Peaceful
The last time I had seen him was at Mother’s funeral. He was always too busy to phone or write. The big city kept him occupied, like big cities tend to do. But here we were again. We stared down the coffin for a few minutes in tense silence. The other mourners left as soon as the sermon was done, leaving just us brothers, and the secrets of family.
“They tell me he fell asleep and didn’t wake up,” he said.
“Yeah,” I answered. “The right mix of pills will do that.”
I told Hector the truth, because he would find out if he wanted to. But earlier that week I had told the sheriff about our old doddering dad, and how he took too much of the wrong medication.
He paused. “Was it like Mom? Was it… peaceful?” he asked.
I shrugged and pushed my hands deeper into my pockets. He had no right to know what I went through to make sure they didn’t suffer.
“What about the will?” he finally asked.
I didn’t answer.
“I want ten thousand,” he said softly.
I nodded. If it took one hundred thousand just to shut him up, I would have gladly paid it. But I didn’t plan on paying him anything he hadn’t earned.
“Come back to the house for dinner,” I said.
“Sure,” he said.
I smiled. Small towns can be good for a few things. Trust, for example. Like the sheriff trusting that I would dispose of what was left of Dad’s medicine.
And I would.