-known society matron, looks embarrassed. Skippermouths appropriate sentiments about attending his partner’s funeral andsays the DA’s office is working day and night to solve the case. Tohis credit, Skipper seems to be resisting the urge to turn Bob’sfuneral into a press conference.
My former partners file past without saying much. Chuckles tries toignore me, but his wife stops to chat. I’ve always liked Ellen. Forthe life of me, I can’t figure out how an outgoing interior decoratorwho serves on the symphony and opera boards has managed to stay marriedto Chuckles for thirty-two years.
Maybe she’s a closet tax-code junkie.
Doris arrives with her daughter, Jenny. I hug them and they shakehands with Rosie. Jenny’s pretty face is pale and she looks sad in herdark dress. She’s taking this harder than I would have thought. Dorisnever warmed up to Rosie.
It goes back to the bad old days after we got divorced. Things werepretty acrimonious between us when I first started working at theSimpson firm. We had a big fight over custody. Big mistake on mypart. If I had a chance to do anything over again, I would have letRosie have custody from the beginning.
It’s amazing how otherwise rational people can turn into jerks whenemotions run amok. We finally called a truce when Rosie’s mom and mymom got together and told us we were going to screw up Grace’s entirelife if we didn’t stop acting like idiots. I’m glad we listened tothem.
“Pretty rough time, Doris,” I say.
“You got that right.”
I turn to Jenny.
“How are things at Stanford?”
“One more semester to go.”
“Are you still thinking about law school?”
“I’m not sure. I applied to UCLA, Hastings and Boalt. We’ll see. Ihave a lot on my mind.”
I’d like to be twenty-two again
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