and almost a dozen political solicitations. I have no doubt my email address is being bandied about, just as magazines sell the addresses of their subscribers.”
“Good thing they don’t know who you are,” I said. Mr. Harrigan’s email handle (he loved having a handle) was pirateking1.
“If someone is keeping track of my searches, they don’t have to. They’ll be able to suss out my interests and solicit me accordingly. My name means nothing to them. My interests do.”
“Yeah, spam is annoying,” I said, and went into the kitchen to dump the watering can and put it in the mudroom.
When I came back, Mr. Harrigan had the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and was taking deep breaths.
“Did you get that from your doctor?” I asked. “Did he, like, prescribe it?”
He lowered it and said, “I don’t have a doctor. Men in their mid-eighties can eat all the corned beef hash they want, and they no longer need doctors, unless they have cancer. Then a doctor is handy to prescribe pain medication.” His mind was somewhere else. “Have you considered Amazon, Craig? The company, not the river.”
Dad bought stuff from Amazon sometimes, but no, I’d never really considered it. I told Mr. Harrigan that, and asked what he meant.
He pointed to the Modern Library copy of McTeague. “This came from Amazon. I ordered it with my phone and my credit card. That company used to be just books. Little more than a mom-and-pop operation, really, but soon it may be one of the biggest and most powerful corporations in America. Their smile logo will be as ubiquitous as the Chevrolet emblem on cars or this on our phones.” He lifted his, showing me the apple with the bite out of it. “Is spam annoying? Yes. Is it becoming the cockroach of American commerce, breeding and scurrying everywhere? Yes. Because spam works, Craig. It pulls the plow. In the not-too-distant future, spam may decide elections. If I were a younger man, I’d take this new income stream by the balls . . .” He closed one of his hands. He could only make a loose fist because of his arthritis, but I got the idea. “. . . and I would squeeze.” The look came into his eyes that I sometimes saw, the one that made me glad I wasn’t in his bad books.
“You’ll be around for years yet,” I said, blissfully unaware that we were having our last conversation.
“Maybe or maybe not, but I want to tell you again how glad I am you convinced me to keep this. It’s given me something to think about. And when I can’t sleep at night, it’s been a good companion.”
“I’m glad,” I said, and I was. “Gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Harrigan.”
So I did, but he didn’t see me.
* * *
I let myself in through the mudroom door like always, calling out, “Hi, Mr. Harrigan, I’m here.”
There was no reply. I decided he was probably in the bathroom. I sure hoped he hadn’t fallen in there, because it was Mrs. Grogan’s day off. When I went into the living room and saw him sitting in his chair—oxygen bottle on the floor, iPhone and McTeague on the table beside him—I relaxed. Only his chin was on his chest, and he had slumped a little to one side. He looked like he was asleep. If so, that was a first this late in the afternoon. He napped for an hour after lunch, and by the time I arrived, he was always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
I took a step closer and saw his eyes weren’t entirely closed. I could see the lower arc of his irises, but the blue no longer looked sharp. It looked foggy, faded. I began to feel scared.
“Mr. Harrigan?”
Nothing. Gnarled hands folded loosely in his lap. One of his canes was still leaning against the wall, but the other was on the floor, as if he had reached for it and knocked it over. I realized I could hear the steady hiss from the oxygen mask, but not the faint rasp of his breathing, a sound I’d grown so used to that I rarely heard it at all.
“Mr. Harrigan, you okay?”
I took another couple of steps and reached out to shake him awake, then withdrew my hand. I had never seen a dead person, but thought I might be looking at one now. I reached for him again, and this time I didn’t chicken out. I grasped his shoulder (it