I finished dressing and switched to another unpleasant subject, reminding her, “The next few days are going to be stressful,” meaning not only Ethel’s wake and funeral, plus trying to avoid our own funerals, but also her parents being somewhere in this zip code. I added, “We need to… communicate with each other.”

Susan nodded, then said, “I had a very sad dream about Ethel… she was sitting alone, crying… and I asked her why she was sad. And she said to me, ‘Everyone is dead.’ So I tried to comfort her… but she kept crying, and I was crying, and I had this… overwhelming sense of being alone… then I said, ‘I’ll call John.’”

She looked at me, and I could see she was on the verge of tears, so I took her in my arms and we hugged. I said to her, “You’re not alone.”

“I know. But I was for so many years, and it didn’t feel good.”

We went downstairs and sat in the kitchen, reading the Times and having coffee, waiting for Sophie, for Felix Mancuso, William and Charlotte Stanhope, and whomever and whatever else the day had in store for us.

Sophie, the cleaning lady, came at 8:00 A.M., and Susan’s personal trainer, an androgynous chap named Chip, arrived at 8:30. The gardeners showed up to work in the rain, UPS delivered something at 9:00, the mailman came at 9:15, and the dry cleaner came by to drop off and pick up at 9:30. It occurred to me that a Mafia hit man would have to wait his turn in the foyer.

The phone rang all morning, and after Susan finished with her trainer, she spent some time in the office making and taking phone calls and e-mailing. A lot of this communication had to do with Ethel’s wake and funeral, and Susan spoke to Elizabeth a few times and also spoke to the funeral home, the florist, and a few limousine companies – do not use Bell Car Service – and she also got hold of the caretakers for the Stanhope cemetery. I wanted to suggest that she get two more holes dug for William and Charlotte while she was at it – but she might take that the wrong way. On that subject, I had a question for her. “What do you do when you miss your in-laws? You reload and fire again.”

I didn’t actually ask her that question, but that did remind me to buy shotgun shells, and further reminded me to tell her, “Reserve a cottage for your parents at The Creek.”

She replied, “Let’s first see if they want to stay with us.”

“What time are they arriving?”

“I told you five times – they arrive at LaGuardia at three-fifteen, and they should be here about five.” She added, “We’ll have cocktails and discuss… things.”

“All right.” Where do you keep the rat poison? “What time is the viewing tonight?”

“I also told you that. Seven to nine.” She filled me in on the daily viewing schedule, and apparently Ethel had left instructions for an extended engagement at the funeral home, so that no one had an excuse to miss her final act. Susan concluded, “The funeral Mass is Saturday at ten A.M. Do you want me to write this down?”

“No. I have you, darling.”

She further informed me, “This Sunday is Father’s Day. In my e-mail exchanges with my parents and the children, it appears that we’ll all be here on Sunday, so I’ve suggested dinner at home to mark the occasion.”

Susan seemed more optimistic than I was about this reunion, but I said, “That’s very thoughtful of you.” I inquired, “Do your parents know that I’m here?”

“They know from the children that you are back for the funeral, and that you are living in the gatehouse.”

“Actually, I’m not.”

“They haven’t been updated on that.”

“Right. And they have no problem with me being here for a Father’s Day dinner?”

“They understand that Edward and Carolyn want you to join us for Father’s Day.” She added, “I told them I was fine with that.”

“I see. So when do we tell your parents that I’m living here and sleeping with you?”

“When they arrive.” She explained, “It’s better to present them with a fait accompli.”

Which, hopefully, would lead to them having a grand mal seizure, followed by me administering a coup de grace with the shotgun. “All right. Do it your way.”

She changed the subject and inquired, “Do you think I should invite your mother, or will that be sad for her with your father gone?”

I replied with overdone enthusiasm, “Harriet would be delighted to be included, and I look forward to having dinner with her and your parents.”

Susan looked at me closely and asked, “Can you handle all that?”

I replied, “The answer is martinis.”

She had no comment on that, except to say, “I’m counting on you, John, to set a good example for Edward and Carolyn.”

“You can count on me, sweetheart.” I honestly intended to do my best to put the fun back into dysfunctional, and I suggested, “Your father and I will sit at the opposite heads of the table and sing a duet of ‘Oh, My Papa.’”

She still seemed skeptical for some reason, so I added, “I will honor your father on that special day, Susan, because he gave me you.”

“That’s very sweet of you, John.” She reminded me, “We’re really doing this for Edward and Carolyn, so if you have to bite your tongue a few times, the children will respect you even more for being a big man. And if my father is not pleasant, then that is his problem.”

“Always has been.”

“And please do not sit there like you did at the last dinner we had together, simmering until you exploded and called him… whatever.”

“An unprincipled asshole, a-”

“All right, John. And you promised to apologize for that.”

“I’m anxious to do that.”

She looked at me closely and said, “John… it’s for the children… and I don’t mean their emotional well-being – I mean their financial well-being.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” I did remind her, however, “You didn’t think your parents would financially punish their grandchildren because of us.” I couldn’t resist adding, “No one would be so vindictive.”

She replied, “Let’s not test that assumption.”

“I hear you.” I asked her, “Will we have the pleasure of your brother’s company for these sad and happy occasions?”

She replied, “Peter will not be in for Ethel’s funeral. But he’ll try to make it in for Father’s Day.”

“Wonderful. And where is Peter working these days?”

“The Bahamas.”

“Doing what?”

“Surfing.”

“Right. Well, if he starts now and catches a few good waves, he can be here by Sunday.”

I thought that would make her angry, but she smiled and said, “The Stanhopes bring out the best of your wit.”

You ain’t seen nothing yet, lady. I changed the subject and reminded her, “Felix Mancuso will be here shortly. I’m counting on you, Susan, to put aside any negative feelings you may have toward him, and to be helpful and pleasant.” I added, “Just as I will do with your parents.”

“All right. Point made.” She thought for a moment, then said to me, “This is everyone’s chance to make up for the past. Or at least, let go of the past.”

“Indeed, it is.”

I thought about my deathbed conversation with Ethel, who I sincerely hoped had had similar conversations with everyone who visited her. We don’t all have the certainty of a long goodbye, so we often miss the chance to set things right before we stop breathing and talking.

Alternately, we can leave letters behind for everyone, in case we didn’t get a chance to say, “Sorry I was such an asshole,” and I suspected that Ethel’s letter to me was along those lines. And if the truth be known, there were three such letters from me, sitting with my solicitor in London; one each to Edward and Carolyn, and one to Susan. The easiest letter to write is the one that begins, “If you’re reading this, it means that I am dead…” Maybe I should also write one to William and Charlotte: Dear Assholes…