Dear John

When she stopped, letting the rest of her statement hang, I felt her genuine concern for my dad, and I opened my mouth to respond. But I said nothing. This wasn't as easy a decision as it sounded. His home was the only place my father knew, the only place he felt comfortable. It was the only place his routines made sense. If staying in the hospital terrified him, being forced to live someplace new would likely kill him. The question came down to not only where he should die, but how he should die. Alone at home, where he slept in soiled sheets and possibly starved to death? Or with people who would feed and clean him, in a place that terrified him?

With a quiver in my voice I couldn't quite control, I asked, "Where is it?"

I spent the next two weeks taking care of my dad. I fed him the best I could, read him the Greysheet when he was awake, and slept on the floor beside his bed. He soiled himself every evening, forcing me to purchase adult diapers for him, much to his embarrassment. He slept most of the afternoon.

While he rested on the couch, I visited a number of extended care facilities: not just the one that the neighbor had recommended, but those within a two-hour radius. In the end, the neighbor was right. The place she mentioned was clean, and the staff came across as professional, but most important, the director seemed to have taken a personal interest in my dad's care. Whether that was because of the neighbor or my dad's doctor, I never found out.

Price wasn't an issue. The facility was notoriously expensive, but because my dad had a government pension, Social Security, Medicare, and private insurance to boot (I could imagine him signing on the insurance salesman's dotted line years before without really understanding what he was paying for), I was assured that the only cost would be emotional. The director--fortyish and brown haired, whose kindly manner somehow reminded me of Tim--understood and didn't press for an immediate decision. Instead, he handed me a stack of information and assorted forms and wished my dad the best.

That evening, I raised the subject of moving to my dad. I was leaving in a few days and didn't have a choice, no matter how much I wanted to avoid it.

He said nothing while I spoke. I explained my reasons, my worries, my hope that he would understand. He asked no questions, but his eyes remained wide with shock, as if he'd just heard his own death sentence.

When I finished, I desperately needed a moment alone. I patted him on the leg and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When I returned to the living room, my dad was hunched over on the couch, downcast and trembling. It was the first time I ever saw him cry.

In the morning, I began to pack my dad's things. I went through his drawers and his files, the cupboards and closets. In his sock drawer, I found socks; in his shirt drawer, only shirts. In his file cabinet, everything was tabbed and ordered. It shouldn't have been surprising, but in its own way it was. My dad, unlike most of humanity, had no secrets at all. He had no hidden vices, no diaries, no embarrassing interests, no box of private things he kept all to himself. I found nothing that further enlightened me about his inner life, nothing that might help me understand him after he was gone. My dad, I knew then, was just as he'd always seemed to be, and I suddenly realized how much I admired him for that.

When I finished gathering his things, my dad lay awake on the couch. After a few days of eating regularly, he'd regained a bit of strength. There was the faintest gleam in his eyes, and I noticed a shovel leaning against the end table. He held out a scrap of paper. On it was what appeared to be a hastily scrawled map, labeled "BACKYARD" in a shaky hand.

"What's this for?"

"It's yours," he said. He pointed to the shovel.

I picked up the shovel, followed the directions on the map to the oak tree in the backyard, marched off paces, and began to dig. Within minutes the shovel sounded on metal, and I retrieved a box. And another one, beneath it. And another to the side. Sixteen heavy boxes in all. I sat on the porch and wiped the sweat from my face before opening the first.

I already knew what I'd find, and I squinted at the reflection of gold coins shimmering in the harsh sunlight of a southern summer. At the bottom of that box, I found the 1926-D buffalo nickel, the one we'd searched for and found together, knowing it was the only coin that really meant anything to me.

The next day, my last day on leave, I made arrangements for the house: turning off the utilities, forwarding the mail, finding someone to keep the lawn mowed. I stored the unearthed coins in a safe-deposit box at the bank. Handling those details took most of the day. Later, we shared a final bowl of chicken noodle soup and soft-cooked vegetables for dinner before I brought him to the extended care facility. I unpacked his things, decorated the room with items I thought he'd want, and placed a dozen years' worth of the Greysheet on the floor beneath his desk. But it wasn't enough, and after explaining the situation to the director, I went back to the house again to collect even more knickknacks, all the while wishing I knew my dad well enough to tell what really mattered to him.

No matter how much I reassured him, he remained paralyzed with fear, his eyes tearing me apart. More than once, I was stricken with the notion that I was killing him. I sat beside him on his bed, conscious of the few hours remaining before I had to leave for the airport.

"It's going to be okay," I said. "They're going to take care of you."

His hands continued to tremble. "Okay," he said in a barely audible voice.

I felt the tears beginning to form. "I want to say something to you, okay?" I drew breath, focusing my thoughts. "I just want you to know that I think you're the greatest dad ever. You had to be great to put up with someone like me."

My dad didn't respond. In the silence, I felt all those things I'd ever wanted to say to him forcing their way to the surface, words that had been a lifetime in the making.

"I mean it, Dad. I'm sorry about all the crappy things I put you through, and I'm sorry that I was never here for you enough. You're the best person I've ever known. You're the only one who never got angry with me, you never judged me, and somehow you taught me more about life than any son could possibly ask. I'm sorry that I can't be here for you now, and I hate myself for doing this to you. But I'm scared, Dad. I don't know what else to do."

My voice sounded hoarse and uneven to my own ears, and I wanted nothing more than for him to put his arm around me.

"Okay," he finally said.

I smiled at his response. I couldn't help it.

"I love you, Dad."

To this he knew exactly what to say, for it had always been part of his routine.

"I love you, too, John."

I hugged him, then rose and brought him the latest issue of the Greysheet. When I reached the door, I stopped once more and faced him.

For the first time since he'd been there, the fear was almost gone. He held the paper close to his face, and I could see the page shaking slightly. His lips were moving as he concentrated on the words, and I forced myself to study him, hoping to memorize his face forever.

It was the last time I ever saw him alive.

Seventeen

My dad died seven weeks later, and I was granted an emergency leave to attend the funeral.

The flight back to the States was a blur. All I could do was stare out the window at the formless gray of the ocean thousands of feet below me, wishing I could have been with him in his final moments. I hadn't shaved or showered or even changed my clothes since I'd heard the news, as if going about my daily life meant that I fully accepted the idea that he was gone.

In the terminal and on the ride back to my house, I found myself growing angry at the everyday scenes of life around me. I saw people driving or walking or heading in and out of stores, acting normal, but for me nothing seemed normal at all.

It was only when I got back to the house that I remembered I'd turned off the utilities almost two months earlier. Without lights, the house seemed strangely isolated on the street, as if it didn't quite belong. Like my dad, I thought. Or me, I realized. Somehow that thought made it possible to appr

oach the door.

Wedged in the door frame of our house, I found the business card of a lawyer named William Benjamin; on the back, he claimed to represent my dad. With phone service disconnected, I called from the neighbor's house and was surprised when he showed up at the house early the following morning, briefcase in hand.

I led him inside the dim house, and he took a seat on the couch. His suit must have cost more than I earned in two months. After introducing himself and apologizing for my loss, he leaned forward.

"I'm here because I liked your dad," he said. "He was one of my first clients, so there's no charge for this, by the way. He came to me right after you were born to make up a will, and every year, on the same day, I'd get a certified letter in the mail from him that listed all the coins he'd purchased. I explained to him about estate taxes, so he's been gifting them to you ever since you were a kid."

I was too shocked to speak.

"Anyway, six weeks ago he wrote me a letter informing me that you finally had the coins in your possession, and he wanted to make sure everything else was in order, so I updated his will one last time. When he told me where he was living, I figured he wasn't doing well, so I called him. He didn't say much, but he did give me permission to talk to the director. The director promised that he'd let me know when or if your dad passed away so I could meet you. So here I am."

He started rifling through his briefcase. "I know you're dealing with the funeral arrangements, and it's a bad time. But your dad told me you might not be here for very long and that I should handle his affairs. Those were his words, by the way, not mine. Okay, here it is." He handed over an envelope, heavy with papers. "His will, a list of every coin in the collection, including quality and the date of purchase, and all the arrangements for the funeral--which is prepaid, by the way. I promised him that I'd see the estate all the way through probate, too, but that won't be a problem, since the estate is small and you're his only child. And if you want, I can find someone to haul away anything you don't want to keep and make arrangements to sell the house, too. Your dad said you might not have time for that, either." He closed his briefcase. "As I said, I liked your dad. Usually you have to convince people of the importance of this stuff, but not your dad. He was one methodical man."

"Yeah." I nodded. "He was."

As the lawyer said, everything had been taken care of. My dad had chosen the type of graveside service he wanted, he'd had his clothing dropped off, and he'd even picked his own coffin. Knowing him, I guess I should have expected it, but it only reinforced my belief that I never really understood him.

His funeral, on a warm, rainy August day, was only sparsely attended. Two former co-workers, the director of the extended care facility, the lawyer, and the neighbor who'd helped take care of him were the only ones beside me at the graveside service. It broke my heart--absolutely broke it into a million pieces--that in all the world, only these people had seen the worthiness of my dad. After the pastor finished the prayers, he whispered to me to see if I wanted to add anything. By then my throat was tight as a drum, and it took everything I had to simply shake my head and decline.

Back at home, I sat tentatively on the edge of my dad's bed. By then the rain had stopped, and gray sunlight slanted through the window. The house had a musty, almost moldy odor, but I could still smell the scent of my dad on his pillow. Beside me was the envelope the lawyer had brought me. I poured out the contents. The will was on top, as were some other documents. Beneath it, however, was the framed photograph that my dad had removed from his desk so long ago, the only existing photograph of the two of us.

I brought it to my face and stared at it until tears filled my eyes.

Later that afternoon, Lucy, my long-ago ex, arrived. When she first stood at my doorstep, I didn't know what to say. Gone was the suntanned girl from my wild years; in her place was a woman dressed in a dark, expensive pantsuit and a silk blouse.

"I'm sorry, John," she whispered, coming toward me. We hugged, holding each other close, and the sensation of her body against mine was like a glass of cool water on a hot summer day. She wore the lightest trace of perfume, one I couldn't place, but it made me think of Paris, even though I'd never been there.

"I just read the obituary," she said after pulling back. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral."

"It's okay," I said. I motioned to the couch. "You want to come in?"

She sat beside me, and when I noticed she wasn't wearing her wedding ring, she subconsciously moved her hand.

"It didn't work out," she said. "I got divorced last year."

"I'm sorry."

"I am, too," she said, reaching for my hand. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah," I lied. "I'm okay."

We talked for a while about old times; she was skeptical of my claim that her final phone call had led me to join the army. I told her that it was exactly what I needed at the time. She spoke about her career--she helped design and set up retail spaces in department stores--and asked what Iraq was like. I told her about the sand. She laughed and then asked no more about it. In time, our conversation slowed to a trickle as we realized how much we both had changed. Maybe it was because we'd been close once, or maybe it was because she was a woman, but I could feel her scrutinizing me and already knew what she would ask next.

"You're in love, aren't you," she whispered.

I folded my hands in my lap and faced the window. Outside, the sky was again dark and cloudy, portending even more rain. "Yes," I admitted.

"What's her name?"

"Savannah," I said.

"Is she here?"

I hesitated. "No."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

No, I wanted to say. I don't want to talk about it. I'd learned in the army that stories like ours were both boring and predictable, and though everyone asked, no one really wanted to hear them.

But I told her the story from beginning to end, in more detail than I should have, and more than once, she reached for my hand. I hadn't realized how hard it had been to keep it inside, and by the time I trailed off, I think she knew I needed to be alone. She kissed me on the cheek as she left, and when she was gone, I paced the house for hours. I drifted from room to room, thinking of my dad and thinking of Savannah, feeling like a foreigner, and gradually coming to the realization that there was somewhere else I had to go.

Eighteen

That night, I slept in my dad's bed, the only time I'd done that in my life. The storm had passed, and the temperature had risen to miserable levels. Even opening the windows wasn't enough to keep me cool, and I tossed and turned for hours. When I crawled out of bed the next morning, I found my dad's car keys on the peg-board in the kitchen. I threw my gear into the back of his car and picked out a few things from the house that I wanted to keep. Aside from the photograph, there wasn't much. After that, I called the lawyer and took him up on his offer to find someone to haul away the rest and sell the house. I dropped the house key in the mail.

In the garage, it took a few seconds for the engine to catch. I backed the car out of the drive, closed the garage door, and locked up. From the yard, I stared at the house, thinking of my father and knowing that I'd never see this place again.

I drove to the extended care facility, picked up my dad's things, then left Wilmington, heading west along the interstate, moving on autopilot. It had been years since I'd seen this stretch of road, and I was only dimly aware of the traffic, but the sense of familiarity came back in waves. I passed the towns of my youth and headed through Raleigh toward Chapel Hill, where memories flashed with painful intensity, and I found myself pushing the accelerator, trying to leave them behind.

I drove on through Burlington, Greensboro, and Winston-Salem. Aside from a single gas stop earlier in the day where I'd also picked up a bottle of water, I pressed forward, sipping water but unable to stomach the thought of eating. The photograph of my father and me lay on the seat beside me, and every now and then I would try to recall the boy in the pi

cture. Eventually I turned north, following a small highway that wound its way through blue-tipped mountains spreading north and south, a gentle swell in the crust of the earth.

It was late afternoon by the time I pulled the car to a stop and checked into a shabby motel just off the highway. My body was stiff, and after taking a few minutes to stretch, I showered and shaved. I put on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt and debated whether or not to get something to eat, but I still wasn't hungry. With the sun hanging low, the air had none of the sultry humid heat of the coast, and I caught the scent of conifers drifting down from the mountains. This was the place of Savannah's birth, and somehow I knew she was still here.

Though I could have gone to her parents' house and asked, I discarded the idea, uncertain how they'd react to my presence. Instead I drove the streets of Lenoir, passing through the retail district, complete with the assorted collection of fast-food restaurants, and began to slow the car only when I reached the less generic part of town. Here was the part of Lenoir that hadn't changed, where newcomers and tourists were welcome to visit but would never be considered locals. I pulled into a run-down pool hall, a place that reminded me of some of my own youthful haunts. Neon signs advertising beer hung in the windows, and the parking lot was full out front. It was in a place like this that I would find the answer I needed.

I went inside. Hank Williams blared from the jukebox, and ribbons of cigarette smoke drifted in the air. Four pool tables were clustered together; every player was wearing a baseball hat, and two had obvious wads of chewing tobacco parked in their cheeks. Trophy bass had been mounted on the walls, surrounded by NASCAR memorabilia. There were photos taken at Talladega and Martinsville, North Wilkesboro and Rockingham, and though my opinion of the sport hadn't changed, the sight put me strangely at ease. At the corner of the bar, below the smiling face of the late Dale Earnhardt, was a jar filled with cash, asking for donations to help a local victim of cancer. Feeling an unexpected pull of sympathy, I threw in a couple of dollars.