A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers Page A

how are you? I thought about sending Toph to another room, half for his own benefit and half so the guests didn ’ t have to see the whole horrific tableau, but then he went off with a friend anyway.
    The minister, a corpulent stranger in black and white and that churchy neon green they wear, was at a loss. My father was an atheist, and thus this minister, who knew my father only through what he had been told an hour before, talked about how much my father enjoyed his work (Did he? we wondered, having no idea one way or the other), and how much he enjoyed golf (he did, we knew that much). Then Bill got up. He was dressed well; he knew how to wear suits. He made some jokes, bantered brightly, a little too brightly, perhaps, a little too a-few-jokes-to-warm-up-the-crowd (he was at the time doing a lot of public speaking). Beth and I nudged my mother a few times in solidarity, embarrassed further, always looking for fun at his expense, mocking the leavened earnestness. And then we filed out, everyone watching our mother and her slow careful steps, she smiling to all, happy to see everyone, all these people she hadn ’ t seen in so long. We milled a little in the foyer, and then told everyone that we ’ d be having a little party at home, we had so much food people had brought by, thanks by the way, if anyone wanted to come by.
    Many came, my mother ’ s friends, brother ’ s, sister ’ s, my friends from high school and college, home for Thanksgiving, and with everyone there and it dark out and winter, I spent much of the time trying to convert what was a sort of dour affair into something fun. I hinted that someone should get some beer— Someone should get a case, man, I whispered to Steve, a college friend—but no one did. I thought we should be getting drunk, not out of misery or whatever, but just—it was a party, right?
    Bill was out from D.C. with the girlfriend we didn ’ t like. Kirsten got jealous because Marny, an old girlfriend of mine, was there. Sitting in the family room, we tried to play Trivial Pursuit, still dressed in jackets and ties, but it wasn ’ t much fun, especially without the beer. Toph played Sega in the basement with a friend. My mother sat in the kitchen while her old volleyball friends stood around her, drinking wine, laughing loudly.
    Les came by. He was the only friend of our father ’ s who we actually knew, who we had ever really heard anything about. Years ago, they had been at the same downtown law firm, and even after they each left and went elsewhere they still commuted into Chicago together occasionally. As Les and his wife were gathering their coats and scarves to leave, Beth and I met him at the door, thanked him. Les, a kind and funny man, meandered into talking about my father ’ s driving.
    “ He was the best driver I ’ ve ever seen, ” said Les, marveling. “ So smooth, so in control. He was incredible. He would see three, four moves ahead, would drive with a only few fingers on the wheel. ”
    Beth and I were eating it up. We had never heard anything about our father, knew nothing about him outside of what we ’ d seen ourselves. We asked Les for more, anything. He told us how our father used to call Toph the caboose.
    “ Yeah, I didn ’ t even know his name for a long time, ” Les said, shaking his shoulders into his coat. “ Always ‘ the caboose. ’”
    Les was great, so great. We had never heard this term. It was not used in the house, not once. I pictured my father saying it, pictured him and Les at a restaurant off Wacker, him telling Les jokes about Stosh and Jon, the two Polish fishermen. We wanted Les to stay. I wanted Les to tell me what my father thought about me, about us, the rest of us, if he knew he was in trouble, if he had given up (why had he given up?). And Les, why was he still going to work, a few days before he expired? Did you know that, Les? That he was at work four days before? When did you last talk to him, Les? Did he know? What did