When my mother died, my father purchased a matching burial plot beside hers, intended as his final resting place. With tears in his eyes, he asked if I’d mind it if he gave the space to Charlotte. “It’ll make it a little easier for me if I can see Charlotte next to your mother.”
I couldn’t hold back my own tears. “Of course,” I said. “I think . . . no, I’m certain, that they’d both like that. And it’ll be nice for us too, to be able to visit them together.”
As far as I know, my father has never visited my mother’s gravesite. I never liked coming here either. I preferred to talk to her when I was lying in bed, or walking in Central Park, or even on the subway. Still, Charlotte and I came out every year on my mother’s birthday. It was Charlotte’s idea, of course. She’d always bake a cake, even that first year, when Charlotte was only thirteen and I didn’t think she even knew how to boil water. We’d have a picnic right on top of my mother’s grave. When we got older, champagne was added to the event, and Charlotte would balance a flute on our mother’s headstone.
For today’s burial, my father had wanted only the two of us to attend. He didn’t even see the need for an officiant to be present. But I told him that we needed to be more inclusive. Others loved Charlotte too, and they deserved the opportunity to say good-bye. In the end, we invited a few people and relied on the grapevine to get the word out to the rest.
I sit beside my father in the back of a Lincoln town car on the way to the cemetery, holding his hand for most of the drive. Early on in the ride, he shares with me what he thinks is news.
“I got the strangest call yesterday. Paul Michelson has decided to retain new counsel.”
“Did he say why?” I ask.
“No. Just that, given everything that’s going on with us and Charlotte, he needs someone more focused on him.”
I stifle the urge to laugh. No need to share with my father that I held his client at knifepoint.
“No great loss there,” I say instead.
He looks at me with a resigned air. But I know he doesn’t care about losing Paul as a client—especially because the retainer was nonrefundable.
“I have the strong feeling that it’s going to be hard for you to truly believe the whole innocent-until-proven-guilty thing after this.”
“We don’t have to discuss it now, Dad.”
“I think that maybe we do. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”
“What do you mean?”
“When your mother died, you were the glue, Ella. It should have been me, but it was you who held it together for Charlotte . . . and for me too. And I know that had your mother lived, you would never have become a lawyer. She wouldn’t have let you. I hope you don’t think I pushed you in that direction. I truly never meant to do that. What I meant to do was stand back, allow you to make your own decision.”
“I just wanted you to be proud of me.”
“I could never be anything but proud of you, sweetheart. But what will make me most proud is if you live your life on your own terms. Not for me. Not for what your mother would have wanted. And please don’t do it now for Charlotte. Nothing would make me happier, or prouder, than for you to be who you want to be, Ella. And I’m confident that on this point I speak for your mother as well.”
I know he’s right. I just wish I had known it years earlier.
After that we barely say a word, but I imagine our thoughts are identical. The tragedy that Charlotte will never fall in love, get married, or have children. The utter injustice that the world is forever going to be diminished by her absence. People who never knew Charlotte even existed would be deprived of the words she would have written, and the lucky few who would have met her had she lived will now be less for not knowing her.
I keep imagining a man. In my mind’s eye, he’s blond, although Charlotte rarely went for fair-haired men. He’s not from New York City, but California. San Francisco, maybe. He’s smart and kind and handsome, and his friends and family can’t, for the life of them, understand why he’s never married—even he wonders why no woman has ever captured his heart. I envision him meeting Charlotte on some hiking expedition somewhere, and them marrying within a few months of first casting eyes on each other.
I feel sorrow for him too, even though he is merely an imaginary placeholder. Whoever was destined to be Charlotte’s soul mate has no idea of the tragedy he’s suffered, and he never will. From that perspective, I count myself as supremely fortunate. At least I had twenty-five years to bask in Charlotte’s love.
Trinity Cemetery was established in the 1840s, and is the only remaining active burial ground in Manhattan. Located on 155th Street and Riverside Drive, it’s less than three miles from Charlotte’s apartment and offers mourners the same sweeping views of the Hudson. The cemetery is affiliated with the famous Trinity Church on Wall Street, where George Washington prayed after his inauguration. It didn’t occur to me when my mother was laid to rest, but I’m certain my father had to use all his considerable influence to get a plot there.
The mass takes place in a large church. My father and I are allowed to sit in a waiting room and enter just as the service is about to begin. When we do, I see far more people than I had expected. A standing-room-only crowd. I take only the briefest scan of the faces, noting some cousins and aunts, scores of Charlotte’s friends—and Zach, who looks away from me when we make eye contact.
The minister is right out of central casting. An elderly man, tall and thin, with white powder for hair and small, circular, wire-framed eyeglasses. He spares us the effort of pretending he knew Charlotte and immediately leads the congregation through the scriptures that tradition dictates must be recited.
“In light of the weather,” the old minister says, “I thought we would all be more comfortable if the eulogies were delivered at this time. That way, those who would rather not have to brave the inclement weather can take their leave after this service. And so, at this time, Charlotte’s father, F. Clinton Broden, would like to say a few words.”
My father once again reminds me of the larger-than-life figure of my childhood. I know he’s not 100 percent yet, but I feel sure that he’ll eventually get there. Charlotte’s death will not break him. He may not throw himself back into work as earnestly as he did after my mother’s death, but he will return to being the man he was before. Even now, he shows signs of the command he held in the courtroom as he addresses the audience.