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As Denise and I headed out into the main lobby, we spotted Uncle Dan sitting in Dad’s office. He was ruffling through two odd stacks of papers. He looked up with a warm smile.
“There you both are,” he said. Then he looked at me. “You okay, Will? Denise told me this could have been one amazing day for you with that morning presentation, then it all went to hell.”
He motioned for the two of us to sit.
“I’ll get right to it. You both know I served as your father’s attorney since, well, after we toured together. He also made me the executor of his will and last testament. Now I like to play by the rules and all, and we will have a formal will reading at some point after the funeral, but there are a few things that need immediate attention with the funeral home.” Uncle Dan pulled out an envelope with the flap hanging open from one of the stacks of papers. He singled out what looked a piece of tattered paper torn from a steno notebook. Bits of paper fell onto the desk as he unfolded the note. “As you can probably tell, your father handwrote this document. He gave it to me a few weeks ago, and I authenticated it.”
It seemed odd Dan would have this with him so close to my father’s death. “Why did he update it a few weeks ago?” I asked.
“Your father updated his will continuously. I would say he gave me a note like this twenty times over the years. This is just the most recent one.” He looked at me and then looked down, scanning the paper. “The easiest thing to do is just read the damn thing, then we can discuss it. Is that okay with you, Denise?”
Denise nodded but said nothing.
“Okay, here goes,” said Uncle Dan, clearing his throat.
Dan, this note overrides all the other notes I gave you as part of my last will and testament.
Denise, you’ve been a wonderful daughter, and I love you dearly. As I’ve told you many times, my only real regret was not spending enough time with you, especially in your formative years. I put work ahead of you. Over the past decade, I tried to make this up to you, but it always seemed I was running after something uncatchable. Anyway, regarding the house, you know how much I love that little house on the Sandusky Bay. I had it appraised about six months ago at $400,000. If you want to keep it, keep it. If you’d like to sell it, do that. Dan has a few contacts for the offers we’ve received over the years. I remember you always loving our walks and talks out on the dock, so I wanted you to have it. I just want you to be happy. Do what makes you happy. Find the joy in your life, Denise.
And William, I’m leaving you my sports memorabilia. I know you’ll take care of it. If only I were a Yankees fan and not an Indians fan, they might actually be worth something. But whatever you do, take care of the Colavito card. Regarding the funeral home, I’m giving it to you, warts and all. I’m sure you knew this was coming. I actually thought about selling it a few years back when your mother passed, but then what the hell was I going to do, sit home and watch Law & Order? So what does a kid in the prime of his life with marketing chops do with a declining funeral home? You know that the funeral business was all I ever knew. I was happy to share that with you for a few years during your summers off from college. Growing up you spent more than your fair share of time in this place, so you might know it better than anyone. I don’t expect you to drop everything in life to take your pop’s dead-people business. Hell, I don’t know if you are happy to have it. I think you’d like it. It doesn’t pay much though. Didn’t used to be like that. Most people think funeral directors make a ton of money, because they drive around in limos all the time but, at least in my case the last few years, that’s not true.
Regardless, I would like you to make a choice. If you want to sell it, I already had the papers drawn up. Jack wants to buy it and always has. If you wish it, the deal is done. Just tell Dan that’s what you want. It’s a fair price. Dan agrees, and Jack has the funding. It might help with some of the issues you are going through.
The other choice would be to keep it, run it, and live the funeral business. Not for the rest of your life, but for at least one year. Take it and see what you can do 365/24/7. After that one-year period, you can do whatever you like—keep it, sell it, set up your own marijuana farm with it, whatever. I actually hear that’s a pretty good business these days. William, Pollitt Funeral Home has a great history, but the last few years have been rough. When you see the numbers, you’ll figure out why. Someone with vision can bring it back. I’m hopeful that vision can come from you. Take a good look at the numbers. Read between the lines.
Whatever you decide, know that I love you and am proud of you. Remember, no regrets.
Oh, and one more thing, William, don’t sit on the caskets with bodies in them. At least not while customers are around.
All my love to both of you, Abraham Pollitt
Uncle Dan folded up the letter and put it back in the envelope. “That’s all there is. Denise, we can deal with the house later, absolutely no issues there. But, boy, I needed you to know about this ASAP for obvious reasons.” He got up and walked to the window. Looking out at the street, he said, “If I were you, I’d sleep on this. Maybe talk with Robby, then meet with me in the morning. Before you make any final decision, you need to see the books.”
He turned back to us. “Do either of you have any questions?”
Denise was visibly crying. I, on the other hand, didn’t feel anything. I looked over at Denise, then at Dan, and said, “I think we’re good for now, Uncle Dan. Thanks for letting us know. Yes, let’s meet in the morning. Here?”
“No, son. Let’s meet at my office. I think that would be more appropriate. Say, nine o’clock?”
“Sure.”
I walked out thinking that my father’s passing may have just saved Jess’s education.
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AFTER TELLING JESS the unfortunate news that her grandfather passed away, I had a quiet dinner with Denise at the Cedars, an Italian joint just outside of the downtown area. She offered for me to stay at her place, but I didn’t want to put her out, so I asked if it was okay if I stayed at Dad’s house ... now her house. “That’s silly, Will,” she said. “You can stay wherever you want.”
She dropped me back at the funeral home, and I picked up the Econoline to drive. I guess this is mine now. As soon as I opened the door, I smelled the fresh flowers from countless deliveries to the cemetery. Dad’s place was five miles away from the funeral home, but the drive took me thirty minutes as I dealt with the remnants of traffic from Cedar Point enthusiasts.
Dad’s street turned toward the Sandusky Bay right before the railroad tracks. The road used to be hard to navigate, with no streetlights, but tonight it was lit like a Christmas tree due to the new condominium complexes built in the last few years, one to the right of his house and one to the left. I didn’t believe his last will and testament letter that the place was worth four hundred grand, but now I saw why.
I parked the van in front of the garage and entered through the back door. The smell of Dad’s cologne mixed with must hit me immediately. I went through the back porch and into the family room, throwing my duffel bag on the couch.
Jess informed me via text that she was leaving Penn State around ten a.m., after her media studies class. With a few stops, that would put her in Sandusky well before dinnertime.
It was late, and I should have been exhausted, but the last thing I wanted to do was sleep. I decided to do a room check. It’d been a few years since I’d really investigated the place.
As I entered the kitchen, I was curious if Dad ever spent any time here at all, judging by the six-pack of Miller High Life, some bologna, and a lone bottle of ketchup standing guard in the corner of the refrigerator. The only rooms with any signs of use were the bedroom, attached bathroom, and his office. Although the place could use a good cleaning, it was orderly—nothing out of place. Dad was clearly on the other end of myself regarding organization. He is ... was ... meticulous, while I was always comfortable in clutter. As a kid growing up, I had more conversations with him about the state of my bedroom than literally anything else. He used to tell me to make my bed every morning because at least I would accomplish one thing during the day. Tough love, I guessed.
A stack of bills weighted down by a checkbook sat atop his office desk, along with a picture of my mom a few years before she passed, another family picture of the four of us from around 1990, and an old notepad with life insurance scribbled on it. I made a mental note to ask Uncle Dan about Dad’s life insurance policy.
I went to the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and headed back to the family room, just me and my duffel bag. A good pillow, I thought, as I had no intention of sleeping in any of the bedrooms. As I started to drift off, I was overwhelmed with sadness. Of course, my father first. The regrets I had about not having a better relationship with him the past few years pounded like a bass drum in my forehead. And Sam, who was back in my life for all the wrong reasons. If I decided to keep the funeral home, she’d bolt for a new job somewhere else. I couldn’t blame her. Besides paying off my debt that might have been the best reason to pass on taking over the funeral home. It was the right thing to do, at least for her well-being.
I realized it wasn’t all bad as I nodded off. There was Jess, and Robby, and Uncle Dan. A lot to be thankful for. But none of that stopped the tears from streaming down my face. I held my duffel bag tight in my arms, longing for unconsciousness.