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