600 Hours of Edward

out onto Clark Avenue from the front porch, and I see my father’s Cadillac going by. My father rolls down the window as he passes and looks at us there, and he shakes his head disapprovingly.
    I stop laughing.
    “What’s wrong?” Donna Middleton asks.
    I don’t say anything, but I reach into the mailbox and fish out today’s letters. There is only one.
    It says Lambert, Slaughter & Lamb, Attorneys at Law, on the envelope.
    I open the letter.
    Mr. Edward M. Stanton Jr.:
    You have broken the agreement set forth with your father regarding fraternization with Donna Middleton. This will have serious consequences.
    Regards,
    Jay L. Lamb
    A wrecking ball crashes into the house my father bought for me to live in, destroying it with a single swing.
    – • –
    It’s 7:38 a.m.
    I am awake.
    I am out of breath.
    I have been awake at 7:38 a.m. 226 times out of 308 days this year (because it is a leap year).
    I am not looking forward to day number 308, the fourth full day without my father.
    I reach for my notebook and pen to record my data. The pen does not work. I reach for backup pen number one. It does not work. I reach for backup pen number two. It does not work.
    I do not believe in omens, as what people call omens usually can be explained as coincidences, and although coincidences are facts, the belief in omens is not a belief in science. People who put stock in omens believe that some mysterious, mystical force is guiding what happens in our lives. I believe in science. I believe in facts.
    But if I did believe in omens, I would not be enthused about the fact that none of the three pens on my nightstand works. Until I get up and find an operational pen, my data will not be complete.
    – • –
    The same perfectly put-together, impossibly pretty secretary is the gatekeeper to Jay L. Lamb’s office. Today, however, I am notwaiting alone in an uncomfortable chair to find out my father’s displeasure with me. I am sitting next to my mother, who is also in an uncomfortable chair, waiting to find out what my father has intended for us.
    “Can we go in yet?” my mother asks the impossibly pretty secretary. It is 9:11 a.m. We have been waiting eleven minutes longer than we should have to see Jay L. Lamb.
    “It should only be a few more minutes,” the impossibly pretty secretary says apologetically. “He’s had a conference call that ran a little long.”
    “Thank you,” my mother says, an edge in her voice.
    “Oh, and Mrs. Stanton,” the impossibly pretty secretary says, “I am so sorry about your husband. He was the sweetest man.”
    “Thank you,” my mother says, and now her lips are pursed. I think about
Dragnet
actor G. D. Spradlin and his mouth tighter than a chicken’s asshole. That’s what my mother looks like right now. I stifle a giggle.
    At 9:16, the impossibly pretty secretary tells us we can go in.
    – • –
    “Maureen, I am so sorry about the wait,” Jay L. Lamb says, getting up from behind his desk to meet my mother. He takes her hand and guides her to a chair. He has never done that with me, and I’ve been here many, many times, although it occurs to me that I never bothered to count them. No matter. I wouldn’t want Jay L. Lamb to touch me.
    “Edward,” he says, nodding at me and gesturing for me to take a seat. As I sit down, he goes back behind his desk and sits in his big office chair, which looks far more comfortable than the chairs my mother and I are occupying.
    “So,” he says, clapping his hands together, “we’re here to go over Ted’s estate and how it will be apportioned. Maureen, of course, you know all of this, being Ted’s wife. Edward, I’ll go over it with you, and please ask any questions if you’re unable to understand.”
    “I’m developmentally disabled, Mr. Lamb. I’m not stupid.”
    Jay L. Lamb looks momentarily dumbfounded, and then he smiles thinly. “Yes, of course. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
    – • –
    My father is rich—really, really rich. You would be shocked if I told you just how rich, and that’s why I am going to tell you:
    My father has an estimated $27.85 million in assets—that’s stock holdings, savings, pensions, and the like, as Jay L. Lamb tells it—and that doesn’t even include the house and cars and boat and cabin on Holter Lake. As Jay L. Lamb tells it, my father had a remarkable penchant for getting into and out of investments at just the right time. He left the oil business before it tanked in the