That’s easy. “Anyone who goes to Barney downtown.”
“You’re kidding me. Fifteen bucks?”
“If it was four years ago, he probably left a two-dollar tip to round it up.”
Jake squints at the receipt, apparently incredulous. “He did. He wrote it in.”
That makes me feel better, oddly enough.
“How much do you pay for a haircut?” I ask.
“Eighty bucks, one-fifty if I need highlights.”
Highlights? “Is that with the little foil packets?” I’m kind of loving that mental image of Jake and it makes me smile.
Jake looks annoyed. “So what if it is?” He waves the receipt and changes the subject. “And what was thisfor? Why did hesave it? Did he think he was going to get a tax credit for making a charitable donation?”
I get a big trash can from the kitchen and Jake makes a picture-perfect toss of the crumpled receipt from Barney’s Barber Shop.
We clink glasses and he lifts his to toast the huge photograph of Dad that hangs over the fireplace. “Godspeed, you old bugger,” he says and I nearly spill my drink.
Then I echo the toast, the truth starting to sink in.
He’s never going to yell at me again.
I am not going to miss that.
“What happens next?” I ask after we’ve sipped and savored.
“This,” Jake says, heading back to the desk and lifting everything out of one drawer. He takes it to the table and fortifies himself with another sip before he starts to sort. He’s fast, about every third thing going into that trash bin.
“Can I help?”
“Better done by one person. I can keep track of what’s here and what’s not.” He pauses for another fortifying sip. “You should maybe go ’round to Weatherby & Bradshaw, give them the bad news and ask about the will.”
“No rush. Richard won’t be there before nine,” I say. “I’ll finish my drink first.”
“Fair enough,” Jake says and tops up his glass.
I watch him sort for a few minutes, appreciating his need to inflict order on chaos. Someone is wailing upstairs and we exchange a look before he turns back to his work.
“Hello. What’s this?” Jake lifts a pile of what must be cards, held in a bundle, from the bottom of one drawer. It’s hard to believe that Dad had a stash of love letters, but you never know. He peers at it, blinks, then turns around. “Something for you,” he says and tosses the bundle to me.
I catch it, turning it over in my hands. The bundle is held together with the thick blue rubber bands that come on bundles of broccoli. ‘Waste not want not’ has always been a Cavendish household theme song.Produce of Canadathey say.
“You shouldn’t have,” I say, as if he’s given me a gift and Jake almost smiles.
The top letter has a Canadian return address, judging by the six-digit postal code.
In Toronto.
My heart stops when I recognize Sylvia’s handwriting.
Her handwriting has always been distinctive, so deliberate, so smooth and elegant. She’s always taken her time writing anything, making the o’s round, keeping the risers the same height, making each letter clearly. The sight reminds me of that drawing she was doing in the studio.
My throat tightens when I see that she’s addressed the envelope to my father, with the address of the house I’m standing in right now. The postmark is from Toronto, last December, but there’s no return address. It’s a card. I can feel it inside. And it’s the top of a pile of similar envelopes. I look at them from the side.
Jake’s watching me closely.
