“The person who handles things if I can’t.” I knew what she meant. Daniel had been removed from that role.
“Who did you choose?”
“My lawyer for now? Rachel can do it someday, but she’s 27. Let the girl enjoy her early twenties before I make her responsible for my bank account.” I smiled.
“Probably prudent.” Marlene was silent for a second. Then she said, “I don’t want you to think I did this to punish you.”
“I don’t do that. I love my son.”
“I know. I just don’t trust him with that anymore.” There wasn’t much to say after that. People talk about trust as if it either exists or it doesn’t. I don’t think that’s true. Marlene still trusted Daniel to take her to a doctor’s appointment. She trusted him to change the heater filter and bring groceries if the roads were icy. She just didn’t trust him with a signature. And when you understand why, that distinction makes perfect sense.
Rachel and Caleb had their own ways of dealing with what happened. Rachel was angry for a long time. Caleb was quieter. Neither of them stopped seeing their father. I never asked them to. Once, Rachel said, “Does it bother you that I still have dinner with Dad?”
“I looked at her. Why would that bother me?”
“Because of what he did.”
“He’s your father.”
“I know. And I’m divorcing him. You’re not.” She gave a slight smile. “Grandma basically said the same thing.”
“Your grandmother has been stealing my lines for years.” That made her laugh.
Daniel moved into a two-bedroom apartment up north. I only saw the place months later when I brought a box of old tax documents his lawyer had asked for. His truck wasn’t in the parking lot. Daniel loved that truck. A big silver pickup, leather interior, with more buttons on the dashboard than some airplanes. A week later, Caleb mentioned it while helping me move a bookcase.
“Dad sold the truck.”
I handed him a screwdriver. “I figured he needed the money.”
“I figured the same.” Caleb watched me for a second. “Is that all you’re going to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we’re both lucky.” He laughed and went back to the bookcase. I didn’t feel victorious about it. The fact that Daniel sold the truck. That’s the strange part. A year earlier, if you had asked me what revenge would look like, I probably would have imagined satisfaction. It wasn’t. For the most part, it seemed like watching the consequences come to the right address.
Marlene and I remained close. Some people found that strange. I didn’t. Twenty-four years of Sunday lunches and Christmas mornings don’t disappear because a marriage ends. One Saturday, she came in for coffee. We were in the living room when she looked around and said, “24 years married to my son, and somehow I was the one you kept.”
“I laughed. I would have preferred fine china.”
“Too late. Rachel asked first. That girl is fast. She got that from me.”
The new armchair was still in the corner. In the first few months, I hardly used it. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it still seemed like Daniel’s place. So, one afternoon, I sat down to read and discovered something annoying. It was extremely comfortable.
Daniel called me a few weeks after that. Back then, most of our communication was through lawyers or short messages. He asked if we could talk. I agreed to meet him for coffee. He looked older, not drastically, just tired around the eyes. He apologized, and I believe he was partly serious. He said he was ashamed. He got too involved. Every time Hawthorne needed more money, he convinced himself that the next check would be his last, then the next, and the next. “I only needed 90 days,” he said.
I looked at him. “Even after all these months, 90 days. You’re still saying that. What?”
“If it had worked, would everything be alright?” He looked at the coffee.
“I’m trying to explain why I did this. I know you act like I want to hurt you.”
“I don’t think you meant to.” This surprised him. I continued: “I think you were scared. I was. I think you were embarrassed.” He nodded. “And you truly believed you could fix it. Yes, I understand all of that, Daniel.” He seemed relieved for perhaps half a second.
So I said, “What I don’t understand is why you thought that being afraid gave you the right to decide for the rest of us.” He had no answer. At least not one that he hadn’t already given me.
That was the last conversation we had about Hawthorne. A month or so later, the furniture store called asking about my purchase. The woman on the phone wanted to know if I was satisfied with the delivery. I almost said yes and hung up. Then I remembered Louise. I told her what happened without explaining what was in the envelope. He said he noticed something unusual, stopped what he was doing, and called me instead of ignoring it.
“Please make sure his supervisor knows,” I said. She promised she would.
That afternoon, Rachel stopped by. She found me in the living room with my feet up on the new armchair, reading a mystery novel. She stopped in the doorway. “Well, look who it is.”
