I am looking forward to talking again next week. Thank you for all you have done to help me.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5
I have been thinking that perhaps I do have some rituals that aren’t worth the time I invest in them. I don’t think I could give up my tracking of the weather—you can learn a lot about the tendencies of a place by its weather patterns, and I take some enjoyment in seeing how often the forecasts are wrong. But perhaps I could stop counting the number of days that I have been without my father, especially considering that it’s a recent addition to my data sheets. Plus, if I look at it the way Dr. Buckley suggested, I am not really without him. He is with me, in my thoughts and my memories. This is outside the boundaries of the strictly factual world I prefer to live in, but I think I would like to see if I can make it work.
I am thinking of these things at 8:17 a.m., thirty-nine minutes after I awoke. If you’re challenged by math, that would be at 7:38 a.m., the 228th time out of 310 days this year (because it’s a leap year) that I have gotten up at that time. It is also the third consecutive day that I have emerged from sleep at this most common of waking times, and I take that to mean that I am getting back to my normal patterns. I am relieved by this. I have been discombobulated for too long. (I love the word “discombobulated.”)
A few minutes ago, I peeked through the front-window curtains and watched Donna Middleton load Kyle and his backpack into the car—for the ride to school, I presume. It was hard to stifle the urge to go outside and see if I could get Donna’s attention in the hope that she would talk to me, but I remembered what Dr. Buckley said. Donna Middleton needs time and space. And though I have only 280,000 or so hours of life remaining—assuming that I live a life of average length, and I don’t like assumptions—I am willing to spend some of them letting Donna Middleton decide what to do.
Now I am sitting at the dining room table for another of my nonnegotiable rituals: I am eating my corn flakes and reading this morning’s edition of the Billings Herald-Gleaner. I see by the big headline on the front page of the newspaper that Barack Obama won. The headline says, in all capital letters, “OBAMA’S TIME.” I am not impressed by that headline; it sounds like a beer commercial. I have half a mind to write a letter of complaint to the newspaper editor, but then I think again and realize that another of my rituals has run its course. I think I am going to see if I can get out of the unsent-letter-of-complaint business and try just dealing with the frustrations as they come. If they require complaint, I’ll complain. If I can let them go, I will try to let them go, even though I know that will be difficult. A bad headline in the Billings Herald-Gleaner, while irritating, is the sort of thing I need to try to let go.
The newspaper also has a story about my father’s now-empty seat on the county commission. He died so close to the election that there wasn’t time to line up candidates for the job and put them on the ballot, so the county leaders have decided to have a special election in January to fill the spot. The Billings mayor, Kevin Hammel, says he is going to run for the position. As he has just been roundly beaten for the position of state schools superintendent—another story in this morning’s Herald-Gleaner—he should have the time. I don’t like his chances of winning, although that is merely an informed opinion and not a fact. I prefer facts.
I also see that my old boss in the court of clerk’s office lost her race. I bet that Lloyd Graeve and the rest of the people who work there are celebrating this morning.
I glance at all the news I want to read and check out other parts of the Billings Herald-Gleaner—especially Dear Abby, who answers a letter from a fifty-nine-year-old man whose eyes are so bad that he can’t see his girlfriend when they’re having intimate relations. A good headline for that Dear Abby column would be “Love Is Blind,” but of course the Billings Herald-Gleaner didn’t do that. They have terrible headline writers at that newspaper. But I will let it go.
By the time I’m done reading, it’s 9:05 and I have to hustle or I’ll be late to my parents’—my mother’s—house.
The living room of my mother’s house is uncharacteristically cluttered today. She has been bringing down armfuls of my father’s clothing and sorting it into piles.
“What’s this, Mother?” I ask after she lets me in the front door.
“I’m giving your father’s clothes to charity. Go through them and take anything you want.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I don’t like golf shirts.”
A glance around the room tells me that he has hundreds of golf shirts, and slacks, and golf sweater vests, and fleece pullovers. These clothes, destined for the Salvation Army and the Montana Rescue Mission thrift stores, will be fine items for someone. I would not be surprised to see a homeless man in a St. Andrew’s sweater this winter. That would be funny.
“Why are you doing this now, Mother?”
“Why not? No time like the present. And, frankly, it’s too much. Your father is no longer here to wear it, and it’s not right that we should have so much when others have so little.”
That makes a lot of sense to me. And my mother seems invigorated with this project.
“There’s another benefit to doing this, Edward.”
“What’s that?”
“Come here and smell this.” She’s holding out one of my father’s shirts, an aqua-blue long-sleeved shirt with the Augusta National logo on the left breast.
“Smell a shirt?”
“Yes, it’s not something bad. Give it a whiff.”
I lean over but don’t let my nose touch the shirt. Even so, I can smell the faint essence of my father’s cologne, Canoe, on it.
“You spend forty years of your life in the same house with a man, and you come to know his scent,” my mother says. “It’s like he’s here in the room with me. And that gives me comfort.”
She smiles at me, and I back at her.
“Maybe I’ll take one of them, Mother.” She hands me the aqua-blue long-sleeved shirt, which I place away from the stacks of clothing, and then I come back and help her fold and sort the piles of unprocessed clothes still to go.
“I’ve made a decision, Edward.”
My mother and I are eating tuna sandwiches and carrot sticks in the kitchen.
“What?”
“I’m selling the house.”
I am surprised.
“Why?”
“It’s too much for just me. I wouldn’t feel right living here alone. It’s too big and…Well, it’s something your father and I shared. Now that he’s gone, I think it might be time for me to find a place that’s just mine.”
“What sort of place?”
“There are some lovely new condos just downtown. They are small enough for just me, and they’re near the places I like to go. As nice as the view is from here, I’ve never much cared for how far we are from town and for driving down that hill in the nastiest days of winter. I think I would like downtown living.”
“Yes.”
“Also, I won’t be spending as much time here anymore.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” she says. “It’s like this, Edward: I’ve decided that I would like to split my time between here and Dallas. Your Aunt Corinne still lives down there, and I haven’t seen nearly as much of her as I would like.”