Many of my family in and around Locust Valley and Lattingtown stopped by the funeral home as they all knew and liked the Allards. My parents, according to Aunt Cornelia, had gone to Europe so I'll never know if they would have driven in for the funeral, and I really don't care, as all gestures on their part are meaningless, I've decided.
There was no reason for Emily to come in from Texas, as she didn't know the Allards that well, but she sent me a cheque to give to Ethel. It is customary when an old servant dies to take up a collection for the widow, this being a holdover, I suppose, from the days before servants had life insurance or Social Security. A good number of people passed cheques or cash to me to give to Ethel. William Stanhope knew this, of course, but didn't come up with any cash of his own. His reasoning, I'm sure, was that he was still obligated to pay Ethel her monthly stipend, as per Augustus's will, and that Ethel was still in the gatehouse, and now George was about to occupy a piece of the Stanhope family plot; though in point of fact, there is more Stanhope family plot left than there are Stanhopes left to occupy it. So he wasn't giving away anything valuable, as usual.
There was no reason for the Bellarosas to come to the funeral home, of course, but Italians, as I've discovered over the years, rarely pass up a funeral. So Frank and Anna stopped in for ten minutes one afternoon, and their presence caused a small stir of excitement, as if they were celebrities. The Bellarosas knelt at the coffin and crossed themselves, then checked out the flower arrangement they'd sent – which incidentally took two men to carry in – then left. They looked as if they did this often.
The Remsens stopped by the funeral home late Friday afternoon – after the closing bell and before happy hour at The Creek – but they pointedly avoided me, though they chatted with Susan for a minute.
One would think that, in the presence of death, people would be compelled into a larger appreciation of life and a sharper perspective of its meaning. One would think that. But to be honest, whatever petty grievances I, myself, had outside the funeral parlour were the same ones I carried inside. Why should Lester Remsen or William Stanhope or anyone be any different? People like the DePauws, Potters, Vandermeers, and so forth, who might have stopped by for a moment as our friends and neighbours out of a sense of noblesse oblige, sent flowers instead. I didn't want to read anything into this, but I could have. I was sure they would make it to my funeral. Jim and Sally Roosevelt did come, and Jim was very good with Ethel, sitting for an hour with her and holding her hand. Sally looks good in black.
So we buried George Allard after church services at St Mark's on a pleasant Saturday morning. The cemetery is a few miles from Stanhope Hall, a private place with no name, filled with the departed rich, and in pharaonic style, with a few dozen loyal servants (though none of them had been killed for their masters' burials), and dozens of pets, and even two polo ponies, one of which was responsible for his rider's death. The old rich insist on being batty right to the end, and beyond.
As I said, George was interred in the Stanhope plot, which is a good-sized piece of land, and ironically the last piece of land the Stanhopes were destined to own on Long Island.
At graveside, there were about fifteen people in attendance, with the Reverend Mr Hunnings officiating; there was the widow, Ethel, the Allards' daughter, Elizabeth, her husband and their two children, William and Charlotte Stanhope, Susan, Edward, and I, plus a few other people whom I didn't know. On the way to the cemetery, the funeral cortege, as is customary, passed by the house of the deceased, and I saw that someone had put a funeral wreath on the gates of Stanhope Hall, something I hadn't seen in years. Why that custom has died out is beyond me, for what could be more natural than to announce to the world, to unwary callers, that there has been a death in the house and that, no, we don't want any encyclopedias or Avon products today. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," said the Reverend Mr Hunnings, throwing a handful of soil atop the coffin. This is when clergy earn their pay. But Hunnings always struck me as a method actor who was playing the part of a priest in a long-running off-Broadway show. Why do I dislike this man? Maybe because he's conned everyone else. But George had seen through him. Hunnings actually delivered a nice eulogy, though I noticed that he never once mentioned the possibility of heaven as a real place. No use talking about a place you've never been to and have no chance of ever going to. Anyway, I was glad, in some perverse way, that I was the last one to see George alive and that we had spoken, and that he died doing what he liked best and where he liked doing it. I had spoken to Ethel and to his daughter, Elizabeth, about our last conversation, and of course, I embellished it a bit in an effort to bring them some comfort. But basically George had been a happy man on the day he died, and that was more than most of us can hope for. I, myself, would not mind dropping dead on my own property, if I owned any property. But better yet, perhaps, I'd like to die on my boat, at sea, and be buried at sea. The thought of dying at my desk upsets me greatly. But if I could choose how and when I wanted to die, I would want to be an eighty-year-old man shot by a jealous young husband who had caught me in bed with his teenage wife. The graveside service was ended, and we all threw a flower on the casket as we filed past on our way to our cars.
As I was about to climb into the Jaguar with Susan, I looked back at the grave and saw that Ethel was still there. The limousine that we had gotten for her and her family had drawn abreast of the Jag and I motioned for the driver to stop. The rear window of the limousine went down, and Elizabeth said to me, "Mom wants to be alone awhile. The driver will come back for her." "I understand," I replied, then added, "No, I'll go back for her." It's so easy to let professionals handle all the unpleasant aspects of dying and death, and it takes some thought and will to take charge.
Elizabeth replied, "That would be nice. Thank you. We'll see you back at the church." Her car drove off and I slid behind the wheel of the Jaguar. "Where is Edward?" I inquired of Susan.
"He is riding with his grandparents."
"All right." I fell in behind someone's car and exited the cemetery. Burial customs differ greatly in this country, despite the homogenization of other sorts of rites and rituals such as weddings, for instance. Around here, if you're a member of St Mark's, you usually gather after the funeral at the church's fellowship room, where a committee of good Christian ladies have laid on some food and soft drinks (though alcohol is what is needed). It's not quite a party, of course, but it can be an occasion to speak well of the deceased, and to prop up the bereaved for a few more hours.
As I drove toward the church, I was impressed by Ethel's decision not to go along with the planned programme, but to spend a little time at the grave of her husband; just she and George.
Susan said to me, "That was very thoughtful of you."
I replied, "I am an uncommonly thoughtful man."
Susan didn't second that, but asked me, "Would you weep over my grave?" I knew I was supposed to reply quickly in the affirmative, but I had to think about it. I finally replied, "It would really depend on the circumstances." "Meaning what?"
"Well, what if we were divorced?"
There was a second of silence, then she said, "You could still weep for me. I would cry at your funeral even if we had been divorced for years." "Easy to say. How many ex-spouses do you see at funerals?" I added, "Marriages may or may not be until death do us part. But blood relatives are forever." "You Italian, or what?" She laughed.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing… anyway, you recently told two of your blood relatives – Mater and Pater to be specific – to take a hike."
"Nevertheless, they would attend my funeral, and I theirs. My children will attend my funeral and yours. We may not attend each other's funeral." "I will be at yours. You have my word on that."