“That there’s one less wall between you and me.”

Not knowing how to answer that, I ask, “What else?”

“Do I feel? Scared.”

I don’t need any elaboration here, either. With my father gone and Anne hostile and Margo soon returning to Chicago and me to New York, what becomes of us as a couple is a huge question.

“Bad timing, huh?” he asks with an unapologetic look. “Selfish of me?”

“Confrontational,” I reply, then plead, “I can’t go there, Jack. Right now, I’m only thinking of now. Dad is gone. He can’t answer our questions.”

“Yeah, and that’s another thing,” he says. “I’m fucking pissed at him for leaving us up in the air.”

I almost laugh. This is more my Jack. “Maybe he told us everything he knows.”

“Everything? Like what happened in the days leading up to that night on the boat? Like what he knew about my mother’s family estate? Like whether he was your biological father?”

Turning to fully face him, I jiggle his arm. “Don’t be angry. Not today.”

He raises his brows and looks to the ceiling. I’m not sure what he sees there, but when he returns to me, he is calmer. Something new, this self-control? Maturity? Compassion? Sheer force of will?

Whatever, it is welcome. “Besides,” I say, “Paul will help.”

“Has he said anything?”

“Not today. It was enough that he made introductions when I didn’t remember people. I mean,” I wince, “old high school friends? I’d already seen Deanna Smith and Joe DiMinico, but … Alex LaRouche? Angie Ballantine? Mark Miller? And there was Paul, whispering names in my ear. He’s definitely on our side.”

I do believe that. Paul will help us get to the truth. First, though, we have the funeral to survive.

Funerals have a way of stretching on when the deceased leaves a long list of hymns, readings, and eulogies, with the names of people to deliver them. The hymns and readings are a mystery to us, since Dad wasn’t a regular worshipper. The eulogies are more predictable. One is given by a fellow judge, one by the lieutenant governor of the state, one by Paul. Tom didn’t name any of us to speak. We can only guess that when he wrote his letter, he didn’t know whether Margo and I would even come. And Anne, well, Anne is not the kind of speaker he wants to paint a lasting picture of him. For one thing, she is a woman and Dad was a man’s man all the way. For another, he would have known she would be too weepy to say much.

What do I remember of this day?