Chapter Seven
Fifteen hours later, I’m standing at the edge of the security zone watching for Danny to come through concourse B of the Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans. My flight got in an hour and a half before his so I told him I would rent a car and wait for him to give him a ride to his hotel. He seemed more lost than me when I reached him to break the news.
He must have been at work at the bar judging from the noise level in the background and I was a little surprised he took my call. I played our conversation over and over in my head on the flight, analyzing if there would have been a better way or time to call. I also replayed all of my recent conversations with my dad, all of them painfully too short and full of meaningless updates and banter.
I didn’t cry as I packed in Palm Springs. I was too busy hammer texting with Bob about the hotel and booking myself a flight. Bob offered to try to get one of the company jets for me but I knew that would throw off not only the schedules of the execs but the pilots too. I’m acutely aware of all the work that goes into getting a private jet from point A to point B. It’s not like in the movies where the billionaire makes one call to command an immediate flight somewhere. I did accept Bob’s upgrade to first class on my commercial flight.
I didn’t cry on the flight or after I landed, although being in the New Orleans airport and realizing I’m not going to see my dad hit me hard as I exited the gangway. I felt the pressure, the need to let something out; tears or a primal scream, but this was no place for either. After I claimed the car and got the keys, I lined up with all the happy families and loved ones waiting to greet someone coming home or coming to visit.
While watching a dad lift his son to get a drink from the drinking fountain I realize, I’m an orphan. I have no parents. So many questions pop up in my mind that I never asked my dad—questions about him, questions about my mom. Questions I would never have an answer to now.
I see Danny approaching but he doesn’t see me. He doesn’t seem to see much of anyone. He’s just moving forward, one step at a time, looking toward nothing. I have to wait until he crosses the security line before I can touch him on the arm to get his attention. He half smiles at me, “Vivey.”
“Hey.” I half smile back. There is something grounding about him being here, like part of my dad is here with me now. Despite their age difference they were so much alike. I point toward the parking lot. “I got a car. I can go get it while you get your bag and meet you out front.”
He holds out the duffle he is carrying. “This is all I brought.”
“Oh, ok. Well, then let’s get going.” I lead the way toward the rental car lot.
The ride is uncomfortably silent, the only sound being the voice of the app that’s giving me driving directions. When we reach the hotel, I pull up in the drive and while I’m getting a valet ticket, Danny takes all our bags out of the trunk and stacks them so he can carry them all. I want to protest. I have a large suitcase, a hanging bag, a carry on and my briefcase tote because I was planning on being in Palm Springs for a week of semi-formal events. He lugs them inside without looking back at me.
Bob booked rooms for both Danny and me using his endless hotel points and coveted Black membership status. He set us both up in concierge level rooms at the JW Marriott downtown. At first, Danny protests and wants to pay but I explain that I’m not paying either and that it’s all paid for by Bob’s road warrior life.
“I’m going to Dad and Carla’s in about an hour then Carla and I have an appointment with Dad’s lawyer. Do you want to go?” I want to establish our schedules before we part ways. Danny has followed me to my room with all our bags. He doesn’t seem interested in relinquishing the job to a valet so I don’t push the issue.
“No.” his voice is quieter than normal when he replies.
“I’ll call you when we’re done and we can all go to dinner.” It’s a half request, half demand. I want him along for Carla and for me. I want to cling to the part of him that reminds me so much of my dad.
“Yeah, sure.” He drops my bags in one corner of the room and readjusts his duffle on his shoulder as he turns to leave.
I say, “thank you” but I don’t think he heard over the door closing on its own loudly behind him.
✈✈✈
I sit on my bed and I wonder what a normal person would do in this situation. I often wonder that. Would most people lie down on this giant pillow of a bed and sob? Would they raid the mini bar or call up for a bottle to drown their sorrows? All I want to do is organize. I don’t want the noise of the TV or any distractions as I unpack and make the space my own. I light my soft rose scented candle then arrange my toiletries in the bathroom. I lay out my travel pajamas and slippers for later. I hang my dresses and contemplate which one I should wear to the funeral and if any need pressing. Oh, screw it. I love ironing. I love quickly and efficiently making perfection out of wrinkled chaos. I set up the board and press all of them.
When I meet her I see that Carla is my opposite. She isn’t wearing make-up and her hair looks slept on. She looks the way someone grieving should look. I look like I’m attending a conference, complete with a notepad in a leather folder for taking notes during the meeting.
She hugs me tight and sobs and doesn’t want to let go. It’s only when her need for a Kleenex overwhelms her that she pulls away to wipe her nose on a wad she pulls from the front pocket of her jeans. This would be an ideal time to fall apart, to break down while I’ve got someone here to commiserate with my pain, but I can’t seem to get there. I can’t cry.
Carla thanked me at least ten times for being there during the meeting with the lawyer. My dad changed his will when he married Carla and split everything he had between us. I see relief when she hears the news. Before she married my dad she was living on the edge of poverty. She got nothing from her first husband when they divorced when he went to jail. She has three sons by him, all of them grown, but all more often a financial drain than help to her. I’m not surprised that none of them are here today and I don’t expect them at the funeral either.
I really am financially solid without my dad’s money and I’m briefly tempted to just give it all to Carla, but I stop myself. If her kids leech off what she gets today, she might need it in the future.
After the lawyer, we stop by the funeral home Carla chose to make arrangements. My hackles are up and I’m not sure how to take the amount of upselling we’re getting accompanied by a heaping dose of guilt. I pull Carla aside to the women’s room to talk before we sign up for anything.
I choose my words carefully. “I want this to represent my dad.”
Carla nods and splashes her face with water. She starts to take out her cigarettes then realizes she probably can’t smoke in here.
“Do you think dad would want the premier line casket?”
She chuckles. “Hell no. He’d go with a pine box if they’d let us.”
I smile at how well she knows him. They’ve only been married a few years but they were intensely happy, beautiful years for my dad. He and Carla were two peas in a pod.
“I’m not trying to be cheap,” I assure her. “But I think you will need this money in the future more than we need some of this stuff.”
She nods again.
“So we go with the basic package?”
She gives me a solid nod. Like my dad, she’s not much of a talker.
✈✈✈
I was worried that dinner would be awkwardly quiet and just plain painful with three grieving people. It helped that Carla picked a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill where she and dad liked to hang out. The regulars who knew my dad were all in for a proper Irish wake—beer, whiskey and stories all night.
Danny fit right in and had some of the best Big Mike stories, since he was friends with him the longest. I shouldn’t have been, but I was shocked at some of the scrapes Danny and Dad had with the law. The two of them had worked nights and weekends, fixing up a 1965 Pontiac GTO, or The Goat as they called it. Once it was running, they had to talk their way out of a few speeding tickets when they took it for test spins through the marsh lands outside Savannah. They tried to outrun the cops once, dying to see how fast the car would go. There was no talking their way out of that ticket.
I laugh until I cry at the stories but still can’t let go and grieve.
Lack of sleep and too much whiskey overtake me around midnight but none of us is in any shape to drive. I impress the hell out of all the old dudes in the bar when I order an Uber car using my phone and explain how I have an account and don’t have to have cash to pay. This brings on rounds of stories of how proud my dad was of me and how he would tell anyone who would listen about his smart, beautiful daughter. I almost lose it then but the car arrives and saves me from becoming a blubbering mess.
In the elevator back at the hotel, Danny watches me. I’m not sure if he thinks I will fall over or burst into tears or if he’s analyzing my lack of tears. He doesn’t explain. He looks like he wants to hug me before we part ways at the elevators, but then he grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze.
I wanted a hug, god damn it, I needed it tonight. Honestly, I still want so much more from him too. I don’t know why he barely ever touches me. I can’t look at him when I whisper, “Night, Danny,” and pull away.