by Chris Knopf
“What’s that mean?”
“They weren’t fighting.”
He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Them two? Jesus Christ, they was like fucking teenagers. No”–he looked up at the sky, trying to get the words right–“they was like a two-sided coin. Different, but equally the same as each other. Like I said, she coulda done a lot worse. There was some respect there between me and Ed. That’s what I told those other assholes that come ’round. And I’m not going against it.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I said, letting it go unacknowledged that he’d just implied I was also an asshole.
“Was she in any trouble that you knew of?” I asked. “Mixed up with people she shouldn’t have been?”
His expression, which had been an uneasy blend of hostility and nervous fear, shifted all the way to hostile. The air around us dropped about ten degrees.
“Hear this,” he said, sticking his face about an inch from mine. “Eugenie weren’t no princess. That’s probably my fault. Her and her brother didn’t have much of an upbringing, not havin’ a mother through most of it. But I’m here to tell you, when it came to flying, the girl was a straight line. No hanky-panky, no bullshit. That’s all there is,” he said, and after wrenching Guthrie back inside the house, he finally shut the door.
Okay, I said to myself, that went well. I’m not bit, I’m not shot, nor am I raped, murdered, or eviscerated. All in all, a good interview.
10
I look great in my funeral outfit. The black pencil skirt and black jacket with a bit of extra shoulder, the cream-colored camisole and plain black pumps feel like the simplest yet most flattering combination conceivable for a woman with my shape and hair.
However, since I now associate this ensemble with funerals, I can’t allow myself to trot it out for cocktail parties or nights in the city. Typical.
On the other hand, when a funeral is in the offing, a little part of me says, Oh goodie, the outfit.
The notice of Eugenie’s funeral was a computer printout on an 8½ × 11 piece of paper stuck in my front screen door. The production values were much less surprising than the hand delivery. And after Ed Conklin’s escapade, a little creepy. But I was very happy to be invited. I never knew the woman, but it’s rare I go to one of these things genuinely wanting to pay my respects. No matter what she might have done along the way, I couldn’t quell that feminist surge of feeling over any brave, tough, and flawed female desperado. This one daring to fly above the clouds.
And I was, after all, the last woman to look into her tragic eyes before she was consumed in a giant ball of flame.
The invitation didn’t say you could bring a date, but tough luck. No way Harry wasn’t going to see the funeral outfit.
“What do you got in black?” I asked him over the phone.
“My Nike cold-weather jogging suit.”
“Perfect. Does it come with a tie?” I asked. “We’re going to a funeral.”
“I have a charcoal gray gabardine. Worked okay for the last dozen or so funerals. No push back from family members.”
“Sold. You drive. It’s hard to work the pedals with my knees sewn together.”
“You’ll explain that, I’m sure.”
“Just you wait.”
The Presbyterian church where the service was held was an appropriately restrained expression of Calvinist impulses. Beautiful, simple, stolid, and brilliantly white. The clapboard exterior, not the funeral-goers. At least a third were either black or Hispanic or somewhere in between. The rest were a lively mix of white people–lots of workingmen and-women, but not exclusively. After we pulled into the parking lot, Harry parked between two German luxury cars. I was careful not to ding any door panels when I got out of the Volvo.
We were sort of late; my fault, as usual. The church was a lot bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside and was nearly filled to the rafters. From the rear pews I could scan the crowd, which is when I recorded the diverse demographics. I was impressed by how many people knew Eugenie, how different they all were, and most of all, how they were summoned. If my experience was universal.
I was ill prepared for the brevity and modesty of the service. Catholics, especially Irish Catholics, like a meaty funeral process. We think, Somebody just died; the least we can do is spend a little time and make a bit of a fuss over them, even if we rarely did so when they were alive. This service felt a lot more matter-of-fact and perfunctory, even though I could see by people’s faces and body language it was anything but insincere.
On the way out the door, we shook hands with Eugenie’s family. I sort of shocked Ed Conklin by ignoring his hand and giving him a big hug. He didn’t quite get his arms around me, but I could feel the rock-hard torso under his suit. Next to him was a young man about Ed’s height with an approximation of Ed’s build and features but completely different coloring. In fact, virtually no coloring at all. I’ve met albinos who are all the way white. This guy was close, with platinum hair, see-through skin, and pale blue eyes. He was meaty, but he lacked Ed’s ramrod posture. His shoulders were thick but slightly turned down, which forced his head forward, reminding me of a buzzard. His left arm hung at his side, and when he shook hands, he only moved his right at the elbow. Though the handshake itself was surprisingly strong.
“I’m Brian. Stepson,” he said.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said.
“Yeah. Major bummer.”
I wanted to talk to him more, but his attention had been drawn by Harry, who was explaining his presence to Ed. So I moved on to Matt Birkson, whom I didn’t hug, though he had the good manners to shake my hand and thank me for coming.
“Where’s Guthrie?” I asked.
“Didn’t bring him. Hates funerals. Too depressing.”
The only other family member was Matt’s sister, Ida, who looked exactly like an Ida should look. She had her brother’s nose, meaning small and upturned, and his hair, frizzy gray, but none of his outgoing charm. She didn’t even look at me when we shook hands, and showed no curiosity about who I was.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I repeated for the fourth time.
“Very well,” she said, dropping my hand as soon as she could. I was happy to pass her along to Harry, who actually had an effect, as he usually does.
“Mercy,” said Ida.
Luckily, after that we all retired to one of those old regular guy joints–a clubbish but nonexclusive resort with a big open restaurant area full of worn and slightly beat-up furniture, a huge bar, and plenty of bar stools. In addition to the main building, which had a great view of Gardiner’s Bay, there were cabins arrayed around the premises that you could rent for a week in the summer or for an afternoon off-season for, you know, whatever.
It was warmer than usual that night, warm enough for people to stand around outside, which they did in large groups in an area within the embrace of the club that included the still-empty swimming pool and a cabana bar.
It was lit well enough for me to make a solid ID of people I knew who weren’t relevant, and those who were. I patted Harry’s arm to let him know I was taking off, then made a beeline to the most prominent of the latter.
“Benson MacAvoy,” I said, reaching out my hand.
He swung around, grabbed my hand, and launched his giant, ragged grin.
“Jackie S,” he said.
“Swaitkowski.”
“Easy for you to say. What the hell’s the latest and greatest?”
MacAvoy was one of those people whose face nearly always expressed some form of smile. Even when his mouth settled down to get in line with the occasion, say a funeral, the corners of his eyes curved upward. His eyes were a brilliant blue, nicely accented by deep crow’s-feet. He wore a navy blue blazer, a red pinstriped shirt, and a polka-dot bow tie. Based on how he usually dressed, this must have been as somber an outfit as he could muster.
“I can’t answer open-ended questions,” I said.
“Okay then, how’s the grind?”
“Keeping me alive. I’d ask you the same thing, but I’ve never understood exactly what you do.”
He twisted around and looked at the bar, which was about twenty feet away.
“Don’t we only speak to each other over a glass of wine?” he asked.
I let him get me a Merlot; white wine seemed too festive. He got a scotch on the rocks, which he swirled around with vigor, seemingly oblivious to the booze cascading over the rim.
“I’m a political adviser,” he said, after a big gulp. “I advise corporations and individuals, and political people.”
“Advise them on what?”
“Whatever they want. I’m nonsectarian. Liberal pinkos, conservative cavemen, fringe kooks, I take them all. I’m a skill guy. Hired gun. Pro from Dover. I thought I told you. You probably don’t remember.”
Since I’d met him at a political fund-raiser, I guessed my recollection of the evening wasn’t as crisp as it should have been. I told him that.
“I remember you looked fabulous,” he said, then stood back a pace and ran his eyes from sternum to pumps and back again. “Though not this fabulous. Black’s so your color.”
Then he held my blue eyes with his in a way that signaled the sincerity of the compliment. I tried to remember what I didn’t like about him, if there was anything. Then I decided the only reason things hadn’t gotten started is because they’d already started over again with Harry.
“So you knew Eugenie,” I said.
His smile dialed down a notch.
“I was a regular. She flew me up to Westchester and New England, sometimes Upstate New York, probably two or three times a month. Loved her. Tough-ass broad that she was.”
“Explains all the expensive cars,” I said. “Didn’t think that was her natural crowd.”
“Watch it there, Jackie. My progressive clients would consider that a highly classist remark.”
“You’d advise me to forego common sense?”
“Let’s discuss it when you run for governor.”
He took a sip of scotch and used his hand to comb back his wavy hair, which didn’t need combing. Made me think that’s how it came to look like that—constant hand combing. I thought of my own hair, equally dense and in the same general color spectrum. I started to wonder what our children would look like, then suddenly had to shake free the subsequent gush of mental images.
“Do you know Janie Wilson?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Plant Girl? You bet. Love Plant Girl.”
“I think her show’s called The Merry Gardener. And don’t let your progressives hear you call her a girl.”
He liked that.
“I don’t know her socially, exactly, but she’s a regular on the fund-raising circuit. Local star power.”
“Like the Children’s Relief Fund?”
“You mean last summer? Were you there?”
I pulled my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and scrolled through Eugenie’s photos until I came to the one taken at the event. I handed MacAvoy the phone.
“Do you know any of these people?” I asked.
He looked at me with cheerful curiosity.
“Am I allowed to ask why?” he asked as he studied the shot.
“You’re totally allowed to ask, but I totally can’t tell you. Client confidentiality. But you’d be a total ace if you helped anyway.”
“I’m already a total ace, but what the hell.”
He cocked his head, trying to get the tiny image into focus.
“Akim Sharadze is hanging there with one of his best buds, the handsome and charming Benson MacAvoy,” he said. “Another best bud, the distinguished and dedicated Decker Daggit, is probably hitting on the aforementioned Janie Wilson, who doesn’t seem to mind.”
“She’s married with two kids.”
“And?”
So now there was something for me to not like about him. Took care of the image of crazed children with enormous manes of wavy orange hair running around the yard. He must have seen the shift on my face.
“Sorry, bad joke. I meant him. I love the guy, but we’re talking serious hound dog.”
One of the blond kids came back into view, but my internal skeptic had taken note.
“Don’t know this guy,” he said, pointing at the little screen.
“Archie Milenthal.”
“Still don’t know him, but the name rings a bell. Kirk and Emily Lavigne, of course. You must’ve know that,” he said, looking up at me.
I nodded. “How about Lizzy Witherspoon?”
“Know her well. A little too well.”
“Bad date?”
“You don’t date her, she dates you. The whole time you’re out you can hear little boxes getting checked off. I’m a person, Lizzy, not a profile,” he said, jabbing himself in the chest to punctuate the point. He looked back at the phone. “My dad helped get the judge elected to the Court of Appeals back when you could buy and sell judges on the open market. Now it’s all insider trading. Kidding. Don’t know the slinky blond, but I like the look.”
“Felicity Hunt.”
“Do you think she’s hunting for happiness, or has already found it?”
I didn’t make him ID Peaches the Pomeranian.
“Did any of them know Eugenie?” I asked.
He puzzled on that.
“I don’t know. I guess any of them could have flown in her plane. You got the right socioeconomic demographic there. She was cost-effective, but a private plane’s a private plane.”
“So she didn’t take the photo.”
That really puzzled him.
“Eugenie? Our Eugenie? At a fund-raiser? Think of a tit on a bull. Not bloody likely. So you really can’t tell me what this is all about? You’re killing me.”
“You’ll survive. So who took it, do you think?”
He looked at it again.
“I’m guessing either Pat Eberson or Skitch.”
“Skitch?”
“Sue Kichner. Society photog. Pat’s a guy, by the way. They both freelance this stuff and dish it out to the highest bidder. Not exactly paparazzi-ism, since who doesn’t want to be in a party pic?”
Me, I thought, though I guess if it ever happened I might change my mind. Especially if I was in my funeral outfit.
When he handed back the phone I looked over his shoulder and saw Harry at the other end of the bar, not hard to do when a person’s head and shoulders are at the highest elevation in the room. I asked MacAvoy if he wanted to meet my boyfriend.
“Wow, there’s a way to take the wind out of the old sails,” he said, disappointed, but cheerfully so. “At least you didn’t say ‘husband.’ Hope can keep springing.”
I put my arm through his and pulled him through the crowd. When we’d almost reached Harry, I heard MacAvoy mutter, “Don’t tell me.”
“Harry Goodlander, meet Benson MacAvoy. Political adviser.”
I knew Harry would remember the name. He never forgot a detail. It’s one of the ways he’d become a Ph.D. of Logistical Science, as he’d put it. But he was also smart enough to not let the recollection show.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said to MacAvoy.
MacAvoy demonstrated his political acumen by ignoring Harry’s size. As it had when the Lavignes did it, this quickly captured Harry’s affections. It moved him to buy MacAvoy another scotch, which had a similar effect. I left the two of them to cement the bond.
I tried to track down Matt Birkson, but I was told he’d left right after the service. As had his sister, Ida. So I had to settle for Brian Conklin, who was standing alone, his ghostly skin nearly glowing out of a shadowy corner, drinking a Budweiser held by the neck of the bottle.
“Hi, Brian. Jackie Swaitkowski. We met on the receiving line. I want to tell you again how sorry I am about your stepmother.”
He took a pull of the beer.
“Thanks. It was pretty uncool what happened to her.”
“You work at your dad’s shop, right?”
He nodded.
“Oh, yeah. Grew up with that shit. Wouldn’t know what else to do.”
“He told me the plane was in tip-top shape.”
“You got that right. My dad checked everything I did, twice sometimes.” He pointed at me with the neck of the beer bottle. “And I checked him. And Eugenie checked the both of us. She was a mechanic, you know, before gettin’ into flying. Awesome mechanic. Anybody’ll tell you that Conklin Maintenance and Repair is the sickest, most serious grease head outfit on the field. Fanatical overkill on that shit. Goddamn right.”
He nodded, in agreement with himself.
“So what the hell happened?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Don’t know. Can’t figure it. It’s shitty for me, but it’s truly fucked up for the old man. Worse’n when my mom died, and that was pretty bad.”
“Sorry about that, too. Been there myself, only a lot older than you were.”
He seemed to appreciate that. He nodded again, which I began to realize was a gesture more of habit than affirmation. A tic.
“My dad was in the slammer when it happened. It got him out, based on me being, like, twelve years old. Got him away from all those faggots. Not that any of them dared fuck with my old man. Just good to get away from there. Hate those faggots,” he added, his voice falling away until I could barely make it out.
He looked at me over the beer as he took a swig, as if he wasn’t sure he should have said what he’d said.
“If you’re talking about prison rapists, I’m with you,” I said.
“Yeah, that,” he said. “That’s what I mean. Those guys.”
An awkward silence formed between us.
“Look after your dad,” I said, covering my escape. “He’s a good man.”
Brian nodded.
“You got that right.”
Then I left him there, alone, because I was afraid I’d start in on him, and the guy didn’t need that. I veered back toward the bar, where I ordered a big-girl drink—a martini on the rocks without olives in a glass I could walk around with, and went off to find Harry. Which I did, talking to a young woman in a black dress with a scoop neck that in my opinion was way over-scooped. She held her wine in front of her with both hands, which I hoped obscured Harry’s view of that deep valley, though it probably didn’t. Harry’s face lit up when I approached, which would likely spare him future repercussions.
