Your stepfather was a good-looking vacant-eyed, tall man who had two modes: smile and nod. Your mother said she picked him because he was, in her words, safe. When we come for a visit, sitting in the beige and orange family room in the bland house where you grew up seeped in trauma, I try to engage him in conversation. He smiles and he nods. On the drive home we have a fight about him. These are the years you’re trying so hard to run a successful business. You tell me you’re going to use him as a consultant. He wants to be paid. I’m furious. You are barely scraping by and this is where you’ll spend your money? You defend your position, saying he successfully ran something or the other. I don’t think this is true. I think you are trying to impress your mother, who is a detached individual. All your life you try and get her attention. Perhaps you wonder what this man who has caught her fancy has that is not in you. I’ll tell you what it is—safety. You are dangerous, in emotional receptivity, in intuition, in fast reflexes, in common sense. I like how we fight. You defend yourself but never shut down the conversation. Occasionally I change your mind. You change mine. I want to protect you. I say, do you regard this person as a father figure? You say, I have no relationship with him at all. True answer. I say then why on earth are you giving him money? You shake your head. I know you’ll do it anyway. You are stubborn. Later you might admit you were wrong, but in the moment, you cannot be dissuaded.
Today they call you to pick up his things. No one else was on the call list, if there even was a list. At the front desk you announce your name, your relationship, that you are here to get the effects of Dick. The lady at the desk wants to know who called you. You say: Pam, Pam called me to pick up his things. Behind her sits a manila envelope with his wallet, his glasses. She wonders if you need to show ID. You have no idea. Ask Pam. Finally, someone unlocks a door and ushers us in. Oatmeal-colored walls, a kitchen without aroma, music on the overhead speaker from musical theater. A pale woman walks around and around, shaking her head. A guy stares at a wall, anxiously clasping and un-clasping his hands. Dick’s room has three pictures, a plastic bin, a chest of drawers and a La-Z-Boy. A worker brings a handcart and says everything must be removed. Nothing can stay. You get the La-Z-Boy up onto the cart. You have always been extremely strong. The hand-clasping guy peeks in timidly and asks if you need any help and you say yes even though you don’t. He puts a hand on the cart to steady it. He is so glad to do something of value. We leave behind religious magazines and the National Geographic with Harry and Megan in wedding clothes on the cover. The woman who was walking around stops in, she’s disturbed by departure, her hand trembles as she touches my arm. Don’t worry, it’s OK, I say. I will say things that aren’t true, if the occasion calls for them.
We load everything into your truck. There’s a Goodwill nearby that will take even an old, impossibly heavy chair. Everything can be given away except death. Back in the car I say when there is a death, even one without personal attachment, there has to be a clearing ceremony. I don’t know why I say this. I have never made such a statement before. I say we can burn some incense, scatter something on water, bang a drum, make an incantation, what in your opinion will be an act that is life affirming? You say I think there’s a Harley-Davidson dealership around here. Is it life-affirming, I ask. You say yes. We drive to the Beaverton Harley-Davidson dealership. The day has turned brilliant, and we park in front, so many sleek and shiny motorcycles in a row like beauty queens at a pageant. A silver fox of a fellow in full leathers sits on a bench sunning himself like a lizard. We step inside and slowly walk up and down each and every aisle. Salesmen sidle up and ask if they can help. A real bike seller can tell a real bike owner from fifty feet. I admire a Harley full dress with a painted fuel tank that shows a rearing horse being ridden by a skeleton. You try on a chocolate-brown leather jacket. It is very handsome and you are very handsome. There are some extremely pretty British bikes in one section. There’s a spectacular yellow race bike by the parts desk, exposed, willing to give all, from airbox to radiator. Your mother was married to Dick for seven years. She pre-deceases him and doesn’t particularly care. She won’t question what you have done. A traumatic household defers all questions. But I have a question: what do we owe the unencumbered dead? We scatter their things, not their ashes. We settle their remains because no one else is on call. We dream of a fast bike. We wear our skeleton like a rearing horse. We buy nothing and hold hands all the drive home.
