I Was There the Night He Died by Ray Robertson

changed is you. Maneuvering around the stacked cases of Cott Cola on the way from the cold room to the kitchen is a challenge, particularly as there’s a light switch but no light bulb, Uncle Donny a firm believer that feeling your way along a wall is a cheap and effective substitute for seeing where you’re going. The same gold-speckled, white Formica kitchen table supports the same two-slice toaster, dual am radio/alarm clock, clear plastic seven-day pill dispenser, and several years’ worth of Farmer’s Almanac that were there the very first time Dad took me along on one of his innumerable service calls disguised as Uncle Donny social calls. From the wiring inside the walls to the carpeting in the hallway to the shingles on the roof, Uncle Donny’s house is a museum of Dad’s dedicated handiwork. For that, anyway, I’m glad I’m here, despite the reason I’m here.
    I hang my coat on the back of a kitchen chair and am on my way to the living room when Uncle Donny practically steps in front of me. “That room’s a mess,” he says. “Let’s sit in here.”
    The table in Uncle Donny’s kitchen is for a lot of things, but eating at it, never mind simply sitting at it, has never been one of them. Just as Uncle Donny will never stand if he can sit, slouching is always preferable to sitting upright. Uncle Donny’s default position is leaning back as far as his recliner will allow with the TV remote control in one hand and a cigarette and a can of Cott Cola alternating in the other.
    â€œLike I care if it’s messy,” I say. Maybe it’s because I’m already weary of what we’re doing before we’ve even begun, but I’d much rather go through Dad’s financial records on the couch. Or maybe it’s just laziness by osmosis, a classic case of when in Uncle Donny’s house, do as Uncle Donny.
    â€œWell maybe I do,” he says. “Ever since this business with your dad has been going on, I’ve had to let a lot of things slide around here.”
    â€œI’m sorry that your dusting time has been compromised by my dad losing his mind.”
    â€œNow, don’t say that.”
    I can see the spark that this fight could easily flame into if I don’t stamp it out. It’s for times like these that I stopped taking speed. I wish I could tell someone how happy I am with the decision I made. I wish I could tell Sara.
    â€œLook,” I say. “I’m just worked up about this screw-up with Thames View. But I’m sure that once we get Dad’s papers sorted out we can get to the bottom of why they think we owe them so much money.”
    Uncle Donny lowers his eyes and nods—once—as close to an apology as I’m going to get.
    â€œThe table will be better for what we’re doing anyway,” I say. “That way we can spread out all of Dad’s documents so we can have a clearer idea of what we’re doing.”
    Uncle Donny grants me another silent nod, which I reward with making the first move, pulling out the chair that my coat is draped over and sitting down. Uncle Donny goes to the cold room and comes back with two cans of Cott Cola with all of the enthusiasm of a condemned man helping himself to his last liquid meal. There’s a can opener lying on the table, right next to a pink plastic back scratcher and the glass novelty bird who’s been dipping his beak in and out of the same glass of water for the last thirty years, Sisyphus à la Uncle Donny. I open both cans while he goes to get the file I’d asked him to keep chronicling Dad’s financial affairs since he’s been at Thames View. The single-speaker cassette player that’s small enough to sit on the window sill plays Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits, “Summer Wind” in the middle of winter.
    An hour and two cans of Cott Cola each later, we’re no nearer to understanding how Thames View can