CHARLES MARLOWE—beloved son of the late Catherine and Nicholas Marlowe, brother of the late Donald Marlowe, father of Patrick J. Marlowe, owner of Marlowe’s Bookstore, author, aged 61 years and resident of this city for the past 39 years. Relatives and friends of the family are invited to attend the funeral, which will take place Wednesday, 11 o’clock A.M., at the funeral home of Jacob Schoen and Son, 3827 Canal Street. Interment in Greenwood Cemetery.
“You go ahead and cry, Josie girl. I done cried the whole ride down here. I know you wanted to be there. Now, your momma, she’s still up to her neck, but Willie said you had to come back for Mr. Charlie’s funeral.”
“Of course I had to come back. This is wrong, Cokie. I should have been there for Charlie and Patrick. Willie had no right to keep me away.”
“It’s rough for Patrick, but I think he at peace. It was so hard for him, Mr. Charlie that sick and not bein’ able to fix it.”
Cokie drove me straight to Patrick’s. He opened the door and I almost didn’t recognize him. Grief had taken his face. He fell into my arms. Cokie helped me walk him back in the house and onto the couch. I put my arm around him and smoothed his hair.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said.
“Me too.”
“He’s gone, Jo. I knew it was bad, but . . . but I didn’t think it would happen this quickly.”
Sadie scurried around in Patrick’s kitchen.
“Sadie’s helpin’ for tomorrow,” said Cokie. “After the burial, folks will come here to eat. I’ll be back in a bit. Now you take care, buddy.” Cokie shuffled out the front door.
“Why do I have to entertain? My father just died,” lamented Patrick. “I don’t want to socialize.”
“It’s not entertaining. You’re giving people the chance to express their condolences and comfort you.” The words tasted sour. I agreed with Patrick. In New Orleans, sometimes death did feel more like socializing. And he knew better than anyone else. He frequented postmortem parties daily, trolling for books.
“Have you spoken to your mother?” I asked.
“We exchanged telegrams. She wants me to come to the West Indies, of course. But how can I? I have to throw a funeral party. I’m so grateful that Willie sent Sadie.” He fell back and plopped his head into my lap. “Thank you, Sadie!” he yelled into the kitchen.
“She’s mute, not deaf, Patrick.”
He reached up and touched my face. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you. I can’t do this without you. You’ll be with me tomorrow, right?”
“Every minute.”
He ran his fingers across my cheek. “It’s the strangest feeling. I’ll be okay, feel strong, and then an hour later, something will happen and I’ll completely break down. I feel ridiculous.”
“You just lost your father.” The word father caught in my throat. Suddenly I was crying, tears spilling everywhere. I pulled in breaths between sobs. “He took such good care of me. Who knows where I’d be if he hadn’t given me the room above the shop.”
Patrick pulled me down on the couch toward him. “I know, Jo. You lost him too.”
We lay there, crying, until we both fell asleep.
FORTY-ONE
Funeral preparation was a surreal experience. Somehow, with the help of others, we got from face to face and place to place. But a thick, jellied haze draped about the day and distorted it into some kind of disturbing, slow-motion movie.
Miss Paulsen came as soon as she heard. She comforted Patrick and helped with the service arrangements. Willie spoke to the undertaker about Charlie’s appearance. We all laced together—a brothel madam, an English professor, a mute cook, a quadroon cabbie, and me, the girl carrying a bucket of lies and throwing them like confetti.
Thanks to Willie, Charlie looked like himself again—sophisticated, literary. I borrowed a funeral dress from Sweety. Patrick asked Miss Paulsen to read a statement at the service. He didn’t think he could do it. Miss Paulsen addressed the group in a poised manner, as she would her classroom.
“We are here today to honor the life and legacy of our dear friend Charles Marlowe. His son, Patrick, has asked me to read a statement he has prepared.” She cleared her throat.
“‘I’m so grateful to all of you for your support during this difficult time. For most, my father’s death probably came as a shock. In truth, my father had been suffering for several months, battling a degenerative brain condition. Although I know you must feel upset that you were not able to say your good-byes or extend offers of help, please know that the greatest gift you have given my father was the opportunity to endure this indignity privately. Those of you who know him know that he took pride in language, literary history, and professional appearance, all of which were lost to him in his final months.
“‘My sincere thanks to Dr. Randolph Cox, Dr. Bertrand Sully, Willie Woodley, and Francis “Cokie” Coquard, all of whom helped my father in his final days. And I would never have been able to endure this dark journey without Josie Moraine. Josie was like a daughter to my father.
“‘As many of you know, my father was a gifted author and bookseller. Fortunately, he lives on through his books. I know I will always take comfort in hearing his voice through his writing. Thank you all for coming today.’”
I was at Patrick’s side the entire time. I turned and saw Willie and Cokie in the very back, Willie with her dark sunglasses, Cokie with tears streaming down his face. Willie approached me after the funeral. She looked tired and her ankles were puffy. She handed me a receipt.
“Here. I paid in cash. Tell Patrick everything’s covered.”
“Oh, Willie, I don’t think Patrick would want you to pay.”
“I don’t care what he wants,” said Willie. “It’s what I want. I’ll see you tomorrow. Get there early. The house is a pigsty.”
“Aren’t you going to the luncheon? Sadie prepared all sorts of food.”
“I’m not going, and Sadie’s not going either. What am I gonna do there, stand around eating ambrosia salad, talking about books? I’ve got a business to run. Elmo’s bringing over a new bed frame. Dora broke hers last night. That girl should be in a sideshow, not a whorehouse.”
Cokie waved to me as he left with Willie. He wouldn’t be going to the luncheon either.
“Hi, Josie. Remember me?”
James from Doubleday Bookshop stood in front of me with a tall, attractive blonde.
“Yes. Hello, James. Thank you so much for coming. I know it means a lot to Patrick.”
“This is my girlfriend, Kitty. I’ll be coming to the house for lunch, but Kitty can’t come. I wanted to introduce you,” said James.
Kitty extended a gloved hand to me. She wore an expensive tailored suit with large pearl buttons. “Nice to meet you, Josie. Patrick’s told us so much about you. He says you’re like a sister. I’m so sorry for your loss.” She gave me a smile. Her teeth were perfect, like Jesse’s.
I nodded and they left. They looked like fashion dolls together. Perfect in appearance but plastic in attraction. Her words, “like a sister,” scraped at me. Had Patrick really said that?
Very few went to the cemetery. Miss Paulsen said she couldn’t bear it and instead went to the house to help prepare for the luncheon. Although she was upset, she said she understood why we had gone to such lengths to protect Charlie and found it very admirable.
Patrick stared at Charlie’s grave. He looked solemn but beautiful in his dark suit. I looped my arm through his. “You take all the time you need.”
We stood alone with Charlie for nearly an hour.
“There’s so much I need to tell him. Things he didn’t understand. But, no, there are Jell-O molds and pinwheel sandwiches waiting for us,” complained Patrick. “It’s payback for all the funeral luncheons I’ve gone to, hunting for books.”