Yeats and nearly came to blows over Thomas Wolfe.” He stopped
and bit his lip. “You’re still wrong about Wolfe’s puny talent, man, but I hope to
God you can go home again. And that you’re there.”
Michael leaned over to me and whispered. “Does everyone sound better dead than alive?”
I looked at him. His face was impassive. “Just wondering,” he mouthed silently.
A fresh-faced, crewcut young man in a blue denim shirt and khakis talked about Quentin’s
willingness to cover AIDS in a chic city magazine early on, before anyone wanted to
talk about it.
Finally, the art director of Small Town , an elegant Vietnamese woman named Linda Quoc who was dressed in a silver-belted,
turquoise silk jumpsuit, explained how Quentin taught her to play five card stud to
fill the interminable hours during midnight press checks.
Madame sang Berlioz’s “Sur les Lagunes.” It was perhaps a trifle beyond her instrument’s
capabilities, but touching, nonetheless.
Then, Stuart let go of my hand and walked to the front of the church. He pulled a
softcover copy of The Complete Poems of Hart Crane out of his jacket pocket. Crane was Quentin’s favorite poet. I was never sure whether
he was attracted to his controversial genius, his mysterious, tragic death, or just
his eclectic romantic tastes. At any rate, I’d helped Stuart select “And Bees of Paradise.”
He steadied himself on the pulpit, looking very young and a little frightened. He’d
played basketball as a kid, and despite his grown-up devotion to offbeat, slightly
theatrical clothes, always looked as if he’d be more comfortable wrapping his long,
rangy frame in the shorts and jersey he’d worn on the court. He ran a hand through
his dark, stylishly cut hair, gripped the book, and began:
I had come all the way here from the sea ,
Yet met the wave again between your arms
Where cliff and citadel—all verily
Dissolved within a sky of beacon forms—
Sea gardens lifted rainbow-wise through eyes
I found .
Yes, tall, inseparably our days
Pass sunward. We have walked the kindled skies
Inexorable and girded with your praise ,
By the dove filled, and bees of Paradise .
Michael handed me his handkerchief. After the service, we ran into Glen, his wife
Corinne, and their five children on the steps. “A very fine hat, Maggie,” said Glen.
“Quentin would have loved it.”
“Thanks,” I said, putting a hand to the cloche. I felt Michael stiffen next to me.
“Are your boys here?” asked Corinne.
“No, I’m afraid they’re not as well regimented as your kids,” I said. “They’d have
wiggled.”
Corinne smiled. “We had some wiggles, too. But Glen wanted the children to say goodbye
to Quentin. He’s been very kind to us, you know.” She sighed. “Kept us out of the
almshouse, in fact, when we came to America.”
Glen put his arm around Corinne. “We need to be off, love.”
“Soccer practice and choir rehearsals for the little ones,” he explained over his
shoulder. “I’ll come by Quentin’s after we get everyone delivered.”
Calvin Bright trotted up the steps, camera bag slung over his left shoulder. I made
the introductions. Michael shook hands with Calvin and said, “I hear you and my wife
drowned your sorrows in some cracked crab the other day.”
Calvin’s mouth turned up in a dangerous grin.
“Actually, it was more voyeuristic than that. I ate, and she watched me. Too bad you
couldn’t join us. But I guess tax lawyers don’t go in for long lazy lunches.” Michael
fixed him with a humorless smile. “No, but we do go in for mindless, vindictive behavior
when anyone trespasses on our personal property.”
Calvin looked bewildered by Michael’s sharp tone. I tapped Calvin’s camera bag. “Promise
me you weren’t shooting during the service?”
He shook his head. “No, too sleazy even for me. But it’s good to be prepared in case
someone really famous showed
and bit his lip. “You’re still wrong about Wolfe’s puny talent, man, but I hope to
God you can go home again. And that you’re there.”
Michael leaned over to me and whispered. “Does everyone sound better dead than alive?”
I looked at him. His face was impassive. “Just wondering,” he mouthed silently.
A fresh-faced, crewcut young man in a blue denim shirt and khakis talked about Quentin’s
willingness to cover AIDS in a chic city magazine early on, before anyone wanted to
talk about it.
Finally, the art director of Small Town , an elegant Vietnamese woman named Linda Quoc who was dressed in a silver-belted,
turquoise silk jumpsuit, explained how Quentin taught her to play five card stud to
fill the interminable hours during midnight press checks.
Madame sang Berlioz’s “Sur les Lagunes.” It was perhaps a trifle beyond her instrument’s
capabilities, but touching, nonetheless.
Then, Stuart let go of my hand and walked to the front of the church. He pulled a
softcover copy of The Complete Poems of Hart Crane out of his jacket pocket. Crane was Quentin’s favorite poet. I was never sure whether
he was attracted to his controversial genius, his mysterious, tragic death, or just
his eclectic romantic tastes. At any rate, I’d helped Stuart select “And Bees of Paradise.”
He steadied himself on the pulpit, looking very young and a little frightened. He’d
played basketball as a kid, and despite his grown-up devotion to offbeat, slightly
theatrical clothes, always looked as if he’d be more comfortable wrapping his long,
rangy frame in the shorts and jersey he’d worn on the court. He ran a hand through
his dark, stylishly cut hair, gripped the book, and began:
I had come all the way here from the sea ,
Yet met the wave again between your arms
Where cliff and citadel—all verily
Dissolved within a sky of beacon forms—
Sea gardens lifted rainbow-wise through eyes
I found .
Yes, tall, inseparably our days
Pass sunward. We have walked the kindled skies
Inexorable and girded with your praise ,
By the dove filled, and bees of Paradise .
Michael handed me his handkerchief. After the service, we ran into Glen, his wife
Corinne, and their five children on the steps. “A very fine hat, Maggie,” said Glen.
“Quentin would have loved it.”
“Thanks,” I said, putting a hand to the cloche. I felt Michael stiffen next to me.
“Are your boys here?” asked Corinne.
“No, I’m afraid they’re not as well regimented as your kids,” I said. “They’d have
wiggled.”
Corinne smiled. “We had some wiggles, too. But Glen wanted the children to say goodbye
to Quentin. He’s been very kind to us, you know.” She sighed. “Kept us out of the
almshouse, in fact, when we came to America.”
Glen put his arm around Corinne. “We need to be off, love.”
“Soccer practice and choir rehearsals for the little ones,” he explained over his
shoulder. “I’ll come by Quentin’s after we get everyone delivered.”
Calvin Bright trotted up the steps, camera bag slung over his left shoulder. I made
the introductions. Michael shook hands with Calvin and said, “I hear you and my wife
drowned your sorrows in some cracked crab the other day.”
Calvin’s mouth turned up in a dangerous grin.
“Actually, it was more voyeuristic than that. I ate, and she watched me. Too bad you
couldn’t join us. But I guess tax lawyers don’t go in for long lazy lunches.” Michael
fixed him with a humorless smile. “No, but we do go in for mindless, vindictive behavior
when anyone trespasses on our personal property.”
Calvin looked bewildered by Michael’s sharp tone. I tapped Calvin’s camera bag. “Promise
me you weren’t shooting during the service?”
He shook his head. “No, too sleazy even for me. But it’s good to be prepared in case
someone really famous showed
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