From all the balloons, picnic baskets and conspicuous gaiety, you’d never know it’s a funeral you’ve come to attend, nor does the whimsical setting—Central Park’s Alice in Wonderland statue—lend itself readily to mourning. The sky, however, seems clued in on the gravity of the occasion: to the west, dense pewter-colored clouds loom above the San Remo’s imperial towers, and distant baritone grumblings hint at an incoming storm.
Mort Lear, regarded by many parents, scholars and artists the world over as the greatest twentieth-century author-illustrator of children’s books, died less than two weeks ago, and it is his legacy that easily four hundred people have gathered to celebrate, the joy his words and pictures have given to millions of children in dozens of languages. “Mort’s spirit was totally unique, I mean totally,” says Katelyn Biggs, the owner of Tumnus and Friends, a children’s bookstore in the West Village.
Ms. Biggs is holding a copy of the immortal picture book “Colorquake,” from which she will read to open the ceremony. Even the most celebrated authors of children’s books can stroll the city incognito, so it’s only thanks to Ms. Biggs that a reporter can discern who’s who among those milling about sculptor José de Creeft’s beloved landmark.
Tommy skims the cataloging of Mort’s fellow authors who showed up—a few of them anything but friends, probably there to gloat. This part, the obligatory gauntlet of so-sorries and what-a-losses, she is definitely glad she did not have to endure. There will be plenty of suspect condolences at the official event.
Also in attendance is a clear exception to the rule of authorial anonymity: Stuart Scheinman, better known as the iconoclastic Shine. Mr. Scheinman would be the first to say he cultivates a high-volume rebel persona, his body a Maori-like canvas for ornamentation of his own design. Here, too, is Meredith Galarza, chief curator of the Contemporary Book Museum, whose planned relocation and expansion are rumored to hinge on a major bequest from Mort Lear. “We’re in negotiations with his estate,” she comments.
Mr. Scheinman approaches Ms. Galarza and greets her with a high five. The two of them look up, simultaneously, when thunder sounds. “Mort, you can be sure of it,” says Mr. Scheinman. “Checking in with us from that honking big story hour up in the sky.” A fully tattooed arm shoots upward in salute….
What hogwash. If Morty was commenting from the heavens, it would have been in vehement protest of Stuart’s presence. Whose idea was that? Then again, why shouldn’t Katelyn want to sell a few books? What no one knows is that, twice, Morty gave her large infusions of cash when Tumnus was on life support.
Franklin called yesterday to tell Tommy that he’s received an “inquiry” from a lawyer representing the museum. Tommy has found nothing in any of Morty’s correspondence with Meredith to indicate that he made contractual commitments.
“Even quasi-contractual could land us in court,” says Franklin. He isn’t sure yet what the museum’s lawyer has to say, but Franklin wants to send an assistant over to the studio to go through Morty’s file cabinets as well as the computer files.
The one thing she did accomplish was writing Dani a note. She matched his caution, thanking him for being in touch, telling him how beautiful the baby is, saying how much she looks forward to meeting him but how tied up she is in carrying out Lear’s complicated wishes (which she was careful not to specify), attending to the details of turning a life into a legacy. She did not mention their falling-out or, on the other hand, suggest a reunion.
All that, too, is hogwash. This past week, Tommy has felt as if she is proving herself, over and over again, to be an emotional coward—to her mind, the worst kind of coward there is.
Is she somehow afraid of Dani, of the bitterness he seemed to exude the last time she saw him? She still does not understand why he withheld so much from her. Would it have been different if he had come right out and told her about the failure of the bike shop? Did he think she’d just issue a bossy-big-sister I told you so? He might have asked her to make him a loan to prop up the business—though she wonders if she would have had enough money. (Now she has more than enough. Way more than enough. Honking way more than enough, as that blowhard Shine would say.)
Or maybe, when Dani came out for a weekend last fall, that’s what he had in mind, asking for her help. But he never got up the nerve. Instead, he picked fights with her. It started within an hour of his arrival, in the kitchen, as Tommy made dinner for the three of them—though at first his minor taunting was almost pleasant. The little digs he took at her proficiency were part of a role, Fraternal Thorn in the Side, one he seemed to adopt reflexively to mask the awkwardness of two very different siblings reuniting after months apart.
“Remember when I moved in with you?” He was spinning lettuce while Tommy grated ginger. “You couldn’t make instant oatmeal back then.”
“I wasn’t that bad,” Tommy said. “By then I was cooking for Morty. I had a few tricks up my sleeve.”
“By now you must have a few thousand. Like, how many years have you been his kitchen wench?”
“I like cooking,” she said.
“Are you going to tell me it’s ‘therapeutic’?”
“You know what? Yes. It is. When I’m alone in the kitchen.” On the stress, she turned and gave Dani a teasing look.
He poured the lettuce from the spinner into a china bowl.
“Do you know how to make dressing?” Tommy asked him.
“Maybe the one thing Mom managed to teach us both.” He went to the refrigerator, the cupboard, found his ingredients without speaking. And then, after he’d set them on the counter, he said, “Jane’s pregnant.”
Tommy set down the grater and turned toward her brother. “Oh God. Oh Dani.” Even news of an engagement would have been a momentous surprise.
“You sound like I just told you Jane died.”
“No! It’s wonderful!” She hugged him, although she felt his physical resistance. When she stepped back, she wondered at the look on his face. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, knees locked.
“Dani, don’t do the petulant thing, not now. I just somehow thought—”
“That we’d get married first?”
“Well, I suppose if Mom and Dad were alive—”
“Not like you’re in a very conventional situation yourself, Toms.”
“Dani, I’m thrilled for you. I love Jane. She’ll be a terrific mother.”
“She will.” He sighed. “But you don’t even really know her, Tommy. You never come into the city these days, not since we dealt with Dad’s stuff. We’ve seen you like, what, twice in the past year?”
“More than that.” Why was he being so hostile? “And Dani, the train runs both ways. You know you can visit here whenever you like. Why didn’t you bring her this weekend?”
“I told you. She’s putting in extra hours tomorrow. We need to squirrel away as much money as we possibly can. And just so you know, we’re planning on making it legal. City hall, roses from the deli. Betrothal on a budget. Things aren’t as…The point is, we’re trying to be adults. Or I am. She already is one.”
“She shouldn’t exhaust herself, though. I mean, not now.”