Chapter 37

I was a sombre foursome who stood on the tarmac on Friday afternoon as the engines of the 737-800 wound down. Maria, Mum and I were joined by Samantha from the funeral home, who was here to formally take possession of the coffin. Maria almost collapsed into my arms as the casket was the first item out of the cargo hold and Mum quickly stepped to envelop both of us in her arms.

The coffin was lifted onto a folding trolley and rolled round to the rear of a waiting hearse where four men lifted it, reverently into the vehicle, took a step back and solemnly, with their hands clasped in from of them bowed their heads to it. Then they walked away to a waiting car and left. Samantha joined the driver of the hearse in the front seat and Mum, Maria and I took the bench seat behind her and headed off towards Hoboken. We pulled up on Sinatra Drive and the three of us got out when Samantha opened the door for us.

“It will probably be tomorrow before she’s ready for viewing,” she said, “I’ll give you a call and let you know when you can come and to finalise the rest of the arrangements.”

“Thank you,” I said, on behalf of all of us, “you’ve been very helpful.”

She wished us a pleasant evening and climbed back into the hearse which pulled away from the kerb and, a few seconds later, disappeared from view at the end of the street.

We were quiet as we entered the apartment. Mum took Sandy’s room, Maria took her own and I, once again had the sofa for sleeping on. It seemed like we’d come full circle.

Since we had nothing in the larder, we went out for dinner, to Tutti Pesca on Third Street. It did what it said on the tin, seafood. We were surprised when we got a table straight away, since it was reputedly the best seafood restaurant in the New York area, but we had one in a secluded corner and our server, Carlotta was with us quickly with menus. Mum and Maria ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio each and I opted for a diet Pepsi, then we ordered, just a main course since we’d been served food of sorts on the plane. The ladies went for pan-charred black sea bass and I had the lobster, both dishes were served on a bed of risotto.

It was delicious and the food really was good. All the fish was obviously fresh and extremely skilfully prepared and cooked.

Mum paid the bill and we drove back to Sinatra Drive and entered the apartment.

I locked the door and went into the kitchen to make coffee.

I found Mum and Maria discussing the rest of the week.

First there was the priest at the local Greek Orthodox Church, he was coming on Saturday after matins. He had to come over from Jersey City, where the church was and the appointment had been made for eleven o’clock. Then there was suitable clothes for the funeral. Not only for Maria, but for me and Mum too. That entailed a trip across the river. We’d save that until Monday. The Hoboken police had been informed and the three men involved in Sandy’s attack had been informed via their lawyers that the charge was now liable to be Murder, not just sexual assault or rape. Although New Jersey had the death penalty, it was not currently performing executions and they knew that what they were facing was life in prison, without any hope of parole.

Personally, I hoped that they’d rot there, or meet some really nice big biker with all-over tattoos who took a shine to them.

I also learned that in America it was usual to have a viewing at the Funeral Parlour where people could come along, pay their respects and say their farewells. It wasn’t something that I really had an interest in doing, but I felt that I had to go along and support Maria. That would be on Friday. Maria would be letting her school and the University know the details of the Funeral on Monday and there was an obituary to write for the local paper. She asked me if I would do that and I agreed, although, what I’d write was beyond me.

I picked my laptop out of its carrying bag and took it over to the dining table.

“I’m going to do some catching up on schoolwork,” I announced, “I’m getting very behind.”

I did, after an hour or so Mum and Maria both gave me a kiss on the cheek, said goodnight and went off to their beds, when I looked around I noticed that they had made up the sofa for me.

I chuckled, closed down my laptop and quickly used the house toilet to do my nightly routine, undressed, pulled on my sleep shorts and slid between the sheets. I was asleep quickly.

The Orthodox priest, when he arrived on Saturday morning, was a surprise. Apart from being over two metres tall and rake thin he was a lot younger than I’d expected. All the Orthodox priests I’d ever seen were old, with huge grey beards and dressed like a pharisee from a biblical epic. This guy can’t have been older than late twenties and while he had a beard it was a bright ginger and nowhere near as full as you’d expect. He was Father Apostolos but told us to just call him Stolo.

Maria asked him to take a seat and Mum and I made ourselves useful in the kitchen making coffee for four.

When I carried the coffee in and put the tray down on the coffee table, she introduced me to the priest.

“Stolo,” she said, looking me in the eye, “this is David, my son in law.”

He looked at me and held out his hand which I shook.

“Nice to meet you father,” I said, “I just wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances.

“I’m sorry, Maria, I hadn’t realised that Sandra was married.”

“They weren’t married in the legal or religious sense,” she said, “but believe me they were married.”

“You know,” he said, “the church demands that I condemn you for living in sin but, somehow, I can’t. You’re very young and, to be honest, most of the young men of your age that I know would have been over the hills and far away by now. Maria had told me of some of the things that you did for Sandra and for her. So no, I can’t condemn you. You’re too good a person.”

“Thank you,” I replied, “but, may I be honest?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I really don’t care whether you condemn me or not. I am who I am, I behave in the way my parents brought me up, so your condemnation, approbation or anything else, really don’t bother me. I do what I know to be right.”

Maria was looking at me as if I had just landed in a flying saucer.

Before she could say anything the priest held his hand up.

“Well done, my son,” he said, “you are indeed a good man and an honest one, this world needs more like you. But I suspect you’ll never make a politician.”

“Or a diplomat,” my mother said from the kitchen doorway.

Again Maria did the introduction and the four of us sat down to discuss the funeral.

Before he left, having agreed that he would see us just before the ceremony at three on the following Saturday, he pressed a card into my hand.

“I don’t think you’ll need it, but if you need someone to talk things through with, or just to talk to, call me,” he said, “I promise I won’t try to convert you, but I will try to listen.”

“Thank you,” I said as I took it, “and I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Don’t be,” he said, “you asked if you could be honest, I said yes and you were and believe me I was impressed far more than I could ever have been offended.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Maria showed him out and when she returned, sat down on the sofa and looked at me.

“Well, I think you’ve made a friend there,” she said, “he’s a very unusual priest. And you are a very unusual man.”

“You didn’t already know him?” I asked.

“No, he’s new to the parish,” she said, “and it’s his first posting as priest in charge.”

Once he was gone, Mum and Maria went out, to buy enough groceries to see us through until we went back to Vancouver, or at least Maria and I did. Mum would be flying home from New York on the Sunday after the funeral.

We went shopping on Sunday, taking the car into the city and paying the exorbitant parking charges.

I came back with a lightweight black suit, white business shirt, black silk tie, black socks and a pair of black leather slip-on shoes. I also bought myself two fedoras, one black, one navy blue. I’d always wanted a fedora, Mike back home had one that we sort of passed around amongst us.

The black one was for me, the blue one would go home with Mum for Mike. His original one was getting tatty with use. Mum and Maria each bought suitable dresses for the funeral.

Judging by the number of bags I loaded into the boot of the car, I think that may well have not been all they bought.

We arrived back at a little after five and Mum and I retired to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

While Mum grilled lamb chops I peeled and cut the potatoes into chips, proper chips not those piffling little ‘French fries’ that you get in McDonalds or KFC and mixed up a salad.

Maria had opened a bottle of Kos wine, from some winery that I couldn’t pronounce, let alone spell and we enjoyed a quiet, but very tasty dinner.

The rest of the week dragged. There were things we had to do, people we had to inform, places we had to be, but it dragged. On Thursday, Maria’s parents arrived from Greece and Mum and I moved out to a hotel ready for my family arriving on Friday morning.

Thursday night’s dinner with Sandy’s grandparents was nice. They were obviously very upset at the loss of their granddaughter but made me feel very much a part of the family and as by that time, Kostas had joined us from Vancouver, he was welcomed into the fold just as warmly.

The following morning at seven am, Mum and I were at Newark airport waiting for the passengers from the Delta flight from Manchester to emerge. They’d flown at five am, giving them, allowing for time zone differences, a seven ten am landing time. They touched down twenty minutes early and as usual, my sister was the first one through, closely followed by Dad, Andy, my grandparents and then I got two shocks. The next person out was Mike Kearford, who I didn’t expect to see and, accompanying him the last person I expected. Calista Jane Warner.