by Marc Levy
“I should have called him by now,” said Julia with a guilty groan.
“Yes. You should have called Adam to let him know about your father dying. But if you’re worried about announcing that the wedding is postponed, that everyone has to be informed—the priest, caterers, guests, and most of all, your future in-laws—I think that can wait a while. It’s a gorgeous day. Give him another hour before you ruin it for him. Besides, you’re in mourning—it’s the best excuse. Make the most of it.”
“I have no idea what to say.”
“Just tell him, baby-doll. It’s kind of tough to bury your father and get married on the same day, even if it is tempting to try. My God, what a mess!”
“God’s got nothing to do with it. This whole thing has my father written all over it, dying right at that precise moment . . .”
“I’m guessing your father didn’t choose to kick the bucket in Paris for the sheer pleasure of derailing your wedding. Though, I must admit, as far as dramatic locations go—impeccable choice.”
“You don’t know him like I do. He’d go to the ends of the earth just to interfere with my life.”
“Drink your tea and bask in the sun for five more minutes. Then we’re calling your ex-soon-to-be husband.”
2.
The wheels of the Air France cargo jet screeched onto the runway at JFK. Julia watched from behind the tall glass of the main terminal as a long mahogany casket descended the conveyor belt from the cargo hold and continued on toward the hearse parked nearby. An airport security officer came into the waiting room and called for her. Julia entered a minivan and was driven to the plane, accompanied by Adam, Stanley, and her father’s personal assistant, Wallace. A customs officer handed her an envelope containing some paperwork, a watch, and a passport.
Julia flipped through her father’s passport, eyes trailing over an array of stamps that told the story of Anthony Walsh’s final months on earth. Saint Petersburg, Berlin, Hong Kong, Mumbai, Saigon, and Sydney. A whole host of cities Julia had never seen. Destinations she could have only dreamed of discovering with her father.
While four men took care of formalities around the coffin, Julia thought of the long trips her father had always taken, all the way back to when she was just a little girl.
She remembered the endless nights spent waiting with bated breath for her father to come home to their Upper East Side town house. Or the countless days when her morning walk to school became a high-stakes game of sidewalk hopscotch, where only flawless jumps and landings would assure his return. On rare occasions, her prayers would be answered. The door of her bedroom would inch open, and an enchanted beam of light would cut across the floor, with Anthony Walsh’s silhouette appearing in the doorway. He would sit at the foot of her bed, leaving a little present on the bedspread for her to find in the morning. Her father would bring her a special memento that told the story of the trip he had taken—a doll from Mexico, a calligraphy brush from China, a small wooden figurine from Hungary, a bracelet from Guatemala. These were the hallowed treasures of Julia’s childhood.
Then her mother’s health had started to decline. The earliest episode Julia could recall took place at the movies on a Sunday. In the middle of the film, her mother looked at Julia and asked who had turned all the lights out. The holes in her mother’s memory grew insidiously. What began as confusion between the kitchen and the music room grew into frantic screams that the grand piano had disappeared. The vanishing of objects slowly morphed into forgetting the names of her nearest and dearest, and at last descended into the deepest darkness when she looked at Julia and asked, “What is this pretty little girl doing in my house?” One dreary December day, she set her bathrobe on fire and she was taken away by ambulance soon after. She lay perfectly still all the while, marveling at the hypnotic power of lighting a cigarette—this from a woman who had never smoked in her life.
Her mother almost never recognized Julia again. She died at a New Jersey clinic a few years later. As the period of mourning gave way to real life, Julia’s adolescence became locked into a tightly packed routine, with evening after dismal evening spent studying under the supervision of her father’s personal assistant. Her father’s business trips became longer and more frequent. High school passed by in a flash. In college, life came to a halt when for the second time she lost someone she loved. After leaving school, Julia devoted herself to her passion: creating characters, sketching them on paper, and bringing them to life on a computer screen. Her animals became almost human to her. They were her companions and faithful friends, whose smiles she conjured with a stroke of her pencil and whose tears she dried with her eraser.
“Miss, can you confirm that this was your father’s passport?”
Julia was jerked back to reality by the customs officer’s voice. She nodded in response. The man signed a form and brought a stamp down over Anthony Walsh’s photo, the final mark in a passport whose many destinations told of a life spent far away from his daughter—a life of absence. The casket was loaded into a big black hearse. Stanley climbed in front beside the driver, while Adam opened the back door for Julia, being especially attentive to the woman he was supposed to have married that very afternoon. Anthony’s personal assistant sat astride a fold-out seat in the back, closest to the body. The funeral procession rolled onward, out of the airport and straight onto the expressway.
The passengers rode in silence as they continued farther north. Julia cast a glance around the hearse. Wallace’s eyes remained fixed on the box containing the remains of his former employer. Stanley stared down at his hands. She caught Adam looking at her before she turned away to gaze at the gray sprawl of New York City’s outer reaches.
“Excuse me, can I ask which route you’re taking?” Julia asked the driver, as a sign for the Long Island Expressway appeared ahead.
“Whitestone Bridge, ma’am,” he responded.
“Could you take the Brooklyn Bridge please, if you don’t mind? Thanks.”
The driver put on his blinker and changed lanes.
“That’s a huge detour,” whispered Adam. “Whitestone would have been the fastest way.”
“Today is a lost cause anyway. We might as well try to make him happy.”
“Who?” Adam asked.
“My father. I think he would have liked the idea of one last drive through Manhattan.”
“Sure, fair enough,” Adam said. “But we should give the priest a heads-up to let him know we’re going to be late.”
“Are you a dog person, Adam?” asked Stanley.
“Sure, I guess. I like dogs. They don’t always like me. Why?”
“No reason. Just wondering,” responded Stanley, rolling down his window as far as it would go.
They drove the length of Manhattan and arrived at 233rd Street over an hour later.
The main gate of Woodlawn Cemetery opened, and the hearse turned onto a narrow road and maneuvered through a roundabout, past a row of mausoleums, and across a bridge overlooking a lake, finally coming to a stop on a tree-lined lane where a freshly dug grave lay waiting to greet its brand-new tenant.
The priest stood waiting for them. While the casket was being readied, Adam went over to greet him and explain the final details of the ceremony. Stanley put his arm around Julia’s shoulders.
“What are you thinking about, baby-doll?” he asked.
“What am I thinking about as I bury my father, whom I haven’t talked to in over a year? Take a wild guess. You and your sense of timing, Stanley.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m serious: What are you thinking about right now? Whatever it is, you’ll remember it for a long time. This moment will always be part of your life, believe me.”
“I was thinking about Mom. I was wondering if she would recognize him up there in the clouds, or if she’s spending eternity wandering around in a confused haze.”
“Wait, you’re suddenly signing on to God and the afterlife?”
“Not necessarily. Just wishful thinking.”
&n
bsp; “Well, I have to admit—and don’t laugh—as time goes by, God does seem more and more real, even to me.”
Julia smiled sadly.
“If there is a God, I’m not sure that would be the best news for my father, to be honest.”
“The priest would like to get started,” said Adam as he returned, eyeing his watch. “He just wanted to make sure this is everyone.”
“It’s just the four of us,” Julia replied, motioning for Wallace to come and join them. “The price you pay as a globe-trotter. Family and friends are nothing but a cluster of vague acquaintances scattered to the four corners of the earth. Not the type of people who make the trip for a funeral, and it’s not like the departed can call in any favors. You’re born alone and you die alone.”
“Didn’t Buddha say that? Your father was a staunch Irish Catholic, honey,” Adam replied.
“A Doberman. I can just see you with an enormous Doberman,” Stanley said with a sigh.
“What’s the deal with you wanting me to have a dog all of a sudden?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
The priest came over to tell Julia how sorry he was to be there officiating at a funeral when he had originally been brought on for Julia’s wedding.
“Too bad you can’t just kill two birds with one stone,” Julia said. “When you think about it, who cares about the guests? It’s the thought that counts, as far as the man upstairs is concerned. Am I right?”
Stanley fought to stifle a giggle, and the priest glared at him before shifting his disdain back to Julia.
“Really, miss . . .”
“Hey, it’s not the worst idea in the world! I mean, in a way my father could still attend.”
“Julia!” Adam reproached her.
“Okay, I get it. Survey says: bad idea,” she conceded.
“Do you have a few words you’d like to say?” asked the priest.
“I wish I did. But I don’t think so.” Julia just gazed at the casket. “What about you, Wallace?” she asked her father’s personal assistant. “After all, you were his most trusted friend.”
“I don’t think I’m quite capable, ma’am,” responded Wallace. “And, come to think of it, the relationship between your father and I was a sort of . . . silent camaraderie. But I do have something to tell you, if I might. I’d like to say that, despite all his faults, despite his sometimes hardened demeanor, your father was a good man. A good man who loved you very dearly.”
“How perfect, the assistant does the heavy lifting, even postmortem,” Stanley murmured as Julia’s eyes started to well up.
The priest recited a prayer and closed his missal. Anthony Walsh’s coffin slowly descended into the ground. Julia handed a rose to Wallace. He smiled warmly and handed it back.
“Please. You first, Miss Julia.”
Julia dropped her rose, and the petals came undone as it struck the wood. Three other roses fell in turn, and the four mourners started making their way back toward the cars.
Farther down the cemetery road, two town cars now sat idling where the hearse had been just moments earlier. Adam took Julia by the hand to lead her along. She lifted her eyes to the sky.
“A few fluffy white clouds and a pure-blue sky as far as the eye can see. Not too hot, and not too cold. No shadows, no chills. An absolutely perfect day for a wedding.”
“There will be other days like this, don’t worry,” Adam reassured her.
“You think?” Julia exclaimed, her arms opened wide with exasperation. “A sky like that? The perfect temperature. Sunlight making the trees greener than green. Ducks gliding along the surface of the pond. There won’t be another day like this for the rest of the year. We’ll have to wait until next spring . . .”
“Fall weddings can be beautiful, too. And since when do you care about ducks?”
“Since they started following me around! Did you see how many were out there just now, right near my father’s grave?”
“No, I didn’t happen to notice,” responded Adam, not quite knowing how to handle this sudden burst of energy from his fiancée.
“Dozens upon dozens of mallards, all donning picture-perfect bow ties. They landed right there and then flew away as soon as the ceremony was over. They clearly came for my wedding but ended up at my father’s funeral instead.”
“Julia, obviously I don’t want to nitpick, not at a time like this, but . . . ducks don’t really wear bow ties.”
“And how would you know? Do you draw ducks? I do. If I say they were wearing bow ties and suits for the ceremony, then believe me—I would know!” she cried.
“Okay, honey. The ducks were in black tie, whatever you say. Let’s go home now.”
Stanley and Wallace were waiting for them near the cars. Adam led Julia forward, but she stopped in front of a gravestone, a crooked slab of rock jutting out of the grass. She read aloud the name and date of birth of the person buried beneath her feet.
“That’s my grandmother’s. My whole family is buried in this cemetery now. I’m the last of the Walsh family line. My line, anyway—not counting the hundreds of uncles, aunts, and cousins in Brooklyn, Chicago, and Ireland, come to think of it. Never met a single one. I’m sorry I freaked out just now. I think I got a little carried away.”
“No big deal. We were supposed to be getting married, and instead, you have to bury your father. I think anybody would understand why you’d be upset.”
They continued down the lane, making their way toward the two Lincolns.
“And, you know what? You were right about today,” continued Adam, looking skyward. “It’s the perfect day for a wedding. He really did screw things up, right to the bitter end.”
Julia stiffened and pulled her hand away from his.
“Don’t give me that look,” pleaded Adam. “You’ve been saying the exact same thing ever since he died!”
“Right. Me! I’m allowed to say it as much as I want. Not you. You take Stanley’s car. I’ll take this one.”
“Julia! Come on. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I just want to be alone tonight. I have to put my father’s affairs in order, if you don’t mind. The same father who had to screw things up right to the bitter end, just like you said.”
“For God’s sake, Julia, those were your words, not mine. Yours!” cried Adam as Julia clambered into the first of the two sedans.
“Oh, and one last thing. I’ve decided that the day we get married, I want ducks. Mallards. Dozens of mallards!” she added, slamming the door.
Her car rolled away through the cemetery gate. Adam entered the second car in a huff and settled into the backseat next to Wallace.
“Maybe what you really need is a fox terrier. They’re small, but they sure pack a mean bite,” Stanley concluded from the front seat, before signaling the driver to start the car.
3.
Julia’s car inched down Fifth Avenue through an unexpected downpour. The traffic was bumper to bumper, and they were at a standstill for several minutes. Julia stared at the elaborate window display of the immense toy store at the corner of Fifty-Eighth Street. Prominently placed in the window was a creature she recognized instantly: a giant stuffed otter with steel-blue fur.
Tilly had been born in the afternoon, on a Saturday not unlike this one, with the rain pouring down so hard it had created little streams that glided down Julia’s office window. As her mind drifted, the streaks of rain transformed into rivers. The wooden window frame became the banks of an Amazonian estuary. The wet leaves outside, formed into clumps by the rain, became the home of a sweet little otter who would soon be swept downriver by the flood, much to the dismay of the greater otter community.
The rain continued straight through into that fateful evening. Alone in the animation studio where she worked, Julia completed the first sketches of the character. Countless thousands of hours in front of her computer screen would follow, a combination of drawing, coloring, animation, and design that would bring the blue otter alive down to the most n
uanced details of her facial expressions. A myriad of late-night meetings and weekends became devoted to crafting the rich world of Tilly and her friends. Julia’s brainchild had captivated her bosses, who quickly bought into the idea. While they took off running with the Tilly franchise, all Julia received in return for creating the studio’s big hit was a promotion and her name in the list of credits.
“This is fine,” Julia told the driver. “I can walk from here.”
The driver asked if she was sure, reminding her of the downpour still raging outside.
“It’s the best thing that’s happened all day,” she assured him, closing the door a split second later.
What did the rain matter, when Tilly seemed to be smiling at her through the glass, just begging her to visit? Julia couldn’t help herself and waved. To her surprise, a little girl standing next to the stuffed animal waved back. The little girl’s mother rushed over and pulled her away. She tried to steer her daughter toward the exit, but the girl resisted and jumped into the otter’s open arms. Julia watched the girl cling to Tilly. The mother smacked her hand, trying to make her daughter let go of the stuffed animal’s giant paw. Julia entered the store and walked over to the two.
“Hi. Did you know that Tilly actually has magic powers?” Julia asked the little girl.
“If we need a salesperson, we’ll let you know,” replied the woman, her harsh gaze still fixed on her daughter.
“I’m not a salesperson. I’m her mother.”
“Excuse me?” the woman said, raising her voice. “I’m fairly certain that I’m her mother, thank you very much!”
“No, I meant Tilly’s, the otter that seems to have attached herself to your daughter. I was the one who created her. With your permission, I’d love to buy Tilly for your daughter as a gift. It makes me sad to see Tilly all alone under these bright lights in the window. Under lights like these, her colors will start to fade, and she’s so proud of her steel-blue coat. It took us hours—longer than you could imagine—to get her colors just right. The nape of her neck, her throat, her belly, her face. She’s happy just being who she is, even though her house was washed away downriver.”