“You just dropped out of high school,” he said. “Why do you need a college account?”
I looked down at my plate.
“It’s the principle,” I said. “That money was mine, and you spent it like an a-hole. Either you agree to repay it, or there’s no deal.”
He wiped some condensation off the table with his palm.
“Fine,” he said. “I told you I’d pay you back. See. Now I’m going to. Are we good?”
“No,” I said. “We’re not.”
“What else?”
“Condition two: I’m not going back to Forever Friends,” I said. “And you have to defend me when Mom tries to make me. I’m done there. No more community building. No more farming. The Quakers are fine, but I’m not one of them.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
“Your best isn’t good enough,” I said. “I actually want results.”
“Done,” he said.
“Condition three: Hand me your beer,” I said.
“You said there were two conditions.”
“I lied.”
He squinted at me.
“You’re not taking this beer,” he said.
I waited, expressionless.
It took him a second, but gradually he slid the can down my way. I grabbed it and filled half my empty water glass. Then I slid it back to him.
“I’m not toasting you with water,” I said, and held up my glass.
He held up his half-empty beer can.
“Morituri te salutant,”I said.
He lowered the can.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s Latin. It means ‘those who are about to die, salute you!’ Criminals used to say it before dying for Caesar in staged naval battles. It seems appropriate now that we’re making a living on corpses. Don’t you think?”
My father considered this a moment.
“Okay,” he said.“Morituri te salutant.”
We air-toasted. Then we drank.
And that’s how I became a funeral planner.
17
The first phone call came that same night.
