Harold

I thought I would go to bed early so that I would get a full night's sleep. Of course, things never happen that way.

Some time around midnight the police arrived at the door and invited themselves in. They got my mother to sit down and then proceeded to tell her that her father was dead, and gave her the phone numbers for the coroner and his landlord so we could make arrangements to deal with his personal effects. Then they just stood there.

My mother thanked them for their time, expecting them to leave. They stayed, expecting her to break down and be in need of comforting. Watching from the other room, I tried hard to stifle my giggles. It seemed as if the police were more concerned than we were, and they kept offering advice and condolences that weren't really needed. I felt sorry for them because they were stuck with such a crappy job.

Harold will always be etched into my mind as the drunk that used to harass me over the phone. In my last conversation with him, he told me that my mother was dead and I agreed with him and hung up. That must have scared him because within the next couple of days even the most obscure relatives I have phoned to see if they could get some sort of inheritance from her. Shortly after, I switched to an unlisted number so he would stop calling me.

The last time I saw Harold we talked for a bit on the street near the liquor store. He didn't recognize me, and I didn't bother to introduce myself.

I neither like nor dislike him. I just don't care.

The coroner tells us that his body sat in his apartment for a couple of days before anyone noticed. It is sad that he died alone, but then again, what can you expect? He was an abusive alcoholic. He burned his bridges long ago.

My father says that we must be emotionally prepared to find anything at his apartment. It almost seems like he's secretly hoping to find that he has left money for me or something. To be honest, I don't think anyone will find much, and I don't care. I've never needed anything from him.

My grandmother is jovial. Her memories of him now are twisted into a bizarre and improbable history where she ultimately is the victor. My aunt is overly sentimental, wanting to keep his ashes in her basement and trying her hardest to find pictures of him. Obviously she didn't know him well. My mother is filled with quiet anger and relief. She wants to forget. My sister laughs a lot. We each remember things our own way, and in the end, it doesn't matter.