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It was Sunday afternoon and I was supervising an open house in Leaside. It was a sunny day, the air crisp and clean, and therewas a surprisingly large turnout of prospective buyers, considering that the house was listed at over three million dollars and it needed a new roof.
My cellphone rang as I was answering a young couple’s questions about monthly maintenance costs. Caller ID informed me it was Harrison, likely phoning to remind me of my promise to be home no later than five o’clock—he was having dinner with a writer friend from out of town—and it was getting dangerously close to that now. “If you’ll excuse me a minute,” I said to the prospective buyers. “Harrison,” I said as another four people walked through the front door. “I swear I’m doing my best to get out of here, but people keep coming—”
“Your father called,” he interrupted.
“He did? When? Where is he?”
“He just called. He’s home, I guess.”
“Is he all right?”
“He sounded fine. He wants you to call him.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. My father rarely phoned me, and when he did, it was usually to tell me something I didn’t want to hear. “Did he say why?”
“No. Just that it was important.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you were working, and I’d pass along the message.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Jodi…”
“Yah?”
“Remember, you promised to be home by five.”
“I’m trying.”
“I’m counting on you.”
“Shit,” I whispered, returning my phone to my pocket when it rang again. “Tracy,” I answered. “What’s going on?”
“Dad just called.”
“I know. He called the house. What’s going on?” I asked again.
“He wants to see us.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now? I can’t now! I’m working, and then I promised Harrison I’d be home for the kids…”
“It sounds pretty urgent. Do you think he knows?”
“Knows what?”
“That we were there,” Tracy whispered, as if our father were within earshot. “That we went through his things.”
“How could he possibly know that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the neighbors saw us. Or that old couple from the taxi…”
“I can’t imagine. Dad didn’t give you any hint?”
