My dad didn’t respond. In the silence, I felt all those things I’d ever wanted to say to him forcing their way to the surface, words that had been a lifetime in the making.
“I mean it, Dad. I’m sorry about all the crappy things I put you through, and I’m sorry that I was never here for you enough. You’re the best person I’ve ever known. You’re the only one who never got angry with me, you never judged me, and somehow you taught me more about life than any son could possibly ask. I’m sorry that I can’t be here for you now, and I hate myself for doing this to you. But I’m scared, Dad. I don’t know what else to do.”
My voice sounded hoarse and uneven to my own ears, and I wanted nothing more than for him to put his arm around me.
“Okay,” he finally said.
I smiled at his response. I couldn’t help it.
“I love you, Dad.”
To this he knew exactly what to say, for it had always been part of his routine.
“I love you, too, John.”
I hugged him, then rose and brought him the latest issue of the Greysheet. When I reached the door, I stopped once more and faced him.
For the first time since he’d been there, the fear was almost gone. He held the paper close to his face, and I could see the page shaking slightly. His lips were moving as he concentrated on the words, and I forced myself to study him, hoping to memorize his face forever.
It was the last time I ever saw him alive.
Seventeen
My dad died seven weeks later, and I was granted an emergency leave to attend the funeral.
The flight back to the States was a blur. All I could do was stare out the window at the formless gray of the ocean thousands of feet below me, wishing I could have been with him in his final moments. I hadn’t shaved or showered or even changed my clothes since I’d heard the news, as if going about my daily life meant that I fully accepted the idea that he was gone.
In the terminal and on the ride back to my house, I found myself growing angry at the everyday scenes of life around me. I saw people driving or walking or heading in and out of stores, acting normal, but for me nothing seemed normal at all.
It was only when I got back to the house that I remembered I’d turned off the utilities almost two months earlier. Without lights, the house seemed strangely isolated on the street, as if it didn’t quite belong. Like my dad, I thought. Or me, I realized. Somehow that thought made it possible to approach the door.
Wedged in the door frame of our house, I found the business card of a lawyer named William Benjamin; on the back, he claimed to represent my dad. With phone service disconnected, I called from the neighbor’s house and was surprised when he showed up at the house early the following morning, briefcase in hand.
I led him inside the dim house, and he took a seat on the couch. His suit must have cost more than I earned in two months. After introducing himself and apologizing for my loss, he leaned forward.
“I’m here because I liked your dad,” he said. “He was one of my first clients, so there’s no charge for this, by the way. He came to me right after you were born to make up a will, and every year, on the same day, I’d get a certified letter in the mail from him that listed all the coins he’d purchased. I explained to him about estate taxes, so he’s been gifting them to you ever since you were a kid.”
I was too shocked to speak.
“Anyway, six weeks ago he wrote me a letter informing me that you finally had the coins in your possession, and he wanted to make sure everything else was in order, so I updated his will one last time. When he told me where he was living, I figured he wasn’t doing well, so I called him. He didn’t say much, but he did give me permission to talk to the director. The director promised that he’d let me know when or if your dad passed away so I could meet you. So here I am.”
He started rifling through his briefcase. “I know you’re dealing with the funeral arrangements, and it’s a bad time. But your dad told me you might not be here for very long and that I should handle his affairs. Those were his words, by the way, not mine. Okay, here it is.” He handed over an envelope, heavy with papers. “His will, a list of every coin in the collection, including quality and the date of purchase, and all the arrangements for the funeral—which is prepaid, by the way. I promised him that I’d see the estate all the way through probate, too, but that won’t be a problem, since the estate is small and you’re his only child. And if you want, I can find someone to haul away anything you don’t want to keep and make arrangements to sell the house, too. Your dad said you might not have time for that, either.” He closed his briefcase. “As I said, I liked your dad. Usually you have to convince people of the importance of this stuff, but not your dad. He was one methodical man.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “He was.”
As the lawyer said, everything had been taken care of. My dad had chosen the type of graveside service he wanted, he’d had his clothing dropped off, and he’d even picked his own coffin. Knowing him, I guess I should have expected it, but it only reinforced my belief that I never really understood him.
His funeral, on a warm, rainy August day, was only sparsely attended. Two former co-workers, the director of the extended care facility, the lawyer, and the neighbor who’d helped take care of him were the only ones beside me at the graveside service. It broke my heart—absolutely broke it into a million pieces—that in all the world, only these people had seen the worthiness of my dad. After the pastor finished the prayers, he whispered to me to see if I wanted to add anything. By then my throat was tight as a drum, and it took everything I had to simply shake my head and decline.
Back at home, I sat tentatively on the edge of my dad’s bed. By then the rain had stopped, and gray sunlight slanted through the window. The house had a musty, almost moldy odor, but I could still smell the scent of my dad on his pillow. Beside me was the envelope the lawyer had brought me. I poured out the contents. The will was on top, as were some other documents. Beneath it, however, was the framed photograph that my dad had removed from his desk so long ago, the only existing photograph of the two of us.
I brought it to my face and stared at it until tears filled my eyes.
Later that afternoon, Lucy, my long-ago ex, arrived. When she first stood at my doorstep, I didn’t know what to say. Gone was the suntanned girl from my wild years; in her place was a woman dressed in a dark, expensive pantsuit and a silk blouse.
“I’m sorry, John,” she whispered, coming toward me. We hugged, holding each other close, and the sensation of her body against mine was like a glass of cool water on a hot summer day. She wore the lightest trace of perfume, one I couldn’t place, but it made me think of Paris, even though I’d never been there.
“I just read the obituary,” she said after pulling back. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I motioned to the couch. “You want to come in?”
She sat beside me, and when I noticed she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring, she subconsciously moved her hand.
“It didn’t work out,” she said. “I got divorced last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am, too,” she said, reaching for my hand. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m okay.”
We talked for a while about old times; she was skeptical of my claim that her final phone call had led me to join the army. I told her that it was exactly what I needed at the time. She spoke about her career—she helped design and set up retail spaces in department stores—and asked what Iraq was like. I told her about the sand. She laughed and then asked no more about it. In time, our conversation slowed to a trickle as we realized how much we both had changed. Maybe it was because we’d been close once, or maybe it was because she was a woman, but I could feel her scrutinizing me and already knew what she would ask next.