I am going to Harris Blanchard’s funeral tomorrow. I need to see him buried.
Fifteen
I dress carefully for the funeral—black suit, white blouse, low heels. Long black overcoat and shades. It’s the first time I’ve worn a skirt in I-don’t-know-how-long, and the suit, which harkens back to my glass tower, fashion magazine days in NYC, hangs on me. Whereas it used to hug my curves back when I had them, it now gives me a severe Secret Service agent look, which I guess isn’t that bad a thing.
I debated getting dressed up for the Blanchard funeral. It felt like a strange, disingenuous thing to be doing—putting on a mourner’s costume, essentially. But when I reach Brayburn College’s main gates, I’m glad I did it. The guard turns away the car in front of me—something I’ve never seen done here before. When I drive up and open my window, though, he nods at me like we’re friends. The guard is a big, bored-looking man with a neatly trimmed beard, dark circles under his eyes, and a uniform—black pants, white shirt, black tie, black jacket—that makes us look as though we work for the same company. He seems to appreciate that on some level. “Funeral?” His voice is deep, nasal, and devoid of inflection—he sounds even more bored than he looks.
“Yes.”
He asks to see my invitation, and I hand it to him through the open window. “Make a left and then go past the quad,” he says, after giving it a quick once-over. “You’ll see an open field and then a parking lot on your right. Park there. The cemetery is across from the lot, on Cornell Road. Can’t miss it. The gate’s open.”
I ease my foot off the brake, then press it back down. “Out of curiosity,” I ask, “why did you turn away that other car?”
He rolls his tired eyes. “Reporters.”
“Ah.”
“That reminds me. The family is requesting you leave your phone in your car. No pictures. Not saying you were planning on taking ’em. But . . .”
“I get it.”
“Sure you do. You got a brain.” He waves me through.
With winter break winding down, the campus is busier than the last time I was here. Clusters of students hurry through the quad as I drive by, some of them hauling suitcases into their dorms, some assisted by parents. That steady, joyful march forward, those suitcases stuffed full of shorts and T-shirts, a warm spring to look toward and the knowledge that, no matter how cold it is now, there will be outdoor keg parties, music blasting from open windows, and classes held on dewy lawns. Even as they shiver in their heavy coats, these kids—these blessed, protected kids—can smile knowing that there will be a spring of 2020, and that, for them, it will be a glorious one.
I’m sure Harris Blanchard felt the same way.
As I stop at a crosswalk and let a group of them pass, I think back to just two weeks ago, how one of these kids had made me so angry—just by existing—that I almost ran him down. Maybe the collective is a form of therapy after all, because I don’t feel that way anymore. The reality is, everything changes, and anything can end on a dime. And no matter how young and healthy and privileged you are, you’re made of breakable parts just like the rest of us, and so there isn’t a single thing you can depend on. Not even spring.
I reach the parking lot just as the ceremony is supposed to begin. There aren’t as many cars here as I expected there would be—just around a dozen.
I wind up parking at the same time as another car—a pale blue Audi, an elderly couple inside. I wait for them to lock up and make their way out of the lot before I get out of my car, then follow behind them at a safe distance as they walk in. His coat is black and luxuriant—probably cashmere. She wears an ankle-length fur, and her hair is the color of cultured pearls. I assume they’re relatives of the Blanchards, and so I stay far back, for fear they’ll sense I’m watching them and turn and recognize me. I don’t want to be noticed.