The doors were unlocked, and we were granted one-time access into Bill’s basement to rummage through some discarded items in search of anything the kids might want. Why they weren’t sold at auction with the kids' art projects and toys is a nagging question, but making sense of this whole situation is a foolish endeavor, so I took the boys to see what they could find:
Two pairs of sneakers, size 13;
Numerous old Bill and kid photos;
A John Deere clock my dad had made for us when we lived on the farm (shellacked with gold foil numbers);
All of those things a person keeps in the top drawer of their desk (paper clips, thumbtacks, needle and thread, business cards, misc. key chains);
A leather coat I bought Bill for Christmas in 1988;
Bill’s briefcase;
Drawings by Joe that Bill had kept;
One of those green shaded desk lamps. He’d always wanted one, and I’m guessing this is the one I bought him as a birthday gift;
and the dresser Bailey asked for six months ago that was finally made available.
We loaded everything into Joe’s El Camino and took it home.
“What’s the combination to Dad’s briefcase?” Joe asked.
“Used to be 1-2-3, 3-2-1,” I said.
“Yep,” Joe said, lifting the lid. “Still is.”
Jake and I gathered around to peek over Joe's shoulder. Laying on top of some business-related items still in the briefcase was a handwritten note to the kids. It read, along with wishes for a nice life: “I hope you kids never have to experience anything like what I’ve been through in the last several months.”
I've never been a widow, so I can't speak from experience though I'm sure it is tough. But there is this weird absence of acknowledgment for Robb’s pain, Bailey’s pain, Joe’s pain, Jacob’s pain and Lillian’s pain that must surely pale in comparison. I don't get it. I don't think I ever will.
Joe wadded up the note. Jake set it on fire and watched it burn down to his fingers.
And that was the end of that.
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