afternoon.
Isabelle had stayed with him Saturday night, but she wouldn't come to the funeral. While he was there, she'd go to her apartment way east on Thirty-first Street and pack some things, enough so she could be comfortable in his place.
Bryce hadn't thought ahead of time about how terrible the funeral would be. Everybody there knew he and Lucie had been going through that endless miserable divorce, so nobody could quite treat him like a grieving husband. On the other hand, nobody could offer him a big smile and a hearty 'Congratulations!' either. Generally, people behaved toward him as though they had a toothache that they vaguely blamed him for.
Not that there were so many people present, maybe twenty in all. Lucie's parents had flown in from St Louis, and did their best to avoid Bryce entirely, since of course his legal battle with their daughter had made him their enemy, and they couldn't figure out any other way to react to him now.
His own family was no better. All three of his children were present, but none sat near him. There was twenty-three-year-old Betsy, a postgraduate architecture student at Brown; twenty-one-year-old Tom, studying engineering at MIT; and nineteen-year-old Barry, an English lit major at Rutgers. With them all away, in Rhode Island and Massachusetts and New Jersey, he rarely saw them or spoke with them. His accountant paid their bills, and that was the extent of the relationship. They'd sided with their mother, Ellen, in his first divorce, and had never liked Lucie, who had coldly disliked them in return. The estrangement was not deliberate on anybody's part, but by now it was habitual.
Their mother, Ellen, was there, too, which surprised Bryce, accompanied by Jimmy Branley, the architect she lived with in Connecticut. She solemnly shook Bryce's hand, saying, 'I hope you find happiness, Bryce, after all this.'
'Well, thank you,' he said, and thought again that he really should have stayed with Ellen, not only because Lucie had been so much worse. There was an honesty in Ellen that could have anchored him, if he'd let it.
Also at the funeral were ten or so women friends of Lucie's, all her age, all looking more or less like her, women who found it easy to wear black to a funeral because they wore black all the time anyway. Lucie'd always been more comfortable with women than men, and had always had a lot of girlfriends; they'd chat endlessly on the phone and buy little gifts for one another.
The setting was an upscale funeral parlor on Park Avenue, with quiet efficient dark-suited men moving it all along. The service was muted and nondenominational, vaguely religious without committing anybody to anything. Three people spoke, the first being Lucie's father, who'd written out what he wanted to say on two sheets of lined yellow paper, which trembled like leaves in his hands. He could barely get through it, gulping and weeping and choking up.
Then one of Lucie's girlfriends, a woman named Janet Higgins, spoke about the last time she'd seen Lucie, which happened to be at the premiere of a play she'd directed, and how supportive Lucie had been then, and had always been, and how hard it was to believe that wonderful friend wouldn't be around any more. Bryce realized with sudden shock and unease that the play must have been
Low Fidelity,
where Wayne and Lucie had met. He found himself trembling, thinking of what he'd started, what he'd destroyed. Why couldn't the two of them have just gotten it over with?
His mind drifted, and he thought, why not just leave New York for a while? Leave New York and Connecticut and everything.
Spain. He could move to Spain for two or three years, take Isabelle with him, maybe he could help her get her children back. At that thought, he couldn't help but look over at his own three, clustered with their mother, isolated from him. No, he was isolated from them, wasn't he?
He'd never met Isabelle's children. He'd met her father a few times, thought he was
Isabelle had stayed with him Saturday night, but she wouldn't come to the funeral. While he was there, she'd go to her apartment way east on Thirty-first Street and pack some things, enough so she could be comfortable in his place.
Bryce hadn't thought ahead of time about how terrible the funeral would be. Everybody there knew he and Lucie had been going through that endless miserable divorce, so nobody could quite treat him like a grieving husband. On the other hand, nobody could offer him a big smile and a hearty 'Congratulations!' either. Generally, people behaved toward him as though they had a toothache that they vaguely blamed him for.
Not that there were so many people present, maybe twenty in all. Lucie's parents had flown in from St Louis, and did their best to avoid Bryce entirely, since of course his legal battle with their daughter had made him their enemy, and they couldn't figure out any other way to react to him now.
His own family was no better. All three of his children were present, but none sat near him. There was twenty-three-year-old Betsy, a postgraduate architecture student at Brown; twenty-one-year-old Tom, studying engineering at MIT; and nineteen-year-old Barry, an English lit major at Rutgers. With them all away, in Rhode Island and Massachusetts and New Jersey, he rarely saw them or spoke with them. His accountant paid their bills, and that was the extent of the relationship. They'd sided with their mother, Ellen, in his first divorce, and had never liked Lucie, who had coldly disliked them in return. The estrangement was not deliberate on anybody's part, but by now it was habitual.
Their mother, Ellen, was there, too, which surprised Bryce, accompanied by Jimmy Branley, the architect she lived with in Connecticut. She solemnly shook Bryce's hand, saying, 'I hope you find happiness, Bryce, after all this.'
'Well, thank you,' he said, and thought again that he really should have stayed with Ellen, not only because Lucie had been so much worse. There was an honesty in Ellen that could have anchored him, if he'd let it.
Also at the funeral were ten or so women friends of Lucie's, all her age, all looking more or less like her, women who found it easy to wear black to a funeral because they wore black all the time anyway. Lucie'd always been more comfortable with women than men, and had always had a lot of girlfriends; they'd chat endlessly on the phone and buy little gifts for one another.
The setting was an upscale funeral parlor on Park Avenue, with quiet efficient dark-suited men moving it all along. The service was muted and nondenominational, vaguely religious without committing anybody to anything. Three people spoke, the first being Lucie's father, who'd written out what he wanted to say on two sheets of lined yellow paper, which trembled like leaves in his hands. He could barely get through it, gulping and weeping and choking up.
Then one of Lucie's girlfriends, a woman named Janet Higgins, spoke about the last time she'd seen Lucie, which happened to be at the premiere of a play she'd directed, and how supportive Lucie had been then, and had always been, and how hard it was to believe that wonderful friend wouldn't be around any more. Bryce realized with sudden shock and unease that the play must have been
Low Fidelity,
where Wayne and Lucie had met. He found himself trembling, thinking of what he'd started, what he'd destroyed. Why couldn't the two of them have just gotten it over with?
His mind drifted, and he thought, why not just leave New York for a while? Leave New York and Connecticut and everything.
Spain. He could move to Spain for two or three years, take Isabelle with him, maybe he could help her get her children back. At that thought, he couldn't help but look over at his own three, clustered with their mother, isolated from him. No, he was isolated from them, wasn't he?
He'd never met Isabelle's children. He'd met her father a few times, thought he was
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