Chapter Eleven

Roger Mitchell died the next morning with little fanfare. Greg was halfway through his cereal, and on his second cup of coffee. The hospital called Greg because Roger had listed him as his next of kin on all his paperwork as soon as he learned he was sick. It hadn't been because Greg had been there when they admitted Roger yesterday.

As soon as Greg hung up with them, he set his bowl in the kitchen sink. "Roger's gone."

The letter with his name—Gregory, not Greg—sat folded in his back pocket. He hadn't opened it yet and had even transferred it from one jeans pocket to his nightstand and then to another clean pair of pants. It felt like lead as the news settled into his brain, seeping down to his heart until he felt like a powder-keg. Whatever Roger had written inside the envelope would be the match. The knowledge settled into his gut.

Leonard stood from his seat at the kitchen table, setting the newspaper down next to his coffee cup. He hugged Greg to him without a word.

Neil stood too, wrapping his arms around them both. He had tears in his eyes even though he didn't know Roger. For Neil, it was enough that Greg suffered. Neil had a sensitive soul. "Are you mad at Roger?"

Greg didn't want to talk about it, but he supposed he had to at some point. "Yeah. A little."

"Mad and sad." Neil had a simple way of seeing the world. It had a lot to do with his autism, which a lot of folks would consider a limitation, but Neil taught Greg to not over-complicate things.

"Yeah. It's confusing."

Neil nodded and kissed Greg on his temple. "Poor Greg."

Greg smiled. "Thanks, Neil."

Neil nodded and let go, stepping back and wiping his eyes. He picked up his cereal bowl and started eating again.

"You gonna tell that neighbor boy?" Leonard made Isaac seem like a ten-year-old, and something about that soothed Greg's nerves.

"Yeah." Greg pulled back and took a deep breath, letting it out through his mouth. "Yeah. I guess so."

He pulled the envelope out of his pocket and unfolded it, laying it on the table before walking to the phone and lifting the receiver.

Leonard eyed the letter and then Greg. The old man wasn't surprised by much, but Greg could see it on his face.

"I'm fine."

Leonard didn't move. "You best get to the chores, Neil."

"Breakfast isn't over. It gets over in fifteen minutes." Neil had a schedule, and he was stuck on every minute.

"Greg needs alone time."

Neil didn't question it any further. He took his bowl and shoveled in food as he walked to the back of the house.

Isaac answered the phone, and Greg explained about Roger as gently as he could.

"Mind if I come to the farm?"

Greg shook his head and took his gaze off Leonard, who looked at him as if he would turn into a wild animal. Greg felt calm, but it was the eye of the storm. "I guess not."

"If you don't want me there then say." Oh, Isaac would give him somewhere to put all the emotion if Greg took the opportunity. The only thing was, Greg hadn't punched anyone a day in his life, and he wouldn't start with Isaac. That was the road he feared the most.

Based on Isaac's tone, Greg would guess Isaac was in the same boat as him.

Greg decided to be straight with him. "I'm afraid I'm going to lose it. That's all."

"Yeah, I hear you."

"We have lots of space if you need it and lots of people around if you don't. Pack a bag and stay a few nights if you want." Greg would make sure there were fresh sheets on the bed in the spare room.

"I appreciate that. Thanks, Greg."

When Greg hung up the phone, Leonard was still standing there. "Do you need me here?"

Greg intended to read the letter, and he wanted to do that alone. "I'll be fine."

"You know where to find me if you need me."

As soon as Greg nodded, Leonard headed out of the door.

Finally, Greg sat at the kitchen table with his cup of coffee. The cup sat next to the envelope. He dug the small folded up knife out of his pocket. Greg lifted the blade and slid it along the top, cutting open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper and a business card.

The business card was information for a lawyer in Saint James. It was probably a lawyer who created wills and recommended by the hospital. What surprised Greg was that Roger had enough assets to warrant a will. Roger had spent all his money on booze when Greg was a kid. Besides the house, he couldn't see Roger's spending habits changing much. He also couldn't picture Roger sober, but apparently, he had been for years.

It was the sheet of paper that held his interest. He unfolded it. Roger's handwriting was small and scratchy, the lines drawn brisk and to the point. There was a date in the top right-hand corner dated three years ago.

Dear Greg,

If you're reading this, then it means I'm dead, and we didn't make amends. I tried to call you yesterday, but I didn't know what to say. I've been on your college campus a thousand times, but I never got up enough nerve to say hello.

It's one of the twelve steps. Forgiveness. You probably already figured out that I'm in AA. I'm finally sober for the first time in my life. I feel like I owe you so much more than an apology, son.

The next section was farther down with a date that read six months ago.

Dear Son,

The doctors keep trying to blow smoke up my ass, but I know they're all full of shit.

I've left everything to you. The house and the money in the bank. Everything. You won't have a problem with your mother. She filed for divorce a couple of years ago. My lawyer can tell you more about that if you want to know. If it were my parents, I probably would.

I know you probably think I drank all my money away, but I managed to save a little the past few years.

I want you to know the man across the street means a lot to me, and I would like it if you would find it in your heart to share some of what I had with him. He does a lot for me, and I love him as much as I love you.

Dad

Greg laid the letter down on the table and then stood, backing away from it as if it were a live grenade. The monster that sat in his stomach worked its way up into his chest until his heart ached.

He had so much to say to his father, especially in response to the letter. But he had nowhere to put it. He fucking knew the envelope contained a letter.

Well, he hadn't known for sure, but it didn't take a genius.

And a part of him was pissed off at his father for dying when he did and not giving Greg the conversation he needed.

He latched onto the anger like he knew he would. It was easier to feel than all the other shit swirling around with everything else.

His hands itched to punch something but instead of doing that he brought his foot up and kicked the edge of the kitchen table, sending it into the island. He kicked it hard enough that it sent it teetering on the brink of falling over. When it finally lay on its side, he gained a sick satisfaction from it.

His coffee cup crashed to the floor, breaking into a few pieces. The dark liquid rolled across the linoleum. The letter lay behind the table out of sight. He picked it up, wadding it into a ball before throwing it into the living room. The paper hit the television, landing on the floor.

He left the kitchen and the mess inside and went to his bedroom. It was after he slammed the door that the tears came, and he finally let himself feel.