“I’m fine,” I said. “Are you okay?”
Aunt Helen had written that she and my father were like Margo and Alvin, and that had ripped out all my insides, leaving me empty and sadder than I thought was possible. There was Abe and me, and it was easy to see us as brother and sister, but somehow it was harder with parents. Aunt Helen was my aunt, but it wasn’t easy to really understand that she was my father’s sister first. They had been close for years and years before I even existed.
I felt terrible that I needed Aunt Helen to spell it out for me, that I hadn’t thought to do it myself. I’d driven across the state to get my father’s suit jacket, but I hadn’t sat across a table from him and looked into his eyes to see how far the sadness had traveled. Whether it was receding ormultiplying, diminishing or growing. I had watched him wash his car and brought him lemonade, but it had seemed too impossible, too heavy, to really ask him how he was, to really make sure he told me the truth.
“Oh, some days are harder than others,” he said.
“Today?”
“Today? Today had raspberries and my favorite thrift store with my favorite daughter. And it isn’t even noon yet. Today is doing fine so far.”
We got to the thrift store a few minutes later. I found a parking spot in the shade. I turned the car off and looked at my father, really looked at him, studying his face to the point where he noticed and touched his chin.
“Do I have something... ?”
“No. No, you’re fine.”
“Are you ready for this?”
“Ready.”
We went inside and grabbed a cart, which we would inevitably fill with things we didn’t actually want and wouldn’t actually buy. It was all about the hunt for us and not about the purchase. That was why I liked going to thrift stores with my father, because he took just as much time as I did. We sat in chairs and tried on shoes and opened the cabinets of curios and peeked inside and made up stories from stuffed animals and put on coats like we were going to Narnia.
We pushed our cart up and down every single aisle,sometimes putting things in it only to take them out a few minutes later. I found a pair of tea light lanterns. A nightlight shaped like a lipsticked mouth. An eight ball keychain. My father popped around a corner with a chest-high flamingo, intricately woven with different scraps of pink metal.
“Do we need this?” he asked.
“How much?”
“Seven.”
“Yeah, we need that,” I said.
Into the cart it went.
I found an ice bucket shaped like a pineapple, and my dad added a light-up antique globe to the pile.
We made our way to the book section, and of course there they were, a dozen copies of Alvin, hardcovers and paperbacks with cracked spines and dog-eared pages (Abe would have died). My dad picked up a copy ofAlvin Hatter and the Return of the Overcoat Manand turned it over in his hands.
When he looked up, his eyes were bright, and I felt a momentarily jolt of panic.Dads can’t cry, dads can’t cry.But then he blinked and he was okay again, still sad but holding it together.
“Shit,” he said. “It just sneaks up on you.”
“I know. It sneaks up on me too.”
“You never think... ,” he said. And even though he didn’t finish his sentence, I heard it in my head: it willhappen to someone you know. He tossed the book up in the air and caught it and then replaced it on the shelf, cover facing out so it was easilyrecognizable. Then he put his hands on the handle of the cart and said, “How’s about we put this stuff back and go get some ice cream. I’m in the mood for ice cream. Are you?”
“Always, Dad. Duh. I’m always in the mood for ice cream.”
He walked around the side of the cart and hugged me tightly, kissing the top of my head. Then he grabbed the flamingo and shuffled away with it, and I picked up the book again, flipping open to the dedication page.
To my brother. For everything, everything, everything.
I followed my dad down the aisles, and we set free all of our finds.
Alvin burst into the house in the middle of the woods, the door slamming loudly against the wall as he stormed into the foyer and saw the place the Overcoat Man had lain, dying, just a short hour ago.
“No,” he said.
