“Always,” I said. “Always.”
Christmas broke clear and cold. I had spent the night at the funeral home and awoke with joy to being in the place I had spent so many Christmas mornings.
I helped Mom get Dad downstairs. We had our coffee and sweet rolls in front of the tree. The fire burned, and carols played softly on the stereo.
Dad kept looking at the lights and decorations. Then he’d turn and smile at me. I tried to see the room through his eyes and thought how he as a boy had grown up in this very scene. Surely, any vestige of those memories must be bursting forth to fill his shattered mind with a sense of peace and comfort. After all, that is Christmas.
Dad stood up and walked to the tree. He picked up a bright red package with a white bow. It contained a new bathrobe I’d bought for Mom. He came over and held it out to me.
“Merry Christmas, son.”
There are moments in our lives that we hope we’ll never forget. I prayed that should I ever have to follow my father down the dark murky tunnel of his illness that this would be one of those moments spared from the ravages of the disease. And the moment also clarified that I wasn’t ready to take these memories from my father. Would his heartfelt wish have happened if we were seated in some assisted living cottage? Would Hoffman Enterprises be cutting me off from my own past and closing one more door to my father’s mind?
If I had any lingering doubts about not selling out this home and that past, they were eradicated by Dad’s words and the picture of Libby Metcalf’s boys hanging beneath the star. I didn’t need Hoffman Enterprises. I was already funeral director of the year.
A few minutes later, Susan and Tommy Lee came through the front door. He held a large square box with the lid slightly ajar. They wore conspiratorial smiles, and I knew something was up.
The present wasn’t wrapped, but a red bow had been taped to the top.
“Patsy run you out of the house?”
“Nah, we went to midnight candlelight service. Samantha and Kenny are still sleeping. Patsy will keep them from ripping through their gifts till I get back. I’ve had this on my hands long enough.” He handed the box to Susan.
“It’s from your mom and me,” she said.
I turned to Mother, and she pulled a sheet of legal paper from her pocket. “You thought we wouldn’t know,” she said. “I found your wish list stuck in the magazine.”
She read aloud, “Christmas. Bird dog. Want more than anything.” She winked at me. “And that last part’s even underlined.”
I didn’t know what she was talking about, and then it hit me. She had the list of notes I’d jotted down during my first conversation with Ted Sandiford of Hoffman Enterprises. The self-described bird dog who needed to close a deal by Christmas and who told me he’d wanted to run his family’s funeral home more than anything.
I started laughing and couldn’t stop. Everyone joined in, thinking I was surprised and delighted that my wish had been discovered. Susan handed me the carton. A wet black nose nudged the lid aside. Puppy breath rose into my face.
Scrambling for traction on the smooth cardboard, a yellow lab no more than eight weeks old looked up and yipped at his new master. It was love at first sight.
“Thank you,” I said, and leaned over the box to give Susan a kiss.
“I had to get the puppy out of the house early,” said Tommy Lee. “Samantha’s fallen in love with it. She doesn’t know I’ve gone back and got this little guy’s sister from the litter for her. I’m guaranteed to be a hero for at least a few hours today.”
I set the box on the floor and the puppy immediately tipped it over and escaped. He waddled with hind legs outracing his front ones until he ran into my father’s shoe. Dad reached down and stroked his head. Then he looked up with the grin of, well, a kid on Christmas morning.
“You have to name him,” said Mom.
“Oh, he already has a name,” I said.
I whistled.
Democrat ran to me.
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Grave Undertaking Page 27
