Page 91 of Cherry Picking

I’ve read the piece four times by now. Most of it is recycled from Ziggy’s obituary and a Vegas gossip account nobody should be quoting. The two paragraphs that matter cite people close to the family, and nobody close to my family has ever spoken to a reporter.

That leaves the hallway. I stood outside the family room in Vegas and yelled at Ophelia’s face, loud enough to bounce off cinder block. A dozen people move through that corridor every minute. Equipment kids, a guy in a polo pushing a laundry cart.

Ophelia selling the story herself makes no sense. She has more to lose than I do, and she’s had two and a half years to do it.

The reporters and their reconstructed timeline are survivable. My father is the problem. All this time, he thought the rift between his sons was about money—some stubborn dispute I was too proud to let go.

He watched us stop speaking and decided I was the one holding the grudge. He never knew what Ziggy did because I never had the courage to tell him.

I need to talk to him. Need to tell him in my own words before he’s blindsided by it.

I dial my dad’s house at one in the morning, anticipating the exact ghost I’m about to encounter. It’s the recording my mother made back in 1998—a few syllables my father has never allowed anyone to erase.

Hearing her voice claim the Maxwell name at this hour takes a piece of me I wasn’t ready to lose. I try Danny’s cell twice after that, but it just goes straight to voicemail.

I spend the next few hours on the sofa, watching the clock. In Vegas, it’s well past midnight. Ever since the stroke, my dad’s been off to bed by nine. I shouldn’t have bothered trying to wake him.

Exhausted, I finally retreat to bed at three and manage a few stiff, broken stretches of sleep. My legs never quite unlock. By six, I’m up and dressed with absolutely nowhere to be. I sit by the window and watch Charlotte transition from black to a dull gray, waiting for the desert to wake up.

The return call from Danny finally arrives at eight o’clock, Vegas time.

“Murph isn’t happy,” he says. “Been up since six. Loretta across the street called him.”

A muscle in my jaw ticks. “Six in the morning.”

“She thought she was doing him a kindness.” A door shuts on his end. “He’s seen it. I came over. He had me pull it up and read him the whole thing twice.”

My chest folds down flat. “How is he?”

“He asked me to go sit in my truck.”

“Danny—”

“I’ll pass him the phone.” He blows out a breath. “Go easy on him. His pressure’s been high all week.”

The line changes hands. The recliner creaks, and I know exactly which chair he’s in and which window he’s looking out of.

“Dad.”

“Well over two years.” He skips every greeting we’ve ever used. “You want to explain to me how that works?”

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?” The word comes out hard enough to crack. “Give me the date, Briggs. I’ll write it on the calendar.”

“Dad.”

“Last July, on Zig’s birthday, I asked you to call him.” His words drag at the edges. “You remember what you told me?”

“I remember.”

“You said you were busy. I told you life is short, and you let me say it.”

I press the heel of my hand against my eye. “I know.”

“I called you proud. I called you hardheaded to your face, and you just took it. Why would you let me do that?”

“Because the alternative was telling you what he did.”