Chapter 23: The Will

They buried Clifford on Thursday, on a hill outside Bexley, next to the wife who had lent him a nickel.

Three hundred drivers came, in their good jackets.

Fern stood at my left with a cigarette she did light this time, and nobody dared to tell her not to.

Gerald stood at the back of the crowd with a lawyer on each side.

A monitor was strapped to his ankle under his trouser leg.

He didn't come close to the grave.

When the minister finished, Meredith walked to the head of the coffin and put one hand on the lid.

"He started this company with one truck and a dog," she said, to the three hundred.

"He told me last week that he never owned any of you. He just drove the first mile."

Someone near the front let out a sob, and a driver put an arm around him.

"Thank you for coming," Meredith said. "Thank you for the street."

The reading of the will was in the library of the big house, the next morning, with the curtains open.

The family sat on one side. Gerald sat alone, at the end, with his lawyer.

Clifford's third lawyer stood at the desk, the woman who had witnessed the papers in the clock.

She had squared a folder on the blotter.

"I'll read what Mr. Hallworth asked me to read," she said, "in the order he asked me to read it."

She looked at Gerald.

"To my son Gerald, I leave my watch, which he has been eyeing since 1994, and a letter."

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