Chapter 23: The Candle

Conrad sat on the floor outside the memorial room with his back against the door.

His suit was creased and his tie was gone.

When he heard my voice, he got up slowly, one hand on the wall.

"I didn't come to ask you for anything," he said.

"Then why are you in my house?"

"It was our house first." He heard himself and shut his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm not here to argue."

He held something out in his open palm.

It was the silver lighter, the one our father had carried, which my third brother had slapped from my hand.

"You lit that candle every year," Conrad said. "Last month I took the lighter out of your reach and lit it myself."

"It was control."

"Yes."

I looked at the lighter and did not take it.

"You held my hair on that floor," I said. "I've hated you for it for a week. Do you know why?"

"Because I didn't mean it."

"Because you did." My voice shook. "You meant every word. And then you sold me anyway."

He nodded.

He could not seem to stop nodding.

"I won't tell you it's all right," I said. "I won't be at Sunday dinner."

I held his eyes.

"You may stand in the snow outside my door for the rest of your life, and I won't open it."

"I know."

"Then put the lighter on the floor and go."

He crouched, and laid it on the boards by my foot.

He straightened, and he looked at Rory.

"Take care of her," he said.

"She doesn't need me to," Rory said. "But I will."

Conrad walked down the long hall and out through the green door.

I heard it close, and I did not go to the window to watch him go.

I picked up the lighter.

It was heavy and cold, with our father's initials worn almost smooth.

Rory pushed the memorial room door open for me.

My parents' photographs stood on the long table in their silver frames.

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