He looks at his program, so I think maybe he's getting back to baseball. Unfortunately, he isn't.
“Judge Kasten told me about your stunt in the courtroom.”
Uh, oh. I'm caught, but not backing down. “You mean the stunt that got my client acquitted?”
“I mean the one that could have gotten you disbarred.”
“It was worth the risk,” I parry.
“In the future, you might want to substitute solid preparation for risk taking,” he thrusts. “By the way, how are you doing on the Miller appeal?”
“The ruling could come down anytime,” I say. “I'm hopeful.” Dad is worried about something as trivial as a death sentence in the fourth inning?
“You need to understand that even on a retrial, it's a case you can't win,” he says. “I covered all the bases.” “Speaking of bases, Garciaparra is up.” This seems to work, and our legal careers are moved to the back seat. More fake money is about to be put on the table.
“Garciaparra will foul off the first pitch. Eight hundred bucks. Nine to two.” He seems pretty confident, so I just as confidently tell him that he's on.
Clemens winds up and Garciaparra lines one down the right field line. I'm on my feet. It's curving … it's curving … fair!
“Fair ball! Fair ball! Fair ball!” I scream. I hate cheering for something against the Yankees, and everybody around us is staring at me with disdain, but my competitive juices are flowing. I turn to my father in triumph, and he has bowed his head appropriately in defeat.
“Can't even watch?” I crow. But it's more than that. In a brief, terrible instant, I realize that in fact he can't watch, can't speak, can't even sit up. He falls over and his head hits the railing in front of us, and then he slumps to the ground, his body grotesquely wedged between the seats.
And then I start screaming, screaming louder than anyone has ever screamed in Yankee Stadium. Screaming louder than anyone has ever screamed in any stadium.
But my dad can't hear me, and I'll never be eight years old again.
THE CROWDAT THE FUNERAL SEEMS LARGER THAN the crowd at the stadium, except everyone here finds themselves compelled to talk to me, to convince me they knew my father, and to let me know how sorry they are. It's supposed to make me feel better. It doesn't come close.
The cemetery itself covers miles and miles of gently rolling hills, which would be beautiful and uplifting if they were not dotted by endless rows of headstones. Can there really be this many people buried here? Have their loved ones all felt the same kind of pain I am feeling?
I tell someone I want to deliver the eulogy, but I dread the prospect of it. Laurie tells me I don't have to, that no one will think less of me if I don't. She's right, but I go up there anyway. I look out at the crowd. It seems as if the only people in America not at this funeral must be the ones lying under all those headstones.
“All of you knew Nelson Carpenter in your own way,” I begin. “Like everyone, he had his labels, and he wore them proudly and well. To many he was the District Attorney, a brilliant man whose devotion to justice was complete, and who would go to any lengths to ensure that everybody received fair and impartial treatment under the law.
“To many of you he was simply a friend, and when you had Nelson Carpenter as your friend, you didn't need many others. Because he wasn't simply there if you asked for his help; he had a sixth sense that could see through you, and a generosity that would provide that help without you ever having to ask.
“But I knew Nelson Carpenter as a father, and that makes me luckier than any of you. Because his family was his world, and let me tell you something, there was no better world to live in.”
My throat feels like it is in a vise the entire time, but I don't cry, just like I didn't cry at my mother's funeral three years ago. But I remember having my father to share the pain with then, and I could focus on supporting him. Now it's just me.
Only child becomes even more only.
Afterward I'm walking toward the cars, nodding thank you to the remaining four or five million people who are just now approaching me. Philip Gant, U.S. Senator