600 Hours of Edward

together—re-tucked the shirt that escaped in my sleep, wet down my hair to get it in place, had a nice long pee—and trundled downstairs, the toasts have begun. Jay L. Lamb is holding the floor now.
    “Ted Stanton wasn’t just my client. He was my best friend. I always knew where I stood with him, I could always trust his instincts about things, and I could always rely on him. Ted, I know you’re in a better place. I will miss you, buddy.”
    One by one, my father’s colleagues stand and offer remembrances.
    Some are funny:
    “It must have been ’94 or ’95,” Craig Hashbarger says, “but ol’ Ted, he knew the animal trainer with the circus that came through—hell, you guys know, Ted knew damned near the whole country, it seemed—and he talked this guy into letting him bring a lion into the commissioners’ meeting. Ted said, ‘I want you to meet my new adviser. Anything you have to say to me, say to him first.’”
    Laughter ripples through the room.
    “The thing is, with Ted, damn—he might have been serious!”
    More laughter.
    Some are touching:
    “When Mary got sick, Ted and Maureen were always there with whatever we needed, often before we knew we needed it,”James Grimes, one of the biggest developers in town, is saying. “At his own expense, he chartered a jet to take us to Seattle for that last attempt at saving her life. I don’t think we would have had the chance otherwise—that’s how touch-and-go everything was at that point. A better friend, I never had.”
    Some are what Dr. Buckley would call self-indulgent:
    “Ted always told me I was a fool to want to be mayor, and a lot of times, I think he’s right,” Kevin Hammel is saying. It’s well known in Billings that Mayor Hammel is a climber; he has half a dozen defeats in races for higher office that would give him more money and more power. In fact, it seems that the only political race he can win is for mayor of Billings—perhaps because those who live here figure they can keep an eye on him and that he can’t mess things up too much.
    “So maybe he’s given me another gift, by opening up this seat on the county commission…”
    An “ugh” goes up in the room, and I hear, though I can’t place the sources, “Sit down, Kevin,” and “Cut that guy off.”
    As the toasts seem to be winding down, my mother steps forward and says, “I want you all to know how much your love and support mean right now. We”—and now she’s looking at me, smiling—“are fortunate to know you, and Ted was fortunate to have had you in his life. Thank you ever so much for this lovely tribute to him.”
    And now my mother is shocking me, because she is actually saying, aloud, in front of these people, “Edward, please say a few words.”
    I can see Jay L. Lamb, and he looks as though he wants to dig a hole in the stone floor of this house and climb into it.
    “Mother…” I say in protest.
    “Just a few words, dear.”
    I step out of the gathered throng. I can hear my heart throbbing as if it is in my cranium. And then I am surprised to hear words leaving my mouth.
    “I…I can’t think of a funny story about my father.”
    Everybody is looking at me.
    “I liked to watch Dallas Cowboys games with him.”
    There is now a bit of laughter, and someone says, jokingly, “Ted, watch the Cowboys? Never!”
    “I’m not good at public speaking,” I continue. “When I have thought of my father since he died, I think of the words to a song I like. It is by Matthew Sweet.”
    I see quizzical looks on the faces in front of me.
    I recite the lyrics to “Life Without You.” It is a song about loss and helplessness, and that’s how I feel about my father. I say the words quickly, because I am not a public speaker and I don’t feel comfortable. When I look up as I’m talking, I see people looking at me in quizzical ways. I don’t like this, so I don’t look up anymore.
    When I finish, the room is silent. Maybe I should have tried harder to tell a funny story. The governor is looking at me as if I’m a loon. And my mother’s shoulders are heaving as she tries to muffle her cries.
    – • –
    My father’s death hasn’t changed one thing: I am always relieved to be out of his house and back in mine. I decided to leave after Dave Akers approached Rolf Eklund, my father’s county commission colleague, and poked a finger in his chest as they argued. After the brief scuffle was quelled and my mother had tried her best to act as if