His mother went downstairs, to call Grandy, to let him know. Grandy said, “I hoped for a miracle.”
“You wouldn’t have,” his mother replied, “if you’d seen him.”
His father had expressed a desire to be cremated and that no service of any kind be held. There was some tongue-clicking over this, but his wishes were observed to the letter. His mother kept busy answering letters of condolence, among them one from Emma Kendel.
“Dear Mrs. Hollander,” the letter said. “I am so sorry. I remember the time I spent with you and your family as one of the happiest of my life. You were all so kind to me, especially Mr. Hollander. I will remember you and him always. Love to you and John, Emma.”
His mother asked him to answer this letter as well as others she’d had from his friends. He thought about it but, in the end, he tore up Emma’s letter and did nothing.
Keith wrote to all three of them:
Dear Mrs. Hollander, John, and Leslie:
I would like to help you in any way I can. Please call on me for anything you need or want, and that includes spreading manure.
Your friend, Keith Madigan
His father had left a note addressed to him, which he kept folded into a neat little rectangle and transferred from pocket to pocket, as he changed clothes.
It said:
Dear John,
You have been a source of great joy and pride to me. I only regret my inability to let you know this more often while I was still around. I have discussed this with Grandy and he blames this inability on himself. He told me he never allowed himself the luxury of being tender (his words) with me as a boy and felt it was his fault that I had, in my turn, done you the same injustice. I tell you this so that when you have a son, you will do better. I love you, John. Rest assured I will always love you.
Dad
He read this letter for perhaps the fiftieth time and then tucked it away carefully, ready for the next read. He considered going down, maybe making himself a peanut butter on rye, turning on the stereo, dancing by himself for a while. But music, which had always cheered him, had ceased to do so. “I lose myself in music,” Les had told him. “No matter how bad things are, I wallow in it. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”
He went instead to check the garden. The scent of lilacs was overpowering. The deadheads of the tulips and daffodils waved sadly at him, begging to be picked off, put out of their misery. He checked the pond for trout. There were none. He threw some stale bread on the water to see if anything would bite. The swans were gone. After a while, he went to his room.
Maybe a good book would help. He felt a strong urge to get into his camouflage suit. Then he thought better of it and went to his father’s closet where his clothes were still hanging.
“I can’t bear to get rid of them, John,” his mother had told him. Every time she opened the door, she said, the odor of his father was so strong, so evocative, that she could pretend, briefly, that he was still there, just around the corner, coming up the walk. That nothing had happened. Nothing had changed.…
He put on an old jacket, one his father had owned for many years and, although he knew the jacket didn’t fit, having tried it on many times, he loved it.
“Rest assured I will always love you,” he said in a loud voice to the empty room. “Rest assured, Dad.” Nobody else’s father talked like that.
He buried his face in the sleeve and, for the first time, he cried.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1985 by Constance C. Greene
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9377-7
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Other Plans Page 24