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I knocked on the bathroom door. A female voice came from inside, “I’ll be right out.” I went down stairs. Dad was in the kitchen. He’d gotten fresh mums from the Floral Company next door. “I got these for Honey,” he said. He was wearing a black suit. I paused at the fridge said he and the flowers looked nice. I was also wearing a suit, my oldest. My legs were shaking. I was as weak as tea, paranoid as butter. I cracked open a can of soda as the screamer came down the stairs. Dad said, “Hello! Donna, this is my son, Henry.” She extended a hand and her condolences. She was a not-too-difficult-to-look-at-thirty-something. As tasteless as it was, Donna’s dress was complementary. Dad gave her one of Honey’s mums and offered to make us breakfast. Donna dissuaded him, as did I. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, walking into the living room and turned on the Tv news. The sportscaster was calling the scores from the previous night. The Weatherman described radar images. Then, the anchors ended the newscast on a story about school lunches. There was nothing about James, no news of a body being discovered floating in the canal. I checked the other channels too. It was still early though. No news wasn’t exactly good news.
AMERICAN WINE WRITER 