Pop calls down the stairs, “Do I have a clean suit anywhere?”
I start the coffee, then check the hallway closet.
“Right here,” I say. “Cleaned and pressed.”
“Good,” he says, walking downstairs.
I need to wash the pajamas he’s wearing. They’re stained with food and whiskey, and I know he’ll just put them on again.
He enters the kitchen, rubbing a hand down his face, and pulls a chair from the table.
“Is Mr. Purvis ready for his viewing?”
“He will be by ten,” I say. “Are you going to be ready?”
“If I get some coffee, yes.”
I hand him his cup.
“Pete stayed late last night,” I say.
“Oh?”
“Pop, I thought you dropped it. About the paperwork. I thought you finally decided to treat me like an adult.”
“I only told him about our talk.”
“Well, that’s why I’m about to head over to the Goldens’,” I say. “I don’t need you and Pete handling things for me.”
“Let me get the original paperwork for you,” Pop says, groaning that he has to stand so soon.
I follow him as far as the office door. Let him navigate all the crap on the floor. He opens the file cabinet.
“Show him the service I planned,” he says. “I’m no slouch at this.”
“No, you aren’t,” I say.
“Remember, it’s a win for everyone,” he says. “Those already expecting to be involved in the service will be happy, and this makes less work for Robert.”
“Do you need me to clean your office before the service?” I ask.
He shuts the door and heads back to his coffee.
I stand on our porch as I button my coat, watching Doris at her front window.
I wonder if having her son home, after more than two decades, is a comfort in her last days. I wonder what she would choose if she had my dilemma—peace for the town or peace for her son.
We have all been watching her die for the past two years. This is what no one likes to talk about: dying takes longer than people think. In movies, family gathers around, sharing expressions of love and forgiveness, often never voiced before. The dying person closes his eyes, feeling at peace as he takes one last breath.
Except in real life, it’s not so easy. You get impatient. Because the dying goes on and on. You can’t seem to make them comfortable. The loving talk turns cranky, or sometimes the talk is just mundane and you end up watching TV.
I cross the street and spot Robert in the backyard, taking down poultry netting that was stapled to the old wooden pen. Jacket open and wearing gardening gloves, he rolls the wire mesh like a sleeping bag, pressing his knee on the roll to keep it tight.
“Damnit,” he says and stops to pull something from his knee, causing the netting to unfold.
When I laugh, he looks up in surprise.
“Well, my day just got a little better,” he says.
I see that same smile he showed me the other night.
“Want to borrow some gloves and get in on the fun?” he asks. “Or is this a business call?”
“Business, actually.”
He slowly winds his way through a tangle of wire and framing.
“So there’s a small complication with the paperwork I gave you,” I say. “Actually, it’s more of an un-complication.”
I give a hopeful smile and reach into my bag for my father’s papers.
“It turns out my father had already completed papers for your mom’s service some time ago,” I say.
“I don’t understand.”
He moves a stack of posts aside, then stands close, reading.
“When Doris got sick,” I say, repeating the arguments Pete and my father have made so forcefully, “there was no family here.”
Robert breathes heavily into the paper.
“You can’t blame my pop for assuming he had to look after your mom. He had no reason to believe you’d come back.”
The words feel sharp in my mouth, as if they might puncture.
“The good news,” I say, because I’m just going to talk through his silence, “is there’s nothing you have to do.”
“Can you turn to the next page?” he asks, careful not to put his muddy gloves on them.
I turn to the second page, watching his mouth tighten.
“Mr. Purvis is listed as someone who planned to speak at the service,” he says. “Really, Mary? Even if he weren’t dead . . . Mr. Purvis?”
“What?”
I quickly read the page.
“Your father thought Mr. Purvis would be a great addition to my ma’s service?” he asks in disbelief.
“We’ll change that,” I say. “The rest is pretty standard.”
I haven’t actually looked at the papers, but I know Pop always goes traditional. Robert continues reading.
“I don’t know any of these casket bearers,” he says, his shoulders rising. “Can you turn to the next?”
I flip to the last page, staring at the words because I can’t bear to look at Robert.
“The Sweet Adelines?” he asks.
“They’re the singing group your mom was a part of.”
“I know who they are,” he says. “A couple of them have been coming to the house and my ma keeps asking me to send them away.”
“They’ve been preparing hymns for the service,” I say. “It would upset them if . . .”
“They’ve been upsetting my mother,” he says. “And frankly, they’ve been pretty rude to me.”
I look for the man I sat with in the rodeo stands.
“You can make this easy for everyone,” I say.
He takes off a glove and snatches the papers.
“These plans don’t look a thing like the service I want to give her,” he says, gripping them so hard they crinkle. “God, Mary, I’m surprised you’d do this!”
“Do what?”
“Let your dad talk you into this.”
His glove slips to the ground.
“Actually, I’m not surprised,” he says. “I don’t know why you let people boss you around like a child.”
“You have both sets of papers,” I say, my voice quivering. “Do what you want with them.”
I don’t wait to hear another word because I’m already crossing the street.