cupped slightly around her eyes, as if shielding them from a glare. Although sheâs gained weight in recent years, sheâs still quite prettyâelegant eyebrows and skin, an oval face embedded with bright pupils. Sheâs nearly seventy and for thirty years has dyed her hair jet black. I study the crushed-velvet look of it and, after sheâs meandered through various topics, turn the conversation toward the funeral, asking rather bluntly where she was. Not seeming to have understood my question, she gives me a puzzled look.
âToday,â I explain. âKennethâs funeral.â
She nods, and for a moment Iâm not sure sheâs going to respond. Iâm about to begin a different approach when she tells me sheâs not been feeling well.
âWhatâs wrong? Is it your stomach?â
âNo, no, Spencer. Just tired. Think Iâm trying to get a cold.â
She explains thereâs a flu going around her church, a subject that leads to a series of fairly involved stories about people Iâve never met.
The entire time sheâs talkingâand itâs often this way with usâI attempt subtle gestures to indicate Iâd like to turn the discussion back to a previous topic: clear my throat, begin nodding, scoot to the edge of my chair. But this does nothing, and soon Iâm forced to interrupt.
âI really wish youâd been able to make it,â I tell her. âThe service was nice.â
She nods.
âThey had more flowers than Iâve seen at a funeral, wreaths and stands of gardenias.â
She says it does sound nice, asks if Iâd like something to drink.
âNo. Really, Iâmââ
âI just made a fresh pot of coffee and I have orange juice and prune. There are some beautiful apples I got on sale yesterday. Here,â she says, standing, âI want you to look at these.â
I follow her into the kitchen, trying to figure a way of expressing my disappointment without causing an argument, watch her slice an apple neither of us will eat.
She sets it on the table and we both pull back chairs, staring at the fruit, listening to the refrigerator hum. She begins to relate a conversation she had with a black man at the store, how she told him shedidnât understand why they wanted to be called âAfrican Americans.â I nod from time to time to indicate interest.
After fifteen minutes have passed, I push back my chair and tell her I need to go, ask if sheâd like me to take her to breakfast in the morning. She says sheâs sorry, that she canât, has to be up early to help with a yard sale at church.
âYou know,â I warn her, âif youâre coming down with something, maybe you ought to take it easy for a few days. You donât want to go and make it worse.â
She looks up, creases her brow, and I can tell, for a moment, she doesnât know what Iâm talking about. Then her forehead relaxes, and she reaches out to squeeze my arm.
âI think Iâll be just fine,â she says.
T WO WEEKS LATER âfast food and alimony, editorials that elicit calls from members of the city councilâIâm standing in my driveway inspecting a metallic green truck. Iâve just learned that before he died, Uncle Kenneth visited his lawyer and had the vehicle assigned to me in his will. The truck is a 1970 Ford, an extended cab with dual exhaust and polished chrome mud flaps. It has a toolbox that runs the width of the bed, side mirrors the size of cutting boards. Paint is just beginning to flake around the gas cap, but for the most part the pickup is in excellent condition. Kennethâs attorney called meabout it yesterday afternoon, and todayâstill dazed, full of skepticism and interestâI woke early and had a friend drive me out to get it. Sitting next to my Volkswagen, framed by lawn and pavement, it looks horribly out of place.
I walk back inside, take a beer from
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