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"You going to open it?"
"Who sent you?"
I shoot him through the eyes, and the man is taken aback for a moment.
"Open it."
"Who sent you?"
I can't hold myself any longer, though. My fingers work their way inside the envelope, and the familiar handwriting greets me.
Dear Ed,
The end is near.
I think you'd best be getting down to the cemetery.
"The cemetery?" I ask, and I know that tomorrow is exactly a year to the day that my father died.
My father.
"My father," I say to the man. "Tell me--was it him?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Why not?" I nearly take hold of him.
"I--" he begins.
"What?"
"I was sent here."
"By who?"
But the man can only bow his head. He speaks the words with purpose. "I don't know. I don't know who he is...."
"Was my father behind it?" I talk at him. "Did he organize all of this before he died? Did he..."
I hear what my mother said to me last year.
You're just like him.
Did my father leave instructions for someone to organize this? I remember seeing him walk the streets at night when I was in my cab. He did it to sober up. I'd pick him up once in a while as he made his way home from the pub....
"That's how he knew the addresses," I say aloud.
"Sorry?"
"Nothing," I answer, and no more words are spoken because I'm out the door. I'm running up the street and out to the cemetery. The night is that blue black color. Clouds like cement are paved in sections to the sky.
The cemetery looms up, and I turn to the area where my father's grave is. Some security guards are standing close by.
Or are they?
No.
It's Daryl and Keith.
