“You should go to the service. Good people who are kind are not common. Larry is common,” Isaac said.
Casey finished her coffee and put on her shoes.
The Members’ Room of the Society Library was mostly filled. Casey sat near the back row. She recognized no one. The eulogies were brief, but there were many of them. The speakers were introduced by John Griswold, Hazel’s younger brother and Joseph’s closest friend. It turned out that Joseph had suffered for years from arterial sclerosis—a heart attack came in the end. He’d been visiting John and his wife, Lucy, for the weekend at their house in Lakeville. When he didn’t come down for dinner, Lucy had knocked on the door. She’d discovered his body slumped over on the sofa, an Auden biography in his lap. The man who wrote the biography, a friend, was in attendance, and he spoke, too, making a joke about how boring his prose must have been to send poor Joseph to his final rest.
There were other things Casey learned about Joseph McReed: He was a sailor; he possessed an enviable collection of Trollope; he had played the oboe for sixty years. He’d had a drinking problem, which he’d controlled through abstinence. He and Hazel had loved to dance. A tall, elderly woman with ginger hair joked that Joseph was a terrible shopkeeper, because he didn’t actually like selling his beautiful old books. Knowing guffaws erupted at that remark. It was Hazel who’d had the head for business. After she had died, many of the speakers suggested that Joseph hadn’t much spirit left to carry on.
There were funny stories about book parties that had turned into dance parties, the kind where men knew how to lead and women knew how to dress up. Writers had come from all parts of the city to talk about Joseph and Hazel. Two of the poets were the best speakers. One recited Auden and Dylan Thomas. The other had made up a funny limerick yet burst into tears after saying it. The last memorial service she’d attended was for Willyum Butler, her professor at Princeton. Casey didn’t know if Joseph was religious or not. No one mentioned God.
When it was over, John Griswold invited everyone to the house for sandwiches. His wife stood in the back of the room handing out printed cards with directions for their place in Turtle Bay. Casey would miss the reception. It was already eleven o’clock. The bastards would have her head.
On her way out, Lucy Griswold stopped her. “You must be Casey.”
Casey looked about the room. There could be no mistake. She was the only minority person there.
“Yes. I’m Casey. Hello.”
“I’m Lucy Griswold.” She looked up and waved her husband over. “She’s here.”
John moved through the crowd toward them.
“Joseph told us about you. And I’m glad you’re here, because it would have been difficult to find you. It occurred to us to stand by the bus stop on a Saturday morning on Seventy-second Street to honor his wishes, but, anyway. . .”
Casey stared at the couple quizzically. “I don’t understand.”
“Joseph said to us several times that he wanted you to have Hazel’s hats. I think he might have mentioned my sister’s hats.” John smiled. “There are more than a hundred.”
Lucy nodded gravely. “I hope you have a huge place.”
Casey tried to keep it together. Her eye makeup was already undoubtedly a mess. As it was, she had been looking for a restroom where she could tidy up before heading back to the office.
“I can’t believe he even mentioned me.”
“Oh yes. He looked forward to seeing you at the bus stop. He’d tell us how much Hazel would have loved you. You bought Jane Eyre from him. I can’t believe he let it go.”
“Yes.” Casey found an old paper napkin in her purse to mop up her face. “I didn’t know him long. But he was always so nice to me. He’d make suggestions of what I should read and didn’t tease me for rereading the same books over and over.”
“I thought you’d be wearing a hat,” Lucy said. “We heard you always wear a hat.”
“I’m working in a bank right now, and—”
“Oh?” John said. “Where?”
“Kearn Davis. I’m an intern for the investment banking program.”
“Do you like it?” he asked.
Casey nodded.
He’d caught her neutral expression, however. “Ah, the world hardly needs another investment banker.”
“Oh, John—” Lucy elbowed him. “Mr. Sensitivity.”
“They’re not so bad,” Casey said halfheartedly.