“No, you’re talking. Saying you’re listening is talking.”
“Well, that’s why I called, just to talk.”
The conversation descended into a tense silence. Dad finally told me that he’d planned his response to my thanking him for the money he’d sent. But I must have known that, since I was deliberately thwarting him.
“Thanks for the money,” I said.
“What money?”
I didn’t speak, unsure what my side of the pre-scripted conversation was supposed to be.
He spoke into the silence. “I said, ‘What money?,’ Chris.”
“The hundred dollars. I appreciate it.”
“What hundred dollars? Did I send you money?” He started laughing.
“Dad, is that what you wanted to say?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I said. “I have to go now.”
Later, Mom called to talk with my sons, then put Dad on the phone. James was in middle school. During the conversation he lowered his voice and began giving me quick furtive glances. Afterward he told me that his grandfather had talked to him about Internet pornography, saying that porn fueled all technology and that James was lucky it was available to him online. I told James that scientific research fueled technology, not porn.
For the memorial service, Mom chose Friday afternoon at a local funeral home. Since the family hadn’t paid for a fancy container, a table held an empty wooden box that represented his ashes. The box contained nothing, a fitting metaphor for a man who didn’t allow himself to be known. No one from his family attended the service.
Dad had little tact and no sense of diplomacy but could engage anyone in conversation. Everyone in the county had Andy Offutt anecdotes. One often-repeated story concerned a man who’d lost an arm in an accident and kept his folded sleeve pinned in place. The precise circumstances changed with each telling, but the gist was that at a social gathering, in a voice loud enough for all to hear, my father threatened to “come over there and tear your other arm off,” then laughed uproariously.
The sympathetic comments of the memorial attendees reflected brief encounters from decades back.
“You didn’t meet a man like him every day.”
“He was a character.”
“God broke the mold when He made Andy.”
“Put four kids through college and never left the house.”
“He was a character.”
“Your dad would say the most outrageous things.”
“He was nice to me once.”
“Andy didn’t get along with many people, but I always liked him.”
“He was a character.”
“He was a character.”
“He was a character.”
The visitors drifted away. True to her Irish heritage, my mother pored over the guest book to learn who hadn’t come, prepared to feel slighted. After everyone left, the ashes were presented to Mom, who gave them to me. The plastic container had the style of a large recipe box with a flip-top lid. Inside was a plastic bag filled with surprisingly heavy powder, tied off with a wire. Because I was driving, I tasked my son with transport. He snugged the box against his stomach, strapped safely beneath the seat belt. With my mother in the passenger seat, I drove slowly to avoid a wreck. One slip of the hand could drench us in the physical residue of Dad.
My father’s only direct instructions regarding his death had been to open a bottle of hundred-proof bourbon with his name emblazoned on the label, and drink a toast. The quart of whiskey had sat on a high shelf for many years, a Christmas gift from my mother. I’d always considered it odd that Dad would place the bottle in full view of his chair, where a quick glance would remind him of his mortality. As I drove up the hill, it occurred to me that maybe I had it backward—maybe the bourbon watched over my father.
In the living room, Mom opened the special bottle and poured shots. We stood in a ragged circle, looking at one another. No one knew what to say, and I realized everyone was waiting for me. I lifted my glass. “To Andrew Offutt, father, husband, writer.”