Driveway
My brother flew out because the third wife was dying. I picked him
up at the airport and drove him to the bottom of the driveway, like
always. I had not driven onto the property in several years.
Sometimes, when I arrived to pick him up for his return to the airport,
the third wife would stand at the top of the driveway and wave. I
would reluctantly wave back. It’s serious. He had never said that
before. I went inside. Our father was sitting at the breakfast bar, by
the phone. He exchanged greetings with my brother but we ignored
each other. As he was explaining her condition the phone rang. She
was dead. It was abrupt. He was stunned. Who will take care of me
now? I cleaned the kitchen and took out the trash. I made a grocery
list. I started the laundry. My brother sat with our father. It was late. I
realized I was going to spend the night. I slept in the third bedroom
with the door cracked. My father likes it when the door is cracked.
He likes to peek in to make sure no one’s conspiring or
eavesdropping. In the morning, I ran errands while my brother and
father sat together making calls. I cut the bagels in thirds, the way he
liked them. I cut the onions and tomatoes thin. It was becoming clear
that when my brother returned to New York, I would end up
managing our father and the estate I had been disinherited from.
After dinner he went straight to bed. My brother and I stayed up,
drinking. After a glass or two, we decided to poke around. It was
pretty much what we expected. We got into the file cabinets and
they were pretty much what we expected. We found the will. If the
third wife died, my brother would get everything, as expected. There
was a section tha t we didn’t understand at first: Children conceived
outside of marriage shall make no claim against the estate. It seemed
obvious: likely there was a third son. Turns out, there was.
