“Hello? I’m looking for Dallas Brown.”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is George Lancaster from Lancaster, Schmitt & Dullards. I’m the attorney for Richard J. Brown. Is this Dallas I’m speaking to?”
Dad’s attorney? “Yeah.”
“First, I am so sorry for your loss. Our deepest condolences go out to you and your family.”
“Uh, thanks.” I’m still thrown off. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling because we are the custodians of your father’s will and estate. He listed you as a recipient within these documents, and I need to meet with you to go over a few things. Can we meet tomorrow?”
Tomorrow’s the funeral, but I’m not planning on attending. “Will it be just you and me?” I don’t want to know what Denton, or anyone else, is getting.
“Yes, unless you decide to bring someone else. Or if you would like a lawyer of your own.”
“Why would I need a lawyer?” I’m surprised Dad left me anything. I have no intention of fighting for his money or other possessions.
“Some people prefer to have counsel represent their best interests in situations like this.”
“No. It’ll be only me. I can do two thirty.”
“That works for me.”
I flip my notebook to a blank page as he spouts off the address. I hang up and stare at what I wrote.
Dad put me in his will? Why?
WHEN I kill the bike in front of Lancaster, Schmitt & Dullards, I look up at the high-rise and have no doubt I’m at the right place. Of course Dad wouldn’t have gone with a cheap lawyer to tidy up his affairs. I guess I can’t blame him. If I had the cash, I probably wouldn’t, either.
I go inside. It’s ritzy. High-end wood and polished glass furniture. I go up to the fourth floor, greeted by a cute brunette receptionist with a wide smile and green eyes.
“I’m here to meet with Mr. Lancaster. Dallas Brown.”
“Oh, yes,” she says pleasantly. “He’s expecting you. Right this way.” She stands and leads me down a posh hall, my feet sinking into the thick carpet as I follow. At the hall’s end, she knocks on one of the double mahogany doors and peeks her head. “Dallas Brown is here to see you.” She opens the door farther and ushers me inside.
Mr. Lancaster meets me in front of his desk with his hand out to shake mine. “Nice to meet you, Dallas.”
“Mr. Lancaster.”
“Please, call me George,” he says as he motions for me to sit in a black leather chair.
“So what is it that I had to make this special trip for?”
George sits behind his desk and opens a folder, shuffles through papers, and settles on one. He picks it up. “This is what your dad left you in his estate.” He hands me the paper.
I reach for it, uncertain if I want to read it.
I hold it in my lap and run down the list. Camping gear. His mountain bike. His timeshare in Alabama. His baseball collection. His jerseys. His foosball table, and the Ping-Pong table. His dartboard—I didn’t even know he had a dartboard.
I pause. The only reason Dad would’ve had a dartboard would be because of me. Because he hoped I’d have come over and play with him.
And I never did.
How shitty of a person does this make me?
I shake my head and keep reading. His old vinyl music collection and his record player. I loved that thing when I was younger. I can’t believe he remembered. I take a deep breath because I somehow managed to forget about it.
All the tools in his garage. The bluebird painting.
The bluebird painting? Shit, I forgot about that too. Mom bought that for one of their anniversaries while we were vacationing in Italy. She fought for it during the divorce, but he wouldn’t let her have it. We all loved that painting. It reminded us of better times, when we were still a family. It was never about the painting but rather what it represented when we were still whole.
I can’t read anymore. I look up and hand George the list. I don’t have anything to say. I didn’t think I would want a single thing from Dad’s estate, but so many of the items he listed are things that now I wouldn’t be able to give up.
I’m not sure how I’ll be able to pay for the timeshare, though. I could sell it. It’s gorgeous and located in an area considered to be a hidden gem of the Gulf Coast. He got that after the divorce anyway, so it’s not like it has any sentimental value. Not like the rest of the stuff.
“There’s a second page,” George says. He flips the stapled papers and hands it back to me.
I’m still in shock, so I take it and read again. Three hundred fifty thousand dollars. “What?” I glance up at George. “He’s giving me money too?” Why?
“Also stocks and bonds.”
Holy shit. I pull the first page over the second and hand it back to George. I really don’t want to read any more of this. “Why was he so generous to me?” George probably doesn’t know the answer, but I’m so lost and stunned, I ask anyway.
“That’s just the way he had us draw up the papers.” He reaches into his file again and pulls out an envelope. “He also left this for you. But you don’t have to read it right now.”
I nod, grateful. I take the envelope out of his fingers and stand. He mirrors me and shakes my hand one last time.
I walk out of his office and out of the building in a daze. The record player, the painting, the dartboard. I can’t believe it.
I push the folded envelope deep into my pocket so it doesn’t fly away while I ride home.
Rather than go home, I detour to the shop instead. I need a few hours of numbing work before I can get my head on straight again.
I sleep in past the first two classes of the day. Fuck it. I’m just not going to classes at all today. After showering, I reach for the pants I wore yesterday and pull out the envelope George gave me.
The paper is soft in my hands. I tear the seal with a swooping finger, my hands shaking. I unfold the hand written note—Dad’s handwriting—the same penmanship he used for my birthday cards. When I used to read them.
Dallas,
If you’re reading this then it means I’ve passed on and these will be my last words to you. I know you and I haven’t been close in a very long time, but son, I want you to know that I never stopped loving you. I never wanted to lose either of my sons, and in my efforts to keep Denton, I somehow managed to lose you. I have regretted this single action more than any other in all my life. You are my firstborn. My first son. You will always be this. You are irreplaceable and have been sorely missed.
I’m sure George has given you a listing of what items I’ve left for you. The camping gear is so that you may find the love in camping again that we once had, the mountain bike because I’d much rather have you crash on that than your current one, the timeshare because one day you’ll meet a woman so special, only the most special of places will suffice for a honeymoon. And if I’m not around to hand you the keys to take her there, then they should be in your possession.
The baseball collection and the jerseys because we started that collection together. You and me. Remember when we got that first homerun ball together? And the Michael Jordan #23 jersey signed by him at the game we went to? This collection was as much mine as it is yours, son.
The Ping-Pong and foosball tables because I imagine you and your friends enjoying them. The dartboard because I bought it for you anyway. I hope it sees a few pinholes someday.
I left you all of my records and the player because I remembered you dancing when I played them in the family room. You would be cross and I would put a record on and your whole mood would change. I hope they bring you as much joy now as they did back then.
All of my tools because you’ll know what to do with them. Sorry if there are missing pieces. You know I was never any good at putting things back right where I found them.
Dallas, I’m giving you the bluebird painting because it was always meant to be yours. You were the best thing that came out of my
time spent with your mother, and that painting resembles everything good and promising about that time. Take care of it and cherish it. Find yourself a bluebird painting in a nice young lady. And take her to Alabama, son.
And finally, the money. You can cash out the stocks and bonds if you like. I just hope this money will help you live a little easier.
I’m sorry for the way things ended between us. I have and always will love you, my son.
Dad
I drop the letter into my lap and watch as a teardrop splashes the paper’s surface. I wipe my eyes and grab my keys, texting Denton for the cemetery where they buried Dad. He responds without question, and I’m on my way.
I’m searching for the markers to where Denton said he’d be. I notice a plot with a fresh mound near a large tree across the way, which I think is Dad’s. I park my bike and walk over.
It looks like they tried to lay the grass back over the disturbed soil, but it’s not helping much. It will take a while for the roots to grow back, for new blades to fill in.
The marker reads, “Richard Jesse Brown, Loving father.”
I rub my hand down my jaw. I finally come to see the man, and it’s when he’s in his grave.
I take a few deep breaths to gather my thoughts. There’s so much left unsaid between us. So much hurt still needing to be soothed. So much time wasted.
“Hey, Dad.” I look around, feeling strange to be talking to myself. But I need to get shit off my chest, and it didn’t happen when he was alive. Now it’s too late. Death cannot be undone.
“I’m sorry I quit going camping with you. I’m sorry I quit asking you to my games. I’m sorry I quit soccer altogether because Denton started to play too. I’m sorry I never answered your calls. I’m sorry I never called you back. I’m sorry I never came over for dinner all those times you asked me. I’m sorry I lived down the street from you and never once stopped by just to say hi. And I’m sorry I never wanted you to come over to my place, either.
“I’m sorry I disowned you. That I wouldn’t let you be my dad, and I wouldn’t be your son. I don’t deserve to be named in your will. I don’t deserve a lot of things. Not your vinyl collection, or your camping gear because you hoped maybe I could find a love for it again. The love we both shared.
“You fucked up, Dad. But I shouldn’t have made you pay for it for the rest of your life.”
I wipe my eyes. “I just wanted you to prove to me that you didn’t replace me with Denton the same way you replaced Mom with Denton’s mom.”
A tear runs down my cheek faster than I can catch it.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“True love somehow manages to find a way to rise from
the broken pieces of your heart.”
—Carmyn Rafferty
I SPENT Thanksgiving break with Dad. He ended up going to one of Mom’s therapy appointments a week before. He said she was mostly all over the place, but she was really trying to move past everything that happened between them. Still somewhat blaming him for stuff, but trying to work past it.
I’m proud of her, but until she takes responsibility for her actions, I won’t meet with her.
I just get into our room when I get a text from Ava:
Denton’s dad died. I’ll b helping him w the funeral arrangements for the next couple of days. Call me if u need anything.
Love u
I drop down to the bed. Denton’s dad … Dallas’s dad. He died? Does he know?
I look back down at my phone, but it’s now dead. I rush over to the charger and plug it in, pacing the room for the next five minutes until it will turn on without dying midconversation.
When I think it’s been long enough, I call Dallas. I don’t know what I’ll say to him, or if I should be the one to tell him if he doesn’t know. It’s just what I have to do.
He doesn’t answer, which means he already knows or he’s at the shop. I still have no clue what to say, so I hang up before the voicemail greeting ends. I call Ava, and she answers. “Hey, I just got your text. Sorry to hear about his dad. How’s he doing?”
“He’s having a really hard time. His dad was the only family he had left.”
Except for Dallas.
My heart breaks for both of them. “What happened?”
“A semi tipped over on his car and crushed him. The EMTs were surprised he was still alive when they pulled him out, but he didn’t make it to the hospital.”
“Oh God. That’s terrible.”
“It’s so sad.”
“Is Denton there? Can I talk to him for a second?”
“Yeah,” Ava says, “I’ll see if he wants to talk.” Her footsteps sound on a bare floor. The phone rustles in her hand and I catch part of what she’s asking. “… Talk to Carmyn?”
There’s a pause. “Hello?”
“Hey, Denton. I am so sorry.”
“Thanks,” he says. His voice is incredibly sad.
“Did anyone … Does Dallas know?” I feel bad for making this about Dallas, but he has just as much right to know as Denton does.
“Yeah, I already called him.”
“Oh. Okay. Good.” I stop myself from asking how Dallas is doing, if he’s all right. “Well, let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” he says again and hands the phone back to Ava.
“We have a few errands we need to run, so I’ll call you later.”
“Yeah, okay.” I hang up and rub my hands over my face and through my hair. I wish there was something I could do to help Denton, to help Dallas.
I glance down at my phone, considering if I should call Dallas again. No, he’ll see I called, and he’ll call me back when he’s ready.
Monday passes without a call from Dallas. I get he’s mad at me, but this is so much bigger than our petty stuff. He’s alone in this. The only person who’d know and be there for him is his mom, and I’m not sure after everything she’s been through with Dallas’s dad if she’ll even provide much support.
Dallas shouldn’t be alone through this.
On Tuesday, I attend the university’s memorial service for Professor Brown with Denton and Ava, hoping to catch Dallas there. If I could just talk to him … I don’t know what will happen, but I have to talk to him.
We’re sitting near the front in the auditorium, but I keep looking back toward the doors for Dallas. When the service is about to start, I stand and inspect row after row for hair the same honey shade as Dallas’s.
Music begins, cueing everyone to be seated, and I still haven’t found him. Is he not coming? He didn’t get along with his father, but I expected to find him here regardless.
The dean welcomes everyone and says a few words about Professor Brown and his outstanding service to the university over the years.
A few professors share personal stories about their late colleague. I never took any classes with him—I knew he was the chemistry department head and that he was Denton and Dallas’s dad, but the way these people talk about him really makes me sad I didn’t get to meet him, didn’t get to know him.
I desperately try not to call Dallas after the service. Maybe he needs a couple of days to deal with the shock. I still believe he’ll call me when he’s ready.
The funeral is closed casket. Professor Brown was so crushed by the load of the truck that the mortuary couldn’t get him to look right again. Denton was called to identify his dad’s body, and it makes my heart ache that whatever he saw will be the last visual memory of his father.
I used to be terrified that Dad and I would get a call that something happened to Mom, and we’d have to go down and positively ID her. I imagined how torn up she’d look from the drugs and her chosen lifestyle. It used to give me nightmares. But I also knew Dad would be the one to do the hard part. Denton didn’t get that. He’s the only family people knew to call.
I don’t spot Dallas at the funeral, either. I’m shocked he didn’t come, not even to stand in the corner. How can he not want to say goodbye to his dad?
Denton’s the final speaker at the funeral. He recalls how his dad used to take him camping and caving, the sporting events they’d to go to, the fun times they shared. It’s heartfelt and touching. Maybe this right here is why Dallas didn’t come. He would have to hear all the things he lost with his dad when Denton came around.
Dallas didn’t lose his dad in the car crash; he lost him a long time ago.
CLASS with Keating on Thursday is my limit. I will talk to Dallas today whether he is ready to talk to me or not. He may think he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but he has to feel something over his dad’s death, and he shouldn’t face it alone.
When Dallas is absent from Keating’s class, I borrow Ava’s car and go looking for him. He’s still not answering his phone, but I’m done waiting for him to call me back.
I check his apartment first. I don’t see his bike in its usual spot, but I go up to his door and knock anyway. After a few minutes, I decide he really isn’t home. Off to the shop next.
“Hey, Marky.” He’s sitting out in the heat in his rocker. Does this man ever work? Or get sick of the heat?
“Hi, pretty thang. What brings you to these parts?”
“Is Dallas here?”
“No. I haven’t seen his scrawny ass at all today.”
“Okay, thanks. If you see him, will you let him know I stopped by?”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Thanks.” I get back into the car and head over to the Fiji house. Dallas’s bike isn’t out front when I pull up. I ask for Randall. If Dallas doesn’t want to see me, he may have them tell me he’s not here. I know Randall the best and figure I can tell if he’s lying.
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