Chapter 6: Handled by Mrs. Rainer

I took the brass key to my father's house on Sunday and carried it in my coat pocket the whole way.

Dad lived in the same brick row house in Delaware County where I grew up.

There was a hardware store at one end of his street and a church at the other.

He opened the door in his cardigan, and he looked well.

His color was good.

He had put on six pounds since the spring, and he was proud of every one.

"There she is," he said. "Where's the husband? I made too much soup."

"He's working, Dad."

"On a Sunday?" He took my coat and hung it on its hook. "That boy works too hard."

I ate his soup at the kitchen table, under the clock shaped like a rooster.

I let him tell me about the neighbor's dog and the new cardiologist, and I laughed in the right places.

I had decided not to tell him anything that day.

I only wanted to ask one thing, and I waited until he was washing the bowls.

"Dad, who sends you the rehab bills?"

"Sends me?" He laughed. "Nobody sends me anything. The girls at the center handle it."

"Handle it how?"

"It all goes through Mrs. Rainer's office, remember? Elliot's mother."

"Do you ever see anything about it? A statement, a letter?"

"Never. That's the point of it." He dried his hands.

"The first month I asked the woman at the desk what I owed."

"What did she say?"

"That it was taken care of, and I should rest."

"Who told her that?"

"Mrs. Rainer, I assume. She calls me every few weeks to ask how I'm feeling. Very thoughtful woman."

"Does Elliot call?"

My father stopped and thought about it.

"No," he said slowly. "Not once. I figured he was shy about it. Some men don't like to be thanked."

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