If I really was free from difficulties, most of the mourners at Rudy’s funeral hadn’t gotten the word. They were gathered, some fifty strong, near a side altar in the massive cathedral. In any normal-size church, they would have seemed a crowd. In that huge, high-domed, white-marble edifice, they barely qualified as a gathering.
In any case, it was a gathering where I was clearly persona non grata. But not a total outcast. My coproducer Lily Conover seemed glad to see me. She’d been standing at the rear of the church, checking things out before committing herself to a pew.
“I’d have thought the crowd would be bigger,” she whispered.
“You’re thinking of those movies with half the church filled with the deceased’s mistresses in black, weeping,” I said.
“No. I’m thinking of Red Skelton’s quip at Harry Cohn’s packed funeral: ‘Give the people what they want …’”
“I hear our Food School pilot has been given an Incomplete,” I said.
“Yeah,” Lily said. “I got the call yesterday. Just as well. At the risk of speaking ill of the departed, it was a frigging boneheaded concept.”
We were about to slink into an empty pew when the commander spied us and waved us to his, urging Gretchen and the row of other executives to squeeze together to make room.
“Feeling better, Billy?” he asked.
An odd question, but I replied, “Feeling fine. And you?”
“Tip-top. So you’ll be back at work tomorrow?”
Gretchen was observing us anxiously, and I realized she must have told the old man I’d been absent because of my health.
“Back tomorrow, with bells on,” I said, smiling at his daughter.
“Good, good. That young hippy with the long hair, Slater, or whatever his name is, was supposed to be reviewing a book this morning, and he was holding the goddamned thing upside down.”
“Dad, please,” Gretchen said. “We are in church.”
“Well, I don’t like the little cretin,” the commander said. I suspected he knew Chuck Slater was sitting right behind us, turning a lovely shade of crimson.
The funeral mass was delivered by a monsignor. Gretchen had probably tried for the new archbishop, then the rector, and then settled for a monsignor. He wasn’t a bad choice, tall, graying, and stately in his white vestments, which, according to the handout, symbolized the Resurrection of the Spirit. Good luck with that, Rudy.
The monsignor moved the service along smartly, allowing only one chorus of “The Hymn of Saint Patrick” and the Offertory hymn, “There Is a Wideness in God’s Mercy.” His sermon, in which he praised Rudy’s “lifetime of service to a community that depended on him for entertainment and information,” lasted twelve minutes by my watch. Very few mourners took Communion. It wasn’t that kind of crowd.
According to the handout, we were asked to save our eulogies for the more private gathering at the gravesite, which took care of Wally’s concern about karma and made the whole service—from “Welcome” to “Requiescat in pace!”—clock in at just under forty-five minutes. If there had been commercials, we could’ve sold it as an hour. Rudy would’ve been pleased.
As I left the pew I caught sight of another outcast heading to the door. Melody Moon, in a simple light-gray dress with long sleeves and a white collar and cuffs, had been sitting at the rear of the church.
“Isn’t that the cutie from the pilot?” Lily asked.
I nodded.
Accompanying Melody was her cartoonist roommate, Rita Margolis, dressed in her bright-yellow pea jacket, gray slacks, and a gray beret. Rita saw me, scowled, and took Melody’s arm, moving her quickly from the church.
“Who’s the girl in yellow, Billy?” Gretchen asked, before Lily could.
“Just another fan,” I said.
“Was she one of Rudy’s?”
“How would I know?”
“She seemed to know you.”
“I’m on TV, Gretch,” I said.
“Her friend’s beautiful.”
I stared at Gretchen, wondering if she was a better actress than I thought.
“Let’s not dawdle,” the commander said behind me.
Outside, he asked Lily and me if we wanted to accompany them in their limo to the cemetery. Lily, caught off guard, accepted the chauffeur’s hand and entered the vehicle. I thanked the commander and begged off, saying I had work to do at the restaurant, which was true. While he waited for his daughter to get into the limo, I asked, “Commander, why did you send Rudy to Afghanistan?”
He blinked in surprise, hesitated, then said, “I don’t know why it would be of any interest to you, Billy. It was just a father’s foolish mistake. Nothing more.”
Before I could think of a follow-up question, he was in the limo. The chauffeur closed the door with a click and moved swiftly to his position behind the wheel.
I watched the limo glide down Fifth, then pause at the corner for Melody Moon and Rita Margolis to cross the street. There may be eight million people in the naked city, but paths keep crossing all the same.
I was reminding myself to pick up some of Rudy’s DVDs for Melody, when Gin shouted my name. She was with her traveling boyfriend, Ted Parkhurst, who offered a hearty handshake and asked if I needed a ride to the cemetery.
Once again, I declined the chance to see Rudy get buried six feet under. “But I would like to sit down and have a talk, at your convenience,” I told him.
He raised an eyebrow. “Not going to ask me about my intentions, I hope.”
“Everybody’s been wondering,” I said. “But no. I’d like to hear about the night you spent with Rudy in Kabul.”
“God, yeah. Weird night, especially with that merc getting killed. Sure. What do you want to know?”
“Why don’t you have dinner with us at my place, Billy?” Gin suggested. “Can you get away from the Bistro, around eight-thirty?”
“I’ll make a point of it,” I said.