Amos wrote back,It’s for the funeral.
And then another text,It’s fine.Don’t come.
And then:I’m sure you’re busy.
Tean recognized the voice inside his head, the one that sounded like Jem, when he thought, That little bitch.
“Everything okay?”Hannah asked.
“No.”Tean got to his feet.He reached for the mug of tea.Stopped.Looked around, because what was he supposed to do with it?
“Leave it,” Hannah said.“I’ll take care of it.What’s wrong?”
“Apparently, we’re cleaning out my grandfather’s apartment.Not that anyone bothered to tell me.I’ll wash the mug when I get back.”
“Tean, it’s fine.Do you need to go?”
“I shouldn’t go.”But he said this as he was pulling on his coat.“I should tell them I’ve got work.I actually have things to do.I can’t sit around and pretend to be sad while my dad relives the good old days that, for the record, never happened.”
“You can tell them you’ll go over there after you’re done here,” Hannah said.“This is good practice.You’ve been working on setting boundaries.”
“Yeah, well, I set a boundary the night he died, and it didn’t go great.”He grabbed his bag and gave the mug another look.
“Of course they’re going to get upset.This is new.You’re teaching them to respect you.”
“Just leave the tea,” he said.“It’ll be fine until I get back.”
Hannah waved him toward the door, but she called after him, “Boundaries are healthy!”
12
His grandfather had spent the last years of his life in a nursing home called Hidden Terrace, not far from Tean’s parents’ house in South Jordan.It was an older place, a rambling, single-story construction that had been built when land in Utah was cheap, with no thought for maximizing the building’s footprint or, for that matter, following any sort of plan.It had clearly been built in stages, with additions leapfrogging off each other in random directions, and inside, it smelled like trash that needed to be taken out.
The room itself was all right, though—a studio-style space, almost an apartment, with an attached bathroom.Tean had visited once after his grandfather had moved in.It had been a short visit.His grandfather hadn’t been expecting him, and he’d answered the door in khakis that were too loose for him now and the Mormon garment top.Tean had gotten a glimpse of the room, everything still in boxes, and his grandfather had said,I was taking a nap.And then he’d slammed the door.
He hadn’t been well.He’d been uncomfortable.He’d been tired.He’d been in a new place, and he hadn’t wanted to be there—wouldn’t have been there, in fact, if his children hadn’t forced him to be.
The door was open this time, and as Tean approached, he heard music playing—the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, “How Great Thou Art.”He paused in the doorway.The room looked surprisingly similar to how Tean remembered it: cardboard boxes stacked against one wall, sagging now because they hadn’t been meant for long-term storage, and more cardboard boxes lining a set of shelves.The floor itself was clear, probably because that was a requirement by the nursing home, but there were boxes on the small loveseat.The only place to sit was an armchair whose headrest was matted and shiny.Tean’s father was sitting there, leaning over a box as he picked through the contents.
He must have heard Tean because he looked up and smiled.“Hey.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know we were working on this today.”
“I really appreciate you coming.Got a lot to do.”
Tean nodded, but he found himself asking anyway, “Did the nursing home say we needed to clear everything out?Because I could take a look at the contract.I’m sure we’re allowed more than a few days.”
“No, no.They’re fine.Janet’s been a big help.And we’ll get this done in no time.”
Tean caught himself opening his mouth and tried to stop.This was the same man who had always—for as long as Tean had known him—put things off until they had to be done, and then, when they couldn’t be put off anymore, scrambled to do everything against a rushing deadline.Not just ordinary things, like a letter from the city about the lawn needing to be mowed, or the past due bills that accumulated on the kitchen table.His dad had tried—twice, actually—to start a landscaping business.That was a thing in Utah.Everybody had a landscaping business.And somehow, they all seemed to make money.But when you didn’t show up for appointments, when you didn’t get your own lawn mowed in time, let alone the lawns you were being paid to mow, when you didn’t return phone calls because there was always something else to do, like watching TV—well, it had a way of catching up to you.And Tean remembered both times being dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn—once, on a school day—and taken to the storage unit his dad had rented for his equipment, and working frantically to clean it out before the manager of the storage facility put a new lock on the door and auctioned off the stuff.We’ll be done in a couple of hours.But they’d worked past dark.
“Are we loading up the boxes?”Tean said.“Do you have a truck?”
The answer was no.Of course he didn’t have a truck.
But his dad said, “Sit down.Take your coat off.Take a look at this—have you ever seen one of these?”
It was a heavy metal object—cast iron, Tean wanted to say—with five hooks coming off it.
