Need

by Stephanie Lawton

  Mama either has something in her eye or she’s not sure how to take Heather’s kindness. “Thank you, dear. Isaac, there are some things they need to discuss with us concerning Robert’s wishes.”

  “Of course, Mama. Heather–”

  A short man in his sixties saunters over with his hand extended and a sour expression pulling down the corners of his mouth. “Digger Dotson,” he says. “Please, follow me.”

  Mama and I fall into step behind him while Heather executes an awkward wave and settles into one of the overstuffed chairs in the foyer.

  Mr. Dotson’s office reminds me of a picture I once saw of Mark Twain’s billiard room—dark, lots of leather and books, with a blue haze that obviously comes from the impressive selection of cigars displayed on his desk next to an antique humidor featuring a Confederate flag. This is a place and a man forgotten by political correctness.

  He motions to the two chairs in front of his desk while taking a seat behind it. Manicured fingers drum on a manila folder with Uncle Robert’s name handwritten on the tab.

  “First,” he says, “I am very sorry for your loss. If you have any questions or need some time, please just speak up. Now, I’d like to start by going over the basics. Ms. Laroche, you are and have always been Robert’s power of attorney. However, Isaac, you are listed as secondary if your mama isn’t able to carry out the duties.”

  This is news to me. Mr. Dotson continues. “Robert preplanned his funeral, so all the arrangements have been made and paid for, except for a few minor details. His casket has been chosen, he’s selected readings and music for the funeral, and of course he will share the dual headstone he selected when Angela passed away.”

  Mama sniffs while he opens the manila folder and flips through a few papers. “The only real decisions you need to make,” he says, “are what he’ll wear, what kind of flowers you want, and who will speak at the funeral. Robert left a sizable allowance for incidentals in his discretionary fund.”

  I squeeze Mama’s hand, but she continues to stare out the window. I’m not sure she’s heard a word that’s been said. “We’ll get one of his suits to you as soon as possible,” I tell him. “As for flowers, I think a few simple arrangements will be fine. Something white, maybe magnolias. The rest of the money we’ll donate to the Mobile Music Teachers Association. I’d also like that in the obituary, that people should donate in his name in lieu of flowers.”

  Mr. Dotson grunts in approval and scribbles a note. “That okay with you, Ms. Laroche?”

  “Hm? Oh, yes. Wonderful idea, Isaac.”

  “Now, y’all know who you want as pallbearers? You’ll need six, if possible.”

  I begin mentally checking off names: me, my two brothers-in-law… The rest of our family consists of either old men or little boys, neither of whom are capable of lifting a casket. I could call my friend Conrad in Boston and see if he’d be willing to come down, and then there’s…Dave. It would mean the world to me if he could be there, but it’s not an option.

  “We’ll figure it out,” I tell him.

  “Very good. You’ll need a couple of people to read at the funeral, and someone to give the eulogy.”

  Mama’s face lights up. “Oh, Isaac, you should do it. You were closest to him.”

  She’s got to be joking. “You do realize I’m a terrible speaker? Also, I got kicked out of that church.”

  “You did not, and I know you don’t like to speak but it would mean so much to me and I know Robert would love it, too.”

  Oh, hell, I can’t refuse her when she plays the guilt card. “Fine.”

  “Alrighty then, any other questions?” Mr. Dotson shuffles the papers back into the folder.

  “When do you need the suit?”

  “Tomorrow morning would be fine. That will give us plenty of time before the visitation Wednesday and the funeral Thursday.”

  “Sounds good.” I take Mama’s arm and guide her out of the office.

  “Oh,” she says, turning to me. “Do you still have your spare key? I can’t bear to go over there right now. Will you pick out his suit? The gray one, I think.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do it right now.”

  “That reminds me. Robert’s lawyer called and said he needed to meet with you.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fine, I’ll stop by there, too.” Instead of answering, she deflates and buries her face in my shoulder. I know what she’s thinking. It’s the same thing I’ve been mulling over since yesterday, that it was either a great coincidence or Uncle Robert held on until he saw our family brought together again. If it was the latter, I’m even more grateful to him.

  Mama places her hands on either side of my face and kisses my forehead. “Love you, son.”

  “Love you, too, Mama.”

  Heather gets little more than a small wave as Mama shuffles out the door with her hankie pressed to her nose.

  “Sorry, she doesn’t mean to be rude.”

  “No worries, I understand,” Heather says. “You doing okay?”

  “Fine. I’m fine. Lots to do, though.”

  She takes my arm. “Where to next?”

  “Lawyer’s, then to Uncle Robert’s to pick out a suit.”

  “Until you send me away, I’m coming with.” A shy, reassuring smile curves her lips upward. I suddenly have the urge to kiss her, right here in public. So I do.

  “What was that for?” she asks.

  “For being you and for being here. Thanks.”

  “That’s what friends do, Isaac.”

  Friends. I mull over that word during the silent drive over to the lawyer’s office downtown. It’s located in a posh all-glass building near the bay. I give my name to the receptionist and wait while she buzzes Mr. Duncan. Thirty seconds later, a gentleman in his fifties claps me on the shoulder and shakes my hand. He reeks of cigarette smoke, but his firm grip and kind expression make up for it. The fact that he’s packing heat is also not lost on me.

  Peering over the top of his glasses, he says, “Sorry to meet you under these circumstances. My sympathy to you and your family during this difficult time. Robert was a friend as well as a client.” He extends an arm and I enter his office. When I glance back, I catch him eyeing Heather’s ass while he follows us in. I grit my teeth. “I know you’ve got a lot going on over the next few days so I’ll make this as quick as possible. I’m assuming you don’t mind discussing private legal matters in front of…?”

  “Miss Swann, and no. Please continue.”

  “Okay, then. There will be a formal reading of the will at a later date, but I wanted you to know that Robert was very clear. After all his debts are paid—of which there are few other than taxes—everything he owns goes to you. This includes his house, its contents, his car, and most of his financial investments.”

  You always hear about people’s jaws dropping open. Figured it was an exaggeration until this moment. “I–I had no idea” is my lame response.

  “There is one caveat, however,” he says, setting down his glasses.

  “Okay.”

  “Should you decide to sell the house, all profits must be used as a down payment on another house for you. The contents, however, you are welcome to do with as you choose. Sell them, keep them, auction them, whatever.”

  I shake my head. “Even the piano?”

  “There’s no specific mention of a piano in the will.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it. There will be a pile of paperwork for you to sign, but it can wait until after the funeral. I wanted to tell you beforehand so you’d have time to think about what you want to do, and talk things over with your family. These are touchy times and often bring out the best and worst in people, depending.”

  Great. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Sure thing. Here’s my card if you have any questions. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ve known Robert the better part of two decades and he’ll be missed by the
entire community.”

  When we leave, I hover behind Heather so the dirty old man can’t ogle her assets again.

  “Want me to drive?” she asks.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you’re pale and you haven’t stopped shaking since he said the word caveat.”

  “No, I’m good. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Give me the damn keys, Isaac. Don’t make me bust out the crazy again.”

  Despite my morbid mission, a smile works loose. “Kinda liked the crazy…”

  “That’s not what you need right now,” she says, and plants one hand on her hip while holding out the other for my keys.

  “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  Two blocks from Uncle Robert’s house, she shifts in the driver’s seat. “So, you liked the crazy?”

  “Once I figured out you’re not actually crazy.”

  “Hmm.” She guides the car into Uncle Robert’s driveway, tires crunching on the crushed oyster shells that have always lined the path. The house is modest and comfortable, a one-story, two-bedroom Creole cottage in midtown, but it contains more memories than any structure has a right to. I swallow down a lump at the thought of crossing the threshold without the old man to greet me on the other side.

  Heather squeezes my hand. “You want me to stay here or…?”

  “Come with me?”

  “Okay.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I take the front steps two at a time, just like I did as a kid when I didn’t know what else my long scrawny legs were good for. The white paint on the front porch is chipped, but the porch swing looks newly painted. A faded wreath, lonely and battered, hangs from the front door—a gift from Mama, I think. I was here mere days ago when I met with Juli, but it might as well be another lifetime. The house is strangely silent, like it stopped breathing right along with Uncle Robert. A heaviness settles in my gut and suddenly I’m so tired.

  “Do you need a minute?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m good. Just a lot to think about.”

  She nods and squeezes my arm while I fumble for the right key. Like it has my entire life, the lock sticks and I have to turn it extra hard to the right. The pins finally line up and the door opens with a loud crack of swollen wood and humidity.

  The first thing to hit me is the smell. Granted, Uncle Robert had begun to smell like an old man over the years, but it’s the scent of eucalyptus that hits me hardest. And it’s not the menthol smell of cough drops and arthritis cream, but the real deal. I watch as Heather’s eyes take in the room before us.

  “Quite the gardener, I see. I had no idea.”

  “Aunt Angela once told him she loved the scent of eucalyptus at the florist’s, so he began growing it to please her.” Now, there are pots of it in every window and dried arrangements on most flat surfaces. To me, it’s the smell of home. “Piano wasn’t the only thing he excelled at.”

  “No, of course not,” she says. “We all have hidden talents and passions.”

  “Hidden talents and passions,” I repeat, rolling the phrase around on my tongue. “I like that. Much better than saying we all have secrets.”

  “It’s all a matter of perspective,” she says.

  I head to the back of the house, past the parlor with the piano, to Uncle Robert’s bedroom. Consciously I realize he’s gone, but it still feels like I’m violating his privacy by entering. His double bed is neatly made and the furnishings are simple. Well-worn. I head straight for the closet, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible, while Heather wanders around the room.

  I’m flipping through the hangers to find his gray suit when I hear her gasp. “This picture,” she says. “This was his wife?”

  I turn to find Heather holding a framed picture of Uncle Robert and Aunt Angela taken in maybe the late 1950s or early sixties, judging by the clothes.

  “Yep, that’s my aunt. Why?”

  “She looks familiar. Can’t say how, but I think I’ve seen this picture before.”

  “Weird. Not sure I’ve even seen that picture before. It didn’t used to be in here. Must have gotten it out recently. You know, just this week he told me he’d been thinking about Aunt Angela a lot more. Wonder if he knew his time was coming.”

  Heather shrugs and places the frame back on the dresser. I turn back to the closet, locate the suit, and set out to find a matching bowtie. “You think they need socks and stuff, too?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” she says.

  “Should be an adult about this, but can I say that I am not looking forward to going through my uncle’s underwear drawer?”

  “Isaac!” Heather cracks a contagious smile, even as she admonishes me. “You’re probably going to have to do a lot of things you won’t look forward to.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  She shrugs. “Guess so. I remember when my grandparents died, my mama had to make all the decisions and do all the running around because my daddy was too upset. It’s easy to cry and drown in sorrow, but it takes real strength to do what needs to be done so others can grieve.”

  “How am I doing so far?”

  She snakes her arms around my waist and hugs. “I think you’d make your uncle proud.”

  Once again, I’m knocked over by Heather’s ability to say exactly what I need to hear. We find a bag for his unmentionables, plus a belt, a tie, an undershirt, and shoes. At the last minute, I pluck a sprig of eucalyptus from one of the pots and toss it in the bag as well.

  Out on the porch, I relock the door and stand for a minute to look at the small yard beyond. On the right is a live oak that still bears rope marks from the tire swing Uncle Robert rigged up the summer I turned five. The rest of the trees are magnolias whose fruit is just beginning to open into the giant white flowers he loved so much.

  “Where to next?” Heather asks.

  “Home. I need a break.” As soon as I say the words, their truth makes my eyelids heavy.

  “Can I buy you lunch, or are you not hungry?”

  “Starving.” We walk to the car and I hold open her door. She hands me the keys.

  “Well, roomie,” she says, “you drive and I’ll buy.”

  “Heather?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do me a favor?” I place my hands on the roof of the car and lean into the passenger side, where Heather buckles her seatbelt.

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t ever call yourself my roomie. You know you’re more than that.”

  She looks up and grins. “Then what am I?”

  “Not quite sure, but roomie is an insult to both of us.”

  “Okay, then, how about we don’t label it yet?”

  “Sounds good. Know what else sounds good? A big bowl of pho. You up for Vietnamese food?”

  “You’re on.”

  ***

  Heather returns to work in the morning. I drive to the funeral home alone. Mr. Dotson’s secretary meets me at the door with a sympathetic smile and the soft, kind words everyone doles out to the bereaved.

  “Can I see him?” The question’s out before I’ve thought of the consequences.

  “No, honey, not until we’ve dressed him and gotten him ready for you.”

  “Right, of course. Don’t know what I was thinking. My apologies, ma’am. And here are his clothes.”

  “Bless your heart, there’s no need to apologize. Perfectly understandable. Do you have a few minutes, or are you in a hurry?”

  “No, I’m off all week.”

  “I was hoping you could go over the obituary with me, unless you’d prefer to leave that to your mama.”

  I think of Heather’s statement about doing what has to be done so others can grieve. “No, she’s got her hands full. I can take a look.”

  “Great,” she says. “Follow me.”

  Her office is further back in the bowels of the funeral home, which tells me she’s the one who really runs things around here.

  “I need you to sign off on this befor
e I send it to the newspaper. This will also be read during the funeral service. Mr. Cline wrote it and approved it when he preplanned his funeral, but there may have been some changes since then.”

  Sure enough, little John isn’t on here, but other than that, everything looks good.

  “If you’ll just sign here, we’ll get it all taken care of.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  I leave the funeral home feeling satisfied that I was able to handle this small task for Mama. It’s one in a long series, but it’s a step in the right direction.

  ***

  I listen to the message a second time. And a third, just to be sure I’m hearing it correctly. It’s Dave and he’s sending his condolences. Says he and Conrad will be at the funeral and if there’s anything I need, to let him know. I haven’t seen Conrad since he and Dave came down last fall to tell me my ex was pregnant. It wasn’t mine, but that was also the night I got hammered at Felix’s and hit on Juli. Don’t remember much else except Conrad and Dave hauling me out of there before I puked.

  After placing my phone on the counter, I wander to the window in the kitchen and stare at the buildings beyond. It would mean the world to me to have my two best friends here this week, not only to help pay respects to Uncle Robert—who treated them like family—but because I miss the hell out of them, especially Dave.

  Our last meeting wasn’t particularly encouraging. Thank goodness I’ve had Heather to keep my mind off the estrangement. There are a number of ways this could go down, but obviously I hope we can patch things up and move forward. I realize we’ll never be as tight as we once were, but I’m okay with that. Juli is his focus now, as she should be. Quite a few things have been put into perspective lately…namely that family is crucial, and two half-persons don’t equal a whole when they come together.

  I wouldn’t say I’m completely over Julianne, but she’s not my main focus anymore, nor is the sting of what we could have had quite so sharp. No, it’s faded to a dull ache over the last few weeks. I have Heather to thank for that. And what exactly is Heather to me? What am I to her? That remains unclear as well. Like she said, perhaps we shouldn’t label it yet, but it sure feels like it could be something.