A letter arrives this morning. A business letter, by the looks of it.
Mom doesn’t notice it at first. She’s studying the real-estate flyer. “We might think about moving,” she says, flipping the pages. “Wouldn’t you like to live in a place that’s not so full of Dad’s memories?”
“I don’t mind them,” I tell her. And realize that I mean it. “They’re all that’s left of him.”
She looks at me over the top of her glasses. Like Dad used to.
I almost laugh.
“Maybe later then,” she says. “We’ll give ourselves a little longer.” She folds the flyer in half twice.
I watch her do it a third time. Then I say, “Did you know it’s only possible to fold any piece of paper in half seven times?”
“Your dad could have explained why.” It’s the first time I’ve heard Mom talk about him without tearing up.
She picks up the letter, turns it over, then looks at the front again. “It’s from a lawyer,” she tells me. “Not ours though. Ambulance chaser probably.”
“Ambulance chaser?”
“There are lawyers that track down people who’ve lost a family member. Itching to take someone to court. Make lots of money.” She grimaces. She tears open the envelope and takes out the letter. She reads it and turns it over. When she sees that the back of the page is blank, Mom reads the front again. With each movement, her face gets paler.
Finally I ask, “What is it?”
“Hang on a minute.” She closes her eyes and leans back in her chair. When she opens them again, she puts the letter on the table. “Make me a coffee, would you? Instant will do.”
The letter stays on the table while I fill the kettle and take Mom’s mug from the cupboard. Then I reach to the back and pull out Dad’s. Stenciled on it are the words, Of course I have problems. I’m an economist.
When I bring our drinks to the table, Mom is reading the letter again. She hands it to me. “What do you think?” she asks. “Is this weird or what?”
Mom blows on her coffee to cool it while I read the letter. It’s written in lawyer-ish language. A trust fund has been set up in the names of Leah and Cameron Gifford in the amount of $25,000. It is to be used for our post-secondary education.
“Twenty-five thou,” I mutter.
“It’s not that much, really,” says Mom. “Not with the cost of school these days.”
The benefactor has asked that his or her name be withheld, the letter says. But I can guess. “The stalker,” I say.
Mom frowns. “You think so? The man who killed your father?” I don’t answer. She’s talking to herself. She doesn’t touch the letter. “Who else could it be?”
“It’s Bryan Klausen,” I say. “I’m pretty sure. Sounds like something he would do.”
Mom squints at me. “How would you know?”
“I met him a couple of weeks ago,” I tell her.
“You did what?” She leans toward me.
“I met him.”
“Where? How?”
“I went to his house,” I say.
“After I told you I would take care of it?”
“It was the only way to get things straightened out.”
“Straightened out.” Mom’s jaw is clenching and unclenching. I imagine her teeth grinding together.
“I told you. He showed up at work. At the grocery store.” I don’t know why I don’t tell her about Leah’s school. Maybe because I don’t want to let on how paranoid I have been.
In a quiet voice, Mom asks, “And did you get things straightened out?”
“I told him that he couldn’t do anything to make us feel better about what happened to Dad. And we couldn’t make him feel better. That’s what it was all about—shoveling the driveway. He thought he could help with stuff Dad would be doing if he was still around.”
“Shows how much he knew about your father.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.
“I know. I told the poor guy about those shelves in Leah’s room.”
Mom smiles. “Did you now?” She starts to laugh. It’s a real laugh that comes from deep in her chest.
She tips back her head and roars.
I feel the heat of tears in my eyes as I wait for my mother’s laughter to change to crying. But she just laughs and laughs.
When she’s finished, she walks around the table. She pulls me against her.
“I figure it was about him,” I say, my voice muffled in her side. “Him needing to feel better. Bryan Klausen. The stalker. He really feels bad.”
Mom sits down again and picks up the letter. She folds it against her chest. “I imagine he does.” She flaps the letter against the table edge.
“What will you do?” I ask. “About the trust fund?
“It’s not up to me.”
“We could use it,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “We don’t need it.”
A beat behind, without knowing I’m going to say it, I tell her, “I don’t think we should take it.”
Mom nods. “Fine. Good. I’ll write the lawyer. Ask him to thank his client. Maybe one day…do you have his number?”
“Isn’t it on the letter?” I ask.
“Not the lawyer. Bryan Klausen’s number.”
For a moment I think of lying. Instead, I nod.
“Maybe you should call him. Thank him. Say no thanks.” She ducks her head, then looks at me again. “Do you like him?”
“He’s just a guy, Mom.”
Bryan Klausen does not belong in my life. It doesn’t matter what he has in his toolbox. No one can replace my father, however good of a Mr. Fix-It he might be.
“Write to the lawyer,” I tell Mom. “Let the lawyer thank him. I won’t be phoning him.”
She looks at me for a long moment but doesn’t argue. She refolds the letter. “What shall we tell Leah?”
“How about we don’t tell her anything?” I answer. “Think what she’d want to do with twenty-five grand. All those Miley Cyrus cds!”
“But don’t you think we need to tell this…Bryan that he should stay away? Do I need to mention an injunction again?”
“He won’t be back, Mom.”
She thinks for a moment, then nods. “If you say so.” She slides the letter back into its envelope. She takes our mugs to the sink and, with her back to me, says, “Have I told you how much help you’ve been? I couldn’t have survived the last six months without you taking up the slack.”
I don’t tell her it’s been seven months since Dad died.
I get up and stand beside her at the sink. I pick up dad’s mug. I rinse and dry it. I put it near the front of the cupboard, where I can reach it next time.
It’s weeks before I stop looking over my shoulder. Even though I don’t really expect to see Bryan Klausen again. I can’t even be sure it was him all those times I thought he was stalking us.
It doesn’t matter now.
I still walk Leah to school, take her to ballet and keep close tabs on her. Not because I’m paranoid. But as my grandmother reminds me every time she calls, I’m the man of the house now.
On our way home from Shop Rite one Saturday, I take the car in and get a quote on a new muffler.