Eleanor bought the coffin she wanted from Herbert Brothers Funerals, a plain cedar box, lined in white linen. Will came along to close the deal. She liked that Herbert’s had the word “funerals” in their name and not “chapel,” but when the salesman pointed her toward their collection of Chinese ginger jars, sized perfectly for her “loved one’s cremains,” she almost bolted. Will put his hand on her arm, as if to say, “I’ll take care of this.” Herbert’s wanted to sell her one of their deluxe models, the Porsche of caskets, a spruce burl number, hand carved, silk-lined, and priced just below a Steinway grand. “It’s wrong for my husband,” Eleanor said. “He’d want something along the lines of a Jewish-type coffin, a simple wood box.” When the salesman demurred—“Your husband was such a distinguished man, so many important people will be attending the service”—Will took over. “If you don’t have what we want, Mr. Herbert, please tell us,” he said. “We’ll go somewhere else. This is tiring my mother out.” His voice was even, almost pleasant, no trace of annoyance or irritation creeping in. Rupert would have done exactly the same thing, Eleanor thought, but sooner and with an edge of menace.
The funeral at St. Thomas was longer than Eleanor would have liked, but she wanted music, Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor and, of course, “Jerusalem,” and she knew the partners and parishioners expected orations on Rupert’s passing, as they called it. Passing to what? she thought. Jim Cardozo showed up. Harry and Sam spoke, along with Rupert’s closest friend, Dominic Byrne, a Cambridge don, and his oldest friend, John Earlham, a cricket buddy from his first years in New York. She had told them all they could speak no more than seven minutes each—twice the length of the Gettysburg Address seemed a generous allotment—and they obliged. Harry spoke humorously about sailing with his father and grandfather. “Both wanted to captain. They had this unintentionally comical Alphonse/Gaston routine. Too polite to seize the wheel, each waited for the other to defer. Sometimes, I’d just take over,” he said. “Excessive good manners can provide an opening for a young brute.” Sam was the most affecting. He had come out to his dad when he was fourteen. They were walking to church. “I’m gay,” Sam had said, not looking at his father. “Yes,” said Rupert, nodding. They kept walking.
Among the mourners, the most visibly bereft were the old Maynard associates who believed he’d made them into lawyers. He was cremated, according to his wishes, and his ashes cast upon the waters of Long Island Sound.
Two months after the funeral, Eleanor decided to refurbish the apartment. She laundered all of Rupert’s clothes, then gave them away to Housing Works, along with his personal effects, except his watch, an antique Patek Philippe. None of the boys wanted her to sell it but none of them wanted to own it. “Too Dad,” Harry said. “Too East Coast lawyer,” Will said. “I’m not mature enough to wear it,” Sam said. “I’ll never be mature enough,” Jack said. “I have a Timex,” Tom said. They looked to their mother to decide. Eleanor shook her head. “I won’t play Solomon,” she said. Harry stepped up. “Sam should take it,” he said. “Yes, Sam should take it,” Tom said. Jack nodded. “Sam, by acclamation, then,” Will said. Sam took it home and put it in his top dresser drawer. Andrew eyed it.
Eleanor bought a new bed and new linens. She had the apartment professionally cleaned by a housekeeping service. It took a team of four three weeks to bring it up to her standards; she had them wash down all the walls and woodwork. She took the posters and paintings to be reframed and sent the furniture out to be reupholstered. She trashed the heavy silk curtains and put up museum shades. She bought a Christopher Farr rug for the living room and gave the old Persian, freshly steamed, to Tom, her sentimental child. The other Persians she had cleaned and put in storage. When she was finished, five months later, the apartment, like a great face-lift, looked the same but better. Every sign of Rupert, except for books and family photographs, had been purged. It smelled different.
—
Rupert’s will held no surprises. He left Eleanor his law firm pension and 401(k) plan. His investments, which were substantial, he left as a life interest to Eleanor and then in trust to “my sons or, if they do not survive me, their issue per stirpes.”
Six months after Rupert’s death, Eleanor received a letter from a woman living in Brooklyn.
October 8, 2000
Dear Mrs. Fawkes,
For some years, I had a relationship with your husband, Rupert Fawkes. We met in 1975 and had two children together, Hugh, 24, and Iain, 23. Rupert always said he would provide for them. I have advised them to contact a lawyer. As sons of your husband, they are entitled to their share of his estate.
Yours very truly,
Vera Wolinski
The letter temporarily threw Eleanor off stride. She didn’t know what to think. After two days of mulling it over, she decided she couldn’t know. She knew that “laughing heirs” often appeared on the death of a rich and prominent man. If this Wolinski woman were a fraud, her army of Maynard lawyers would beat her back.
Shortly after hearing from Vera Wolinski, she received a letter from a lawyer in Brooklyn. He informed her he had filed a petition in Probate Court on behalf of his clients, “Hugh and Iain Wolinski Fawkes, the natural born sons of Rupert Fawkes.”
Rupert’s name did not appear on the birth certificates of the Wolinski boys. Nor had he acknowledged paternity. Vera said he had provided support of a thousand dollars a month for each boy and a thousand dollars for her until the younger one reached the age of twenty-three. Her account showed deposits for these funds but not from Rupert, not from anyone. The money, in a monthly lump sum of three thousand dollars, had been wired anonymously, directly into her account from a bank in the Caymans.
The only evidence Vera could produce was an old blurry sepia photograph of herself and a man in fisherman sandals, who might be Rupert, standing in front of Toffenetti Restaurant in Times Square. Vera had never told the boys who their father was until she told them to sue Rupert’s estate.
A hearing was set to review the claims. Harry and Will went with their mother. The Wolinski boys were blond and fair, as Rupert had been, as was their mother. A disquieting aspect for Eleanor was Hugh’s gait, which was like Rupert’s, at once languid and athletic. Both young men had graduated from the US Coast Guard Academy and were serving in the Coast Guard.
The case was reported in the Post and Eleanor’s friends rallied around her in indignation. Eleanor remained cool and steady. The more she thought about the Wolinskis’ claim, the more she thought it not impossible that Rupert had fathered these children. Vera’s misspelling of his last name, oddly, made the relationship more likely. So did the fisherman sandals, so un-Rupert but so English schoolboy. Then there were the boys’ very British names and the spelling of Iain.