Splitting the Difference Read online

  My life has been a thirty-year dress rehearsal preparing me for our introduction on a sidewalk in New York. Since that night four months ago, Alberto, you have confirmed and exceeded my expectation of a leading man.

  You are the bravest person I’ve ever met . . . with an extraordinary gift of wisdom. Your laughter is my favorite sound. Your voice: the cream in my coffee. Your presence: the best part in the movie.

  As the woman you have chosen to be your wife, I vow, before God & this audience:

  To remain your biggest fan;

  To never exit stage left;

  To never let the lights go down in anger;

  To relish the role of supporting actress even more than leading lady;

  To respect you in word and in deed;

  To intercede with prayer on your behalf;

  To always deliver my monologues with 100 percent honesty;

  And to always, always make out with you during the elevator scenes.

  Because of you, Mr. Rodríguez, I have arrived at this moment: the happiest moment of my life. The moment when I pledge my love and loyalty to you por vida.

  Is it too soon to say you are my Cuban prince, my New York state of mind, the reason for my rhyme, my partner in time?

  These were his vows:

  One night in the month of May, my life changed forever.

  You were there without seeking. And I’ve since discovered that you were always there. In my dreams. In my hopes.

  My darling Tré, truth is, the thought of you was but a faint illusion because you are, in fact, more “everything” than I ever imagined anyone could be.

  And now I am here, standing before you . . . in awe of the woman you are.

  Thankful to be worthy of your inspiration and love.

  I am a better man today because of you, and I will strive to be better still from this moment forward.

  You are the song in my heart. You are the star that guides my way.

  You are the love I have waited for my whole life.

  Today, surrounded by our most loved, and humbled in the presence of God, I vow to love and honor you above everything else.

  I promise to care for you and to always stand sentinel, forever at your side, no matter what hands we are dealt.

  I pledge to bring out the smile that shines inside you . . . the one that brought me here today.

  I swear this to you now and everyday.

  Never again will it be too soon to say “I love you.”

  And today, I know it’s not too soon to say that you, Tré Miller, will always be my blushing bride.

  And I, Alberto Rafael Rodríguez, will always be your devoted groom.

  And today, on the first day of spring, I am saddened to paraphrase the man who was my Happy Ending, who proposed on our fourth date and became my husband on our eighth.

  One morning in the month of March, all of our lives were changed forever: the inimitable Alberto Rodríguez went to sleep and never woke up.

  And as devastating as it is, let’s try to go beyond the sad facts and remember the handsome man with the red glasses and striped socks and the most spectacular handwriting you’ve ever seen.

  A man whose idea of “roughing it” was staying at the Marriott. His love of five-star hotels runs in the family: Hilda—whom he affectionately called Mumu—raised her son with a taste for eight-hundred-thread-count sheets, room service, and housekeeping. Thanks to the values you instilled in Alberto, Mumu, I’ve had the privilege of experiencing some of the world’s finest hotels.

  And while Alberto loved ordering chicken francese from hotel room service—with rice, never potatoes—he was also a man couldn’t resist a hot dog: sometimes raw, straight from the package but especially from a gas station or street vendor. Friends actually joked that his bike should have had a custom-made hot-dog holder.

  Elegant as he was on his bike and on the dance floor, he was adorably clumsy with his feet on the ground. For example: A few years ago we spent our anniversary at one of the spots listed in his 1000 Places to See Before You Die book: The Wauwinet on Nantucket. At which, we were the youngest couple by about thirty years.

  The first two mornings we were there, he got up at 6am to have coffee and run around with his Nikon. Both mornings, I awoke to him showing me wounds from his spills earlier on the patio. I figured he’d learned his lesson, until the third morning, on our way to breakfast, we crossed the patio—which, P.S., involved a two-inch step. All I can say is, he was by my side one second and sprawled out the next. Seventy-year-old men with canes were helping me lift him off the sidewalk. Needless to say, I carefully navigated us the remaining twenty steps to breakfast.

  Breakfast.

  Anyone here have a memory involving Alberto and breakfast?

  Eggs Benedict, waffles, side of sausage, side of bacon, side of chorizo, and pass me the salt, please—but not hand to hand. Welcome to breakfast with Alberto.

  He was also a bit of a prankster. From mailing Hanukah cards to Catholic friends to sending me—a fishetarian—a box full of two-foot-long summer sausages from Hickory Farms, the man had a fantastic sense of humor. At his favorite restaurant, Da Silvano, he always ordered the pork shoulder and asked to see it—just so he could enjoy my horror when the carcass came to the table.

  And really, we can’t speak of Alberto and not hear music. From show tunes and standards to military marches and year-round Christmas songs, he surrounded himself with the sound of music. One of my sweetest memories in the T-bird was driving to his sister Barby’s at Christmastime while it was snowing: top down, seat heaters on, “Sleigh Ride” blasting through the speakers.

  I never met anyone who actually eclipsed Alberto . . . until I met Barby.

  Yes, he called to torment her daily, but he deferred to her, went to her side at the drop of a dime, and sincerely wanted only the very best for his baby sister. When he was in her presence, it was the “Barby Show” and he was glad to be a clapping member of the audience.

  He was so honored three weeks ago to become the godfather to Barby’s six-month-old daughter, Teresa. We know he would’ve been her favorite uncle, and that his legacy will bless his niece even from beyond. Barby: your kitchen will always remind me of the many holidays on which you made rice for ONE: your brother.

  In Barby’s kitchen and ours—and everyone else’s for that matter—Alberto refused to get his hands dirty when he ate. “Dirty” was Alberto-speak for greasy. He did not like to touch warm food so he held his cheeseburgers—extra bacon—with two fingers, pinky up (Thank you very much, Hilda). His pizza was consumed with a fork and knife. In the words of one of his dearest friends, Alberto was a real piece of work.

  At least once, if not ten times a day, I was reminded of how lucky I was to be loved by you, Alberto. It is an indescribable privilege to be the one with whom you chose to spend your last few years.

  You always said you were going to retire at forty.

  And you did.

  I’m already missing the New York Magazine crosswords we solved in red pen over brunch and on road trips. The back besito you gave me every night. The way you say, “Is there newspaper?” “Is there cafecito?” “Is there remote control?” And about the Scrabble, baby . . . I lied—I didn’t let you win all those times: you were totally the better player.

  Like every married couple, a handful of colloquials were constantly in rotation:

  “Goodmorningiloveyou.”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “You’re my favorite.”

  “Ready to Go!”

  In the home that we made together, your signature phrase has always been “I’ll be here.” I’m already aching for the day I hear you say it again, but in the meantime, baby, you’ll be here.

  * * *

  No snowstorms or bacon scents greet me when I wake today: just the distilled sunlight of
the first day of spring.

  Still too chilly to ride bikes, I think, before remembering that bikes are now singular and I have to ride in a stupid limousine today.

  I climb out of bed, careful not to wake Jeanette, and head to the kitchen for espresso and cigarettes, over which I proofread the hard-copy eulogy that I printed at dawn.

  Some hour and a half later, Jeanette is helping me into my black wrap dress when her husband arrives.

  I think you should read Ramses what you’ve written, she announces.

  I wasn’t planning on rehearsing, but it turns out to be a good

  call: the first time I read it, I cry. A lot. And make a dozen hard-copy

  edits.

  The second time: less crying, fewer edits.

  The third time, I find my rhythm and the audience disappears: I direct my words toward our walls of art, our framed photographs, our bedroom. When I finish, Ramses and Jeanette are leaning into each other, nodding.

  Ramses takes off his statement glasses and wipes his eyes.

  I just wish your husband could’ve heard that speech.

  Did you notice that I quoted you both? I ask. The part about him being a real piece of work? And the hot-dog holder on his bike?

  Well, we all know he loved his hot dogs, Ramses says.

  Jeanette hugs me before checking my bag for basics like house keys and phone. A separate bag holds the eulogy, croquetas, and several long-stemmed roses for his family and the coffin.

  You’re all set, she confirms, closing my purse. We love you and we’ll see you at the service.

  * * *

  When our limousine pulls up to the church, Tony Papa is the first person I see. He wraps me in a hug that reminds me of the kind my brother used to give.

  You can do this, he says.

  I don’t know how to do this, I whisper.

  Yes, you do, he says, you’ve done this before.

  I glance inside the church and hear the people-are-being-seated song.

  I look back at the hearse, its back door open.

  I don’t want to see this part, I whisper. And . . . I need to pee. Follow me through the garden? I ask, heading toward the church office.

  When I emerge afterward, I ask him to sit with me and my parents during the service.

  Are you sure? he asks.

  About what?

  About sitting in the front, he says. I mean, that’s for the immediate family.

  Tony Papa, I’ve known you twenty-two years. You’re like a brother to me. Please, I need you up there.

  He shrugs, a smile spreading across his face.

  Go, I say, handing him my jacket and purse, and nodding toward the sanctuary. Sit with us. I gotta meet the pallbearers at the entrance.

  In the church foyer, Alberto’s coffin is surrounded by black suits worn by five of his favorite guys. I’m embracing them when a man interrupts and tells us to find our positions.

  The first bars of “Crown Him With Many Crowns” begin playing.

  Holy God, I do not want to do this.

  Fico and I look at each other, take a deep breath, and begin steering Alberto toward the standing congregation.

  The last time I walked down an aisle with people staring at me like this, I was wearing white and holding flowers. How am I in black, pall-bearing my groom right now? Not even four years later?

  And somehow, we’re here.

  We’ve carried him front and center.

  According to Fico, you can’t follow the wife, so he’s giving the first eulogy. He approaches the podium like a man on a mission and thanks everyone for coming.

  His stories of Alberto’s talents—writer, painter, musician, ad man—and his generosity are spot-on. I find myself absorbing the tribute and occasionally laughing at a well-timed joke.

  Fico pauses before announcing that he’ll leave us with a few words Alberto loved.

  When he breaks into an a cappella version of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way,” I flash back to our convertible, watching Alberto belt this song out from the driver’s seat.

  My dad suddenly presses my hand, bringing me back to present tense.

  Fico has left the podium.

  It’s my turn.

  I take a deep breath, stand, and open the wooden pew gate.

  Crossing the aisle, I hug Alberto’s mom and sister and give them each a yellow rose.

  I ascend the marble steps holding a flower, my eulogy, a picture of Alberto, and one of his handkerchiefs.

  When I look out on the church, it’s a full house.

  As it should be.

  Out of my throat comes a voice I hardly recognize but words that I do: it’s the calm, well-timed cadence of a wife reading a six-page love letter to her husband.

  A wife who doesn’t care if anyone else is listening.

  And doesn’t want it to end.

  When it does, I kiss the yellow rose, place it atop the coffin spray, and return to my seat.

  Alberto is so proud of you, my dad whispers. I’m proud of you.

  Pastor Weinbaum takes the podium and his words are the right ones: it’s meaningful but brief. On cue, the pianist begins playing the coffin-departing song.

  I rise with the other pallbearers to steer him down the aisle. I concentrate on the piano solo of “To God Be the Glory” and look straight ahead, away from all the eyes. These are my final moments with Alberto and I want to be present for every step.

  I don’t want to reach the foyer.

  Ever.

  The professional muscle is waiting when we do.

  I kiss my hand and touch Alberto’s coffin, whisper that I love him and can’t wait to see him again.

  I step back and turn away because I don’t want to see them put him in the hearse.

  Or think about where they’re taking him.

  I’m exchanging hugs with Fico and the pallbearers—couldn’t have carried him without you nor would I have wanted to—when I realize I’m blocking the exit.

  Suddenly, I’m being pulled into condolence handshakes and embraces. Which is fine until I look over someone’s shoulder and realize how far the line extends.

  I step away—thank you so much for coming—and locate my mom, give her a pleading look.

  She rushes to my side and ask what’s wrong.

  I—I don’t think I can—do this, Mom.

  Do what? she asks.

  That, I nod my chin toward the receiving line. It’s not a wedding. Do I really have to stand here? Do this?

  She looks over my head, into the sanctuary, at the line of people in black.

  No, she says, firmly. You don’t have to do any of this.

  Thank God.

  I step into the garden for a cigarette.

  When I return, I see the framed black-and-white photo of Alberto on a table, in his tux on our wedding day. It is the only face I am interested in, but people are extending hands, pulling me into hugs. Over someone’s shoulder, I see two of my favorite girls from the office. They’re shifting their weight in black heels, unsure of what to do. I mouth the words stay and please. They nod and smile.

  More people, more hugs. I’ve given up trying to be incognito. Plus the line is no longer a line: the few dozen people who are still here are either related to me, close friends, or very patient strangers.

  I notice my mother-in-law standing away from the crowd, and when our eyes meet, she opens her mouth, closes it, and looks at the floor as she approaches.

  This is what she does when she’s uncomfortable.

  I look at the person who’s following her: a fifty-ish Latina in a white suit. Could this be—?

  Hilda introduces me to Alberto’s first wife.

  I do not say what I’m thinking—bold move to wear white to your ex-husband’s funeral—and instead remind myself that her na
me means “snow” in Spanish. Maybe she’s taken it literally and her entire wardrobe is white?

  I extend a hug, a traditional kiss on each cheek.

  I thank her for coming.

  She thanks me for inviting her.

  There’s a sufficiently awkward pause before she shakes her long black hair and mumbles something about hot dogs.

  I’m sorry? I ask.

  I used to tell him not to eat so many hot dogs, she says, but he was always with the hot dogs. And I can’t believe he was still eating them raw from the package.

  I can’t believe she’s talking smack about hot dogs at his funeral. And I’m about to run out of polite, so I give Hilda a look that says we’re-done-here-don’t-you-think? Hilda takes the cue and thanks the woman for coming, which I echo before Hilda walks her outside.

  The foyer is empty but for the obliging girls from my office, who I group-hug before explaining what they just witnessed.

  That was the widow meeting the ex-wife.

  Their eyes widen.

  How was that, one of them asks.

  Weird, I say. But over now. And the service is over. And this day, thank God, is almost over. So let’s go to Gusto and have a drink already in honor of Alberto.

  * * *

  Had about eight drinks in honor of Alberto last night.

  When I wake to our sun-filled apartment, I pull the duvet over my pounding head and shudder into tears—out of relief that it’s over and out of horror that it’s over.

  I come up for air as my mom enters the room. She’s wearing cleaning gloves and an old T-shirt.

  What are you doing, Mom?

  Just cleaning the kitchen floor, she says.

  Is it that dirty? I ask. Wasn’t the housekeeper just . . . wait, what day are we on?

  It’s Sunday.

  Sunday, I repeat, as if it’s a new word in a foreign language.

  Oh my God. SUNDAY.

  A week ago today.

  I look at the clock, half-expecting it to read 9:03am.

  It’s half-past eleven.

  I cringe into the pillows and pull the duvet up to my chin.

  I don’t want to go anywhere today, I say. Is that okay? Can I just stay in bed and get well already?

  I’m finally acknowledging what I wouldn’t last week: I have a serious cold.