600 Hours of Edward

reach…”
    When I turn my head the other way, to the right, I see someone I missed on the first pass: Dave Akers, my father’s buddy and the subject of the last political fight of his life. He is standing apart from the huddled crowd, which has jammed under the awning so as not to get pelted by the frigid rain falling outside. He looks sad and wan (I love the word “wan”), the way my mother did that first day.
    “…so allow yourself this moment of sadness to mourn the loss of a true original, but let yourself be happy from now on that we were privileged to know him…”
    I feel uncomfortable. How could I be my father’s son and yet not know a single person, other than my mother or Jay L. Lamb (a dubious one, at that), who is here to mark his life? Whose fault is that? I’m not wise enough to know that answer. I hope it is mine. At least I still have a chance to rectify it.
    “…Amen.”
    As the small band pushes forward to place roses upon my father’s casket before it is lowered into the ground, I walk ninety degrees to my right, out from under the awning, into the rain that slaps my face, and between the rows of those who, like my father, are gone.
    – • –
    Two hundred yards away, I take cover under a tree. My hair is drenched, and I grip my head at the temples with both hands and sweep my fingers through, wringing water onto my collar.
    I am standing over the resting spot of a family:
    CLAUDE T. BOONE
    1906–1954
    Beloved father
    AGNES MILLER BOONE
    1910–1987
    Beloved mother
    RANCE LEROY BOONE
    1930–1992
    Devoted son
    I slump down to the base of the tree, the backside of my black slacks landing in the mud. The tears that I so dislike are fighting my best attempts to tamp them down, until finally, I can’t fight them anymore.
    – • –
    By the time I arrive at my parents’—my mother’s—house, the reception is going full bore. Many of the Billings, Yellowstone County, and Montana power players are here, and they have broken into clumps of animated conversation, talking about whatever it is that political power players talk about.
    There are more people here than were at the funeral. My mother attempts to introduce me to many of them—the mayor, then a youngish couple who I learn are neighbors, then one of my dad’s old colleagues with Standard Oil. Inevitably, my mother gets diverted to other matters—food or drink or the beckoning call of some politico. Soon enough, I am left to wander through the house alone, trying (and it’s difficult) to smile at the strangers who acknowledge me with a glance.
    Three times, I am asked how I knew my father. The first time, it just seems absurd, but I answer, if only to see the questioner’s chagrin. (I love the word “chagrin.”) The second, I aminsulted, but I answer again, testily. The third, I do not answer, but instead pivot and walk to the staircase, ascending out of the low roar in the main part of the house, until I find the guest bedroom—where I’ve never stayed—and close the door and welcome the silence.
    This room is unlike the rest of the house. When my father built this place, he commissioned a contemporary style, with lots of glass and steel and sharp angles. The furniture through the house is comfortable but not welcoming, if you can understand what I am driving at. But this room seems much more like one you might find in an old, warm farmhouse—a big, poufy bed, warm colors, old-style wallpaper, bucolic (I love the word “bucolic”) vistas framed and placed on the wall. I can tell that my mother got her hands on this room when it came time to decorate. My mother is the sort of person who would want a guest to be comfortable. My father was the sort of person who would want a guest to check out his new set of golf clubs.
    I lay myself down on the bed and close my eyes, and soon, I am adrift in late-afternoon sleep.
    – • –
    “Edward. Edward, wake up.” My mother is shaking me on the shoulder. “Edward.”
    My head feels as though it’s filled with sand, and I have a hard time getting my eyes to focus.
    “Edward, wake up.”
    “I’m awake. What time is it?”
    “It’s six.”
    I look down at my watch and wait for the digital figures to emerge from the blur. It’s 5:57.
    “Edward, we’re going to do some toasts to your father. You should come down.”
    That sounds positively dreadful, but I am climbing out of the bed.
    “I will be right there.”
    – • –
    By the time I’ve put myself back