Usually the first person downstairs in the morning starts the coffee. But today, still in his pajamas, his hair unwashed, Pop stares at a table littered with paperwork and bills.
“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t see you there.”
He gets up, opens the can of coffee beside the sink, scoops out two heaping spoonfuls.
“Did you even sleep?” I ask.
“Little bit.”
While he pours water into the back of the coffeemaker, I look for a space at the table where we might eat breakfast.
Much of his paperwork has to do with making death official: starting a file to get a death certificate, submitting a notice to the newspaper, canceling Social Security benefits. He keeps prospective budgets for customers trying to decide on caskets, flowers, music. But I also see a list of our clients who haven’t paid their bills, and I know Pop has a grueling day ahead filled with delicate bargaining that will cause financial harm to both the client and to us.
“Did you use all the cotton batting?” he asks as he flicks a switch to start the coffee.
“I did,” I say. “For Mr. Mosley. Is that all right?”
“I just wasn’t expecting you’d use all of it,” he says. “I had plans to fix a chair.”
“I didn’t know,” I say.
He sits at the table.
“I’m just trying to get all the numbers right.”
I can see him doing calculations in his head. Always, as my father works the numbers, I see his anxiety about being the next business to fail. The uncertainty of tomorrow, a resignation to the general direction we’re all headed in this town.
“Things will turn around,” I tell him.
We say things like this from time to time. Whoever is feeling down, the other chimes in with optimism. Usually we at least pretend to perk up, but Pop just stares at the mess.
I look for a place to sit—my usual chair is piled with papers—so I take the spare next to his. I can’t put my elbows on the table, and Pop is so close I hear him swallow.
“I haven’t given any thought to breakfast,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“I can put something together.”
Then we both turn toward the front door because someone has just walked across the squeaky board on our porch.
“I’m not ready to see anyone just yet,” Pop says.
The doorbell rings.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Say I’m in the shower,” he says. “Get a phone number.”
The doorknob turns and footsteps enter the foyer.
“Hello?” a man calls.
“Hello?” I answer, looking into the hallway and seeing Robert Golden.
Pop whispers, “Send him along.”
“I didn’t know if I was supposed to walk right in like I would at any place of business,” he says. “I hope I did this right.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
“Send him on,” Pop whispers.
“My father’s in the . . .”
“Oh, Mr. Crampton, hello,” Robert says, peering into the kitchen.
He extends his hand.
Pop stands, reluctant, and shakes it.
“Coffee?” I ask Robert, pouring.
“No, thanks.”
The room feels smaller, hotter with Robert in the doorway and Pop bristling in the corner.
“I came to pick up those papers,” he says. “Preplanning forms?”
I set the cup on the table, embarrassed I’d forgotten to take care of this.
“I’ll drop by this afternoon,” Pop says, stepping in front of me. “We can go through all the arrangements then.”
“To be honest,” Robert says, “I waited for the papers all yesterday. My mother is dying. I don’t have endless time here.”
“I’ll get them right away,” I say.
“Mary.”
It’s all my father says, and when I turn to face him, my hip rams the corner of the table, knocking over the cup of coffee.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “Someone pass me the paper towels.”
“Here.” Robert rushes in with a dish towel, everyone trying to reach the table at once. I stretch past my father, finally spotting the roll of towels.
“Mary, let it go!” he shouts. “Can I have a little space in my kitchen, please?”
I rarely hear him yell like this and never in front of a customer. The papers soak up the coffee.
“This obviously isn’t a good time,” Robert says. “But I’d like the papers by this afternoon.”
He lets himself out and the door clicks shut. I can’t stand to look at my father or all this smeared ink.
“I wasn’t ready for company,” he says.
“He’s right that he doesn’t have endless time,” I say. “Let me grab those papers.”
“No.”
“Pop, is there some problem I should know about?”
“I don’t want him to fill out any paperwork.”
“What?”
“I took care of it a long time ago,” he says, trying to pat everything dry. “I planned the whole service and secured speakers, singers, everyone who will be involved.”
It’s not unusual for my father to plan services for widows and people who are without local family.
“I see how that makes things awkward,” I say.
“No one expected Doris’s son to return,” he says. “And to be honest, I know her needs better than he does.”
“Well, now that he’s back, I guess you’ll have to cancel those arrangements.”
“It’s complicated, honey,” he says.
“No, it’s not,” I say. “He’s next of kin. This is his right.”
My father grows quiet. He tries so hard to keep our business afloat, tries every way he knows to keep our customers and potential customers happy.
“He’s a bad memory for this town,” he says, carefully choosing his words. “I think our neighbors will feel relieved the less involved he is.”
“We have to do what’s right for the customer,” I say.
“We have to do what’s right for the town.”
“I won’t do anything unprofessional, Pop.”
“Let me handle it, then. It’s really a matter of making strong suggestions to him. Things will go better if we don’t disrupt the plans.”
If my father could see himself right now, hair slick with grease, the agonized look in his eyes as he leans helplessly over the drenched papers, I’m not sure he’d trust himself to make a rational decision.
“He asked for my help,” I say.
“And I’m going to step in,” he says.
“Pop, don’t. Don’t treat me like a kid who’s not allowed to let go of your hand.”
He dabs the papers with the towel again.
“Listen,” he says. “How about we get breakfast at the Pipeline?”
“I’m okay waiting till your work is done,” I say. “We can eat here.”
“No,” he says. “Look at the mess I’ve made of this table.”
He picks up one of the dry papers with his hurried writing, like thought spasms, going up the side of the page.
“All right,” I say. “We can go as soon as you’re dressed.”
“Why don’t you head up there and save me a seat?” he says. “A few of these folks are early risers, and I can get some calls out of the way.”
“Pop, I can wait. We’ll walk up together.”
“No,” he says. “Give me a few minutes by myself. Anyway, it’s good for you to get out of the house. Talk with the neighbors.”
I fetch my coat, my hip throbbing where I smacked it against the table. I hear my father’s first phone call, his cautious request for payment, the clear resistance on the other end. And I know, after the call, his best efforts will put us a little further in debt.
I zip my coat, and then, because it feels right, I wind my way through the obstacle course of his office and choose a handful of papers from the file cabinet. My father, seeing them in my hands as I leave out the back door, covers the mouthpiece on the phone.
“That’s a girl,” he says. “Might as well get it done.”