When my grandmother died last summer, our scattered family gathered to tell her stories and congratulate ourselves for the good fortune of having her genes. Among the many aunts, uncles and cousins (many from the last category drinking from a flask at the wake), I also met a sweet old couple.
They were both adorably gray and pocket-sized, spry and dignified and so smiley. The man had an indeterminate European accent, like Arianna Huffington (or, if you prefer, Rainier Wolfcastle). They were adorable and I just wanted to collect them and put them on a shelf.
We were introduced (I assumed my mom had caught how we were related) and started chatting. Turns out we all lived on the Upper East Side. Now, when I say I live on the Upper East Side, I mean I live in the relative ghetto. A walkup, more bars than small dogs, etc. I keeps it real. They, however, live on the UES you think of, a pre-war building near Central Park with some marble-encased lobby.
They invited me for dinner and I marveled how sophisticated and worldly we were eating organic veggies and making witty puns. The husband literally described some New Yorker cartoon, which was my second most Upper East Side moment ever (just behind having to shut my window because my neighbor was singing opera across the courtyard). Haha, look at me being so fancy! I think.
Then I make the mistake of asking how we’re related. “Your grandfather’s stepbrother George is my cousin,” the man said.
A small bell went off in my head. George? My grandfather didn’t have a stepbrother George.
“George? Your grandfather didn’t have a stepbrother George.” My mom confirmed that night.
“Then who the hell were these people? Who did they think I was?” Had I been a hostage? Was I breaking and entering?
I thought about this story yesterday out of the blue, then I read the obits last night and it turned out the woman’s brother (not George) had died this week. While it's not quite the paranormal stuff my friend and I were talking about that afternoon, it is a weird coincidence.
To this day, almost a year later, I still have no idea whose apartment I was in. They were really nice though.
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4 comments:
That is crazy! You should just keep pretending to be related to them so you can get more free dinners. They probably think you're a delightful young whipper-snapper.
I agree with Courtney - you should have tried to get something from them. I bet they had some sweet Reader's Digests you could have.
I think the real question is which of you was at the wrong funeral.
She was at the right funeral. I was one of the drunks. In my defense, no one wanted to see me cry. They'd WAY rather I be drunk. As usual at family events.
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