600 Hours of Edward

with it. But I accept it. It doesn’t detract one iota from what I’m trying to accomplish around here.”
    Stanton, a graduate of Texas Christian University in Fort Worth, is survived by his wife of forty years, Maureen, and an adult son, Edward Jr. Funeral arrangements are pending, said lawyer and family friend Jay L. Lamb.
    “Maureen and the family appreciate all the kind thoughts and gestures at this difficult time,” Lamb said in a statement released by his firm. “Ted Stanton’s adult life was dedicated to making Yellowstone County and Billings a better place, and his family feels secure knowing that he did so and that he touched so many lives in the process.”
    I eat my cereal and chase my daily dose of fluoxetine with a glass of orange juice.
    – • –
    At 9:07 a.m., my mother calls.
    “Edward, how did you sleep?”
    “I slept.”
    “Yes, so did I. I…I’m having a hard time believing this has happened.”
    “It was in the newspaper.”
    “I saw that. It was a nice write-up, don’t you think?”
    “Yes.”
    “It fixated a bit too much on his political fights. It made your father seem like a combative man.”
    “Yes.”
    “I miss him so much.” I can hear her voice breaking.
    “I know.”
    “So,” she says, regaining her composure, “Jay has made the arrangements. We’re going to have a very small, private funeral tomorrow afternoon at two. It’ll be you, me, Jay, and some of your father’s associates. I don’t want anything big and public. I don’t think I can handle that right now. Jay says there will be some sort of public memorial in the near future.”
    “Where will the funeral be?”
    “The Terrace Gardens Cemeteries on Thirty-Fourth. Do you know where that is?”
    “Yes.”
    “We’ll have a small gathering here at the house after. I would like you to be here.”
    “OK.”
    “Monday morning, we’re to meet in Jay’s office and go over the will and such. Can you be there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Nine a.m.”
    “OK.”
    “Edward, I’m so lonely. Could you come up here today?”
    “Yes.”
    We say our good-byes and hang up, and I look again at the newspaper. Yesterday had a high of forty-nine and a low of thirty-one, with 0.2 inches of rain, all of which I record in my notebook to complete my data.
    Today looks to be similarly wet, which I’ll know for sure tomorrow instead of having to rely on a forecast today.
    The forecast for tomorrow, the day of my father’s funeral, is for freezing rain.
    – • –
    At the wrought-iron gate outside my parents’—my mother’s—house, I press the call button.
    “Yes?”
    “It’s me, Mother.”
    “Come on in.”
    The gate opens, and I guide my Camry down the drive. I can see that my father’s Cadillac DTS has been retrieved from the Yegen Golf Club parking lot and brought back here. My father gets a new Cadillac every two years. I can remember his telling me one time, years ago when I was just a little boy, that a Cadillac “is the greatest negotiating tool ever made.”
    “When they see you coming in a Cadillac, they know two things,” he said. “First, that you know quality. And second, that you don’t need their deal. You know why? Because you’re driving a goddamned Cadillac, that’s why.”
    My father loves Cadillacs.
    (It occurs to me now that I am going to have to learn to refer to my father in the past tense rather than the present. He got a new Cadillac every two years. He loved Cadillacs. Past tense.)
    I park the car, and I can see my mother standing in the open doorway, waiting for me to come inside. Her hand gestures tell me to hurry, as it’s starting to rain.
    – • –
    My mother sets a glass filled with ice and Coca-Cola in front of me. I’m sitting on a couch in the den. She had asked me if I wanted a soda, and I had said yes. This is what I got. I make the quick decision to just let it pass. It’s my fault for not specifying. I don’t like Coke. I don’t like my soda chilled.
    Aside from her bloodshot eyes, my mother seems to have moved on in one way. She is again the perfectly put-together woman I’ve known all my life: every hair in place, exquisite clothing, smart shoes, makeup just so. It’s the eyes that betray her. I suppose there’s no way to cover those up.
    She is pacing the room, making random observations that I have to resist the urge to comment on so I don’t come across as snarky. (I love the word “snarky.”) I am relying on every strategy for patience that I ever