By Jack Stratton

I didn’t know the Porters very well, though our families had been intertwined in various ways for most of my life, be it in business, marriage, or as friends. Then again, my position in my own family was somewhat liminal. I came and left. I disappeared for months at a time. College had proven to be a great excuse. After graduation, life became an even better excuse.

Still, weddings and funerals were inescapable. So when I heard Alan finally passed, after such a long illness, I donned a black suit and took a train back to the city.

My family’s intensity was often imposing, anxiety-inducing, and laden with guilt and resentment, but that’s not what this story is about.

The Porters were even wealthier than my lot and the wake, which was held in their Upper East Side compound, was decadent, impressive, and nuanced in its decoration and design.

They had a massive apartment that took up one whole floor of a historic Central Park West building. The large main sunken living room was opulent, with gilded frames holding well-considered art on every wall and a grand piano in one corner that was kept in tune even though no one ever played it.

The massive fireplace held roaring flames, whose heat was tempered by a few open windows, letting the cold winter air mercifully in. The room was populated by perhaps fifty people, all in black suits or black dresses. My family was peppered among the Porters. We greeted each other in whispers. My sister rolled her eyes at me. My younger brothers tugged at their collars and eyed the door.

There was a small queue of people waiting to kiss the cheek and offer condolences to Morgan, and so I stepped into the line with four others.

Her eyes were red, her eyeliner in streaks down her cheeks. Her skin was flawless. I remember noticing her complexion in the past, along with the clearness of her brown eyes, and the perfect part in her hair. Now all of those things were in shambles because of her tears and pain.

Waiting, I noted her dress, somewhat short but still respectable. Fashionable and expensive, a somewhat shimmery black satan with a stark white Peter Pan collar. No pearls, no rings, not even earrings. There was something very vulnerable in that, at least in the language of her class and status.

When I stepped up to her, she seemed surprised to see me. I didn’t know her that well, and wondered if I had misstepped; if the line was for people who were closer to her. There was something so jarring in the look in her eyes.

“Oh, Peter. It’s been a long time. Thank you for coming,” she said in a whisper, her eyes falling.

“I’m very sorry, Morgan,” I said, thinking more words would come, but none did.

She looked up again for a moment and our eyes locked. The intensity and vulnerability emanating from her was startling. She nodded and moved forward. I kissed her cheek, and she reached up and squeezed my arm.

“If there is anything I can do, just let me know,” I added. It seemed like what one was supposed to say—meaningless words to show emotional support.

She seemed to take my words seriously, though, and weighed them. “That means a lot.”

I nodded and stepped away, moved by her sadness, wishing there was more I could do, but also uncomfortable in the face of intense vulnerability.

Then there was the requisite Scotch and some shrimp cocktail in the other room. Listening to the gossip of the day. Avoiding most of the people I knew and just wandering around the huge place. Six bedrooms, a long dining room I remember having Thanksgiving in, the library that had always been my fantasy. To have all those books. To have that long table to lay out everything I was researching. Maybe to lay someone out on.

I laughed to myself and continued on until I got to the kitchen, which was full of people. I squeezed through and saw a door in the back. The old servant’s quarters, back when servants lived in your home. I wondered what it had become. Walking, I saw Morgan again. She was pouring red wine. She seemed to sense where I was going and walked to the door, motioning for me to follow.

I went in with her. She closed the door behind her and stood against it, her arms behind her. I heard the click of the door’s lock.