Brian held a small ceremony in the apartment There was no minister. He knew what Sharlie thought of funerals, could imagine her wry smile, the slight shake of her head.
“The funeral’s for us,” he said to Walter. “She would have thought we were nuts.”
Brian’s father arrived that afternoon. He gave his son a white china pitcher in the shape of a cow, intended as a wedding present that he thought would amuse Sharlie. Brian began to cry when he opened the gift.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it,” John Morgan said gruffly. “Better throw it away.” He reached for it, but Brian held on to it tightly.
“No. I want it. Thank you.” He smiled apologetically at his father and led him into the living room to be introduced.
There were only a few of them—Walter and Margaret and Mary MacDonald and Ramón Rodriguez (Brian couldn’t bring himself to invite Diller, or even Barbara Kaye). Brian read some of the poetry Sharlie had been particularly moved by—Yeats, John Donne, Emily Dickinson. For himself, he read Elizabeth Barrett Browning, all the time imagining Sharlie’s amused face just behind his shoulder.
They drank wine and talked quietly together, and even laughed a little. Then everyone left, and Brian, surprised to find himself glad to be alone, sat among the dirty wineglasses and bouquets of carefully cheerful flowers and let the room go dark.