Douglas Kennedy: The Pursuit of Happiness

Still, one must take these little setbacks on the chin, right? Especially as Matt so conformed to male cliche. But there is one thing I can say in my ex-husband's favor: he has turned out to be an attentive, loving father. And Ethan adores him - something that everyone at the graveside noticed, as he dashed in front of his grandmother's coffin and straight into his father's arms. Matt lifted him off the ground and I saw Ethan whisper his urination request. With a quick nod to me, Matt carried him off, draped across one shoulder, in search of the nearest toilet.

The minister now switched to that old funeral favorite, the 23rd Psalm.

Thou prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

I heard my brother Charlie choke back a sob. He was standing in the back of this sparse congregation of mourners. Without question, he had won the award for the Best Surprise Funeral Appearance - as he arrived at the chapel this morning off the red-eye from LA, looking ashen, spent, and deeply uncomfortable. It took me a moment to recognize him - because I hadn't seen him in over seven years, and because time had worked its nasty magic, rendering him middle-aged. Okay, I'm middle-aged too - just! - but Charlie (at fifty-five, nearly nine years my senior) really looked... well, I guess mature would be the right word, though world-weary might be a little more accurate. He'd lost most of his hair, and all of his physique. His face had become fleshy and loose. His waist bulged heavily at both sides - a spare tire that made his ill-fitting black suit appear even more of a sartorial misjudgment. His white shirt was open at the collar. His black tie was dappled with food stains. His entire countenance spoke of bad diet and a certain disappointment with life. I was certainly on cordial terms with the last of these concepts... but I was still stunned at just how badly he had aged, and that he had actually crossed the continent to say goodbye to a woman with whom he had only maintained nominal contact for the past thirty years.

'Kate', he said, approaching me in the lobby of the funeral chapel.

He saw my face register shock.

'Charlie?'

There was an awkward moment when he reached to hug me, then thought better of it and simply took my two hands in his. For a moment we didn't know what to say to each other. Finally I managed a sentence.

'This is a surprise...'

'I know, I know', he said, cutting me off.

'You got my messages?'

He nodded. 'Katie... I'm so sorry'.

I suddenly let go of his hands.

'Don't offer me condolences', I said, my voice curiously calm. 'She was your mother too. Remember?'

He blanched. Finally he managed to mumble, 'That's not fair'.

My voice remained very calm, very controlled.

'Every day for the last month - when she knew she was going - she kept asking me if you had called. Towards the end, I actually lied, and said you were phoning me daily to see how she was doing. So don't talk to me about fair'.

My brother stared down at the funeral home linoleum. Two of my mother's friends then approached me. As they made the requisite sympathetic noises, it gave Charlie the opportunity to back away. When the service began, he sat in the last row of the funeral chapel. I craned my neck to check out the assembled congregation - and briefly caught his eye. He turned away in acute discomfort. After the service, I looked around for him, as I wanted to offer him the chance to ride with me in the so-called 'family car' to the cemetery. But he was nowhere to be found. So I traveled out to Queens with Ethan and my Aunt Meg. She was my father's sister - a seventy-four-year-old professional spinster who has been devoted to the destruction of her liver for the past forty years. I was pleased to see that she had remained sober for the occasion of her sister-in-law's send-off. Because on those rare occasions when she was practising temperance, Meg was the best ally you could have. Especially as she had a tongue on her like a pissed-off wasp. Shortly after the limo pulled away from the funeral home, the subject turned to Charlie.

'So', Meg said, 'the prodigal schmuck returns'.

'And then promptly disappears', I added.

'He'll be at the cemetery', she said.

'How do you know that?'

'He told me. While you were pressing the flesh with everyone after the service, I caught him on the way out the door. "Hang on for a sec," I told him, "and we'll give you a ride out to Queens." But he went all mealy-mouthed, saying how he'd rather take the subway. I tell you, Charlie's still the same old sad asshole'.

'Meg', I said, nodding toward Ethan. He was sitting next to me in the limo, deeply engrossed in a Power Rangers book.

'He's not listening to the crap I'm talking, are you, Ethan?'

He looked up from his book. 'I know what asshole means', he said.

'Attaboy', Meg said, ruffling his hair.

'Read your book, darling', I said.

'He's one smart kid', Meg said. 'You've done a great job with him, Kate'.

'You mean, because he knows bad language?'

'I love a girl who thinks so highly of herself'.

'That's me: Ms Self-Esteem'.

'At least you've always done the right thing. Especially when it comes to family'.

'Yeah - and look where it's gotten me'.

'Your mother adored you'.

'On alternate Sundays'.

'I know she was difficult...'

'Try genteelly impossible'.

'Trust me, sweetie - you and this guy here were everything to her. And I mean everything'.

I bit my lip, and held back a sob. Meg took my hand.

'Take it from me: parents and children both end up feeling that they're the ones who landed the thankless job. Nobody comes out happy. But at least you won't suffer the guilt that your idiot brother is now feeling'.

'Do you know I left him three messages last week, telling him she only had days left, and he had to come back and see her'.

'He never called you back?'

'No - but his spokesperson did'.

'Princess?'

'The one and only'.

'Princess' was our nickname for Holly - the deeply resistible, deeply suburban woman who married Charlie in 1975, and gradually convinced him (for a long list of spurious, self-serving reasons) to detach himself from his family. Not that Charlie needed much encouragement. From the moment I had been aware of such things, I always knew that, for a mother and son, Mom and Charlie had a curiously cool relationship - and that the root cause of their antipathy was my dad.

'Twenty bucks says Charlie-boy breaks down at the graveside', Meg said.

'No way', I said.

'I mightn't have seen him in... when the hell did he last pay us a visit?'

'Seven years ago'.

'Right, it may have been seven years ago, but I know that kid of old. Believe me, he's always felt sorry for himself. The moment I laid eyes on him today I thought: poor old Charlie is still playing the self-pity card. Not only that, he's also got hot-and-cold running guilt. Can't bring himself to talk to his dying mom, but then tries to make up for it by putting in a last-minute appearance at her planting. What a sad act'.

'He still won't cry. He's too wound tight for that'.

Meg waved the bill in front of me.

'Then let's see the color of your cash'.

I fiddled around in my jacket pocket until I found two tens. I brandished them in front of Meg's eyes. 'I'm going to enjoy taking your twenty off you', I said.

'Not as much as I'm going to enjoy watching that pitiful shithead weep'.

I cast a glance at Ethan (still buried in his Power Rangers book), then threw my eyes heavenward.

'Sorry', Meg said, 'it just kind of slipped out'.

Without looking up from his book, Ethan said, 'I know what shithead means'.

Meg won the bet. After a final prayer over the coffin, the minister touched my shoulder and offered his condolences. Then, one by one, the other mourners approached me. As I went through this receiving-line ritual of handshakes and embraces, I caught sight of that woman, staring down at the headstone adjoining my mother's plot, studying the inscription with care. I knew it off by heart: