Craig Lancaster - 600 Hours of Edward

“I don’t want anything.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I don’t like golf shirts.”

A glance around the room tells me that he has hundreds of golf shirts, and slacks, and golf sweater vests, and fleece pullovers. These clothes, destined for the Salvation Army and the Montana Rescue Mission thrift stores, will be fine items for someone. I would not be surprised to see a homeless man in a St. Andrew’s sweater this winter. That would be funny.

“Why are you doing this now, Mother?”

“Why not? No time like the present. And, frankly, it’s too much. Your father is no longer here to wear it, and it’s not right that we should have so much when others have so little.”

That makes a lot of sense to me. And my mother seems invigorated with this project.

“There’s another benefit to doing this, Edward.”

“What’s that?”

“Come here and smell this.” She’s holding out one of my father’s shirts, an aqua-blue long-sleeved shirt with the Augusta National logo on the left breast.

“Smell a shirt?”

“Yes, it’s not something bad. Give it a whiff.”

I lean over but don’t let my nose touch the shirt. Even so, I can smell the faint essence of my father’s cologne, Canoe, on it.

“You spend forty years of your life in the same house with a man, and you come to know his scent,” my mother says. “It’s like he’s here in the room with me. And that gives me comfort.”

She smiles at me, and I back at her.

“Maybe I’ll take one of them, Mother.” She hands me the aqua-blue long-sleeved shirt, which I place away from the stacks of clothing, and then I come back and help her fold and sort the piles of unprocessed clothes still to go.

“I’ve made a decision, Edward.”

My mother and I are eating tuna sandwiches and carrot sticks in the kitchen.

“What?”

“I’m selling the house.”

I am surprised.

“Why?”

“It’s too much for just me. I wouldn’t feel right living here alone. It’s too big and…Well, it’s something your father and I shared. Now that he’s gone, I think it might be time for me to find a place that’s just mine.”

“What sort of place?”

“There are some lovely new condos just downtown. They are small enough for just me, and they’re near the places I like to go. As nice as the view is from here, I’ve never much cared for how far we are from town and for driving down that hill in the nastiest days of winter. I think I would like downtown living.”

“Yes.”

“Also, I won’t be spending as much time here anymore.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s like this, Edward: I’ve decided that I would like to split my time between here and Dallas. Your Aunt Corinne still lives down there, and I haven’t seen nearly as much of her as I would like.”

“Didn’t Uncle Andy die last year?”

“Yes. We can be the two crazy widow sisters, on the loose in Texas.”

“That’s funny, Mother.”

“Would that be OK with you, if I spent more time in Texas from now on?”

“Yes. Why would you ask?”

“I don’t know. You’re a grown man, Edward, and I know you can take care of yourself. But if you thought I was abandoning you, I wouldn’t want to leave.”

“I know you’re not abandoning me, Mother.”

“Good.”

“I might even come see you sometimes.”

“Edward, I would love that.”

“I think I would, too.”

She reaches out and clutches my right hand in hers. I squeeze back.

“Are you angry with me over some of the things your father did?”

My mother and I are in his office going through photo albums. She thinks that I should take some and keep them in my house on Clark Avenue, and I think it is a very good idea.

“No.”

“I feel horrible about all the things I didn’t know. When I saw those letters in Jay’s file, I…I felt so betrayed. Betrayed by your father, and even Jay. Then later, I felt so stupid. I wondered, ‘How could I have not known? How could I have become so detached from your life? How could I have let him make me so detached from your life?’”

“Dr. Buckley says that I should try to remember the good in Father and give him the benefit of the doubt that he was doing what he thought was best, even if it was off base.”

“What do you think?”

“I think that is easier to say than to do. But I also think Dr. Buckley is very wise and that it’s worth the effort.”

“I guess so.”

We keep looking at photographs.

“Edward, what was that letter that Jay gave you Monday?”

“Father wrote it a couple of years ago to tell me that he was proud of me and loved me, and that he hoped he would say it before he died so he didn’t have to say it in that letter.”

My mother’s eyes fill with tears. “I wish he would have told you,” she says softly.

“So do I, but Dr. Buckley says he gave me a great gift. She says that she has clients who have waited all their lives to hear those things from their fathers. I only had to wait until I was thirty-nine years and two hundred and ninety-nine days old.”

My mother laughs as a tear runs down her face. “I love you, too, Edward.”

“I know, Mother. And I love you.”

Before I leave, my mother tells me that there’s one last order of business between us.

“Leave your Toyota here and take the Cadillac.”

My father’s Cadillac DTS is sitting in the driveway, gleaming in the early afternoon sunlight.

“What will happen to the Toyota?”

“I’ll have Jay dig up the title, and we’ll include it in all the things we’re sending to the Rescue Mission. Between your father’s clothes, the car, and the check we’re going to write, there ought to be enough to ensure some happy holidays for people who deserve some happiness, don’t you think?”

“Yes. That sounds very nice.”

“The keys are in the ignition. Enjoy your new car. Your father certainly did.”

I kiss my mother on the cheek and then walk over to the car, which is a deep, beautiful cherry red. I open the door and climb in.

I turn the key in the ignition to get a look at the instrument panel, which is a lot different from the one in my Camry. As I’m slipping into the seat belt, my mother raps her knuckles against the window on my side of the car.

The DTS doesn’t have manual-crank windows like the Camry. Finally, I find the automatic window button.

“Edward, it will take a while to sell this house, and I’m not planning to head to Texas until spring. Can I count on seeing you from time to time?”

“Yes, Mother. Of course.”

“Because we’re going to do better from now on, you and me, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Take care, son. I’ll call you in a few days, or you call me, OK?”

“Yes.”

She puts her hand on my cheek and smiles, and then she steps away from the car and waves good-bye. I push the window button to roll it up, put the car in drive, and head down the driveway.

A few minutes later, at 4:26 p.m., I’m riding along Highway 3, back toward downtown.

The Cadillac DTS is a superior car in every way except one: I liked where the cup holders were on the Camry. It is yet another thing I will have to let go.

At home, I park the Cadillac DTS in the driveway, and then I get out and admire it.

It’s a beautiful car.

The STANTON vanity plates will have to go. My father was more flamboyant than I. (I love the word “flamboyant.”)

The Dallas Cowboys license plate frames will stay.

I spend the next few hours ostensibly sorting through the pictures my mother has sent home with me. I say ostensibly—a word I love—because every ten minutes on the dot, I get up and peek through the curtains on the front window to see if I can spot Donna Middleton and/or Kyle. Each time, I see no one, though I can see by the car that they are home.