With a diminishing tax base that could no longer support it, our little six-room Harlow school did close in June of 2009, and I found myself facing the prospect of attending eighth grade across the Androscoggin River at Gates Falls Middle, with over seventy classmates instead of just twelve. That was the summer I kissed a girl for the first time, not Margie but her best friend Regina. It was also the summer that Mr. Harrigan died. I was the one who found him.
I knew he was having a harder and harder job getting around, and I knew he was losing his breath more often, sometimes sucking from the oxygen bottle he now kept beside his favorite chair, but other than those things, which I just accepted, there was no warning. The day before was like any other. I read a couple of chapters from McTeague (I had asked if we could read another Frank Norris book, and Mr. Harrigan was agreeable), and watered his houseplants while Mr. Harrigan scrolled through his emails.
He looked up at me and said, "People are catching on."
"To what?"
He held up his phone. "To this. What it really means. To what it can do. Archimedes said, 'Give me a lever long enough and I will move the world.' This is that lever."
"Cool," I said.
"I have just deleted three ads for products and almost a dozen political solicitations. I have no doubt my email address is being bandied about, just as magazines sell the addresses of their subscribers."
"Good thing they don't know who you are," I said. Mr. Harrigan's email handle (he loved having a handle) was pirateking1.
"If someone is keeping track of my searches, they don't have to. They'll be able to suss out my interests and solicit me accordingly. My name means nothing to them. My interests do."
"Yeah, spam is annoying," I said, and went into the kitchen to dump the watering can and put it in the mudroom.
When I came back, Mr. Harrigan had the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and was taking deep breaths.
"Did you get that from your doctor?" I asked. "Did he, like, prescribe it?"
He lowered it and said, "I don't have a doctor. Men in their mid-eighties can eat all the corned beef hash they want, and they no longer need doctors, unless they have cancer. Then a doctor is handy to prescribe pain medication." His mind was somewhere else. "Have you considered Amazon, Craig? The company, not the river."
Dad bought stuff from Amazon sometimes, but no, I'd never really considered it. I told Mr. Harrigan that, and asked what he meant.
He pointed to the Modern Library copy of McTeague. "This came from Amazon. I ordered it with my phone and my credit card. That company used to be just books. Little more than a mom-and-pop operation, really, but soon it may be one of the biggest and most powerful corporations in America. Their smile logo will be as ubiquitous as the Chevrolet emblem on cars or this on our phones." He lifted his, showing me the apple with the bite out of it. "Is spam annoying? Yes. Is it becoming the cockroach of American commerce, breeding and scurrying everywhere? Yes. Because spam works, Craig. It pulls the plow. In the not-too-distant future, spam may decide elections. If I were a younger man, I'd take this new income stream by the balls . . ." He closed one of his hands. He could only make a loose fist because of his arthritis, but I got the idea. ". . . and I would squeeze." The look came into his eyes that I sometimes saw, the one that made me glad I wasn't in his bad books.
"You'll be around for years yet," I said, blissfully unaware that we were having our last conversation.
"Maybe or maybe not, but I want to tell you again how glad I am you convinced me to keep this. It's given me something to think about. And when I can't sleep at night, it's been a good companion."
"I'm glad," I said, and I was. "Gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Harrigan."
So I did, but he didn't see me.
* * *
I let myself in through the mudroom door like always, calling out, "Hi, Mr. Harrigan, I'm here."
There was no reply. I decided he was probably in the bathroom. I sure hoped he hadn't fallen in there, because it was Mrs. Grogan's day off. When I went into the living room and saw him sitting in his chair—oxygen bottle on the floor, iPhone and McTeague on the table beside him—I relaxed. Only his chin was on his chest, and he had slumped a little to one side. He looked like he was asleep. If so, that was a first this late in the afternoon. He napped for an hour after lunch, and by the time I arrived, he was always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
I took a step closer and saw his eyes weren't entirely closed. I could see the lower arc of his irises, but the blue no longer looked sharp. It looked foggy, faded. I began to feel scared.
"Mr. Harrigan?"
Nothing. Gnarled hands folded loosely in his lap. One of his canes was still leaning against the wall, but the other was on the floor, as if he had reached for it and knocked it over. I realized I could hear the steady hiss from the oxygen mask, but not the faint rasp of his breathing, a sound I'd grown so used to that I rarely heard it at all.
"Mr. Harrigan, you okay?"
I took another couple of steps and reached out to shake him awake, then withdrew my hand. I had never seen a dead person, but thought I might be looking at one now. I reached for him again, and this time I didn't chicken out. I grasped his shoulder (it was horribly bony beneath his shirt) and gave him a shake.
"Mr. Harrigan, wake up!"
One of his hands fell out of his lap and dangled between his legs. He slumped a little farther to one side. I could see the yellowed pegs of his teeth between his lips. Still, I felt I had to be absolutely sure he wasn't just unconscious or in a faint before I called anyone. I had a memory, very brief but very bright, of my mother reading me the story of the little boy who cried wolf.
I went into the hall bathroom, the one Mrs. Grogan called the powder room, on legs that felt numb, and came back with the hand mirror Mr. Harrigan kept on the shelf. I held it in front of his mouth and nose. No warm breath misted it. Then I knew (although, looking back on it, I'm pretty sure I actually knew when that hand fell out of his lap and hung between his legs). I was in the living room with a dead man, and what if he reached out and grabbed me? Of course he wouldn't do that, he liked me, but I remembered the look he got in his eyes when he said—only yesterday! when he'd been alive!—that if he was a younger man, he'd take this new income stream by the balls, and squeeze. And how he'd closed his hand into a fist to demonstrate.
You'll find many of the opinion that I was ruthless, he'd said.
Dead people didn't reach out and grab you except in horror movies, I knew that, dead people weren't ruthless, dead people weren't anything, but I still stepped away from him as I took my cell phone out of my hip pocket, and I didn't take my eyes off him when I called my father.
Dad said I was probably right, but he'd send an ambulance, just in case. Who was Mr. Harrigan's doctor, did I know? I said he didn't have one (and you only had to look at his teeth to know he didn't have a dentist). I said I would wait, and I did. But I did it outside. Before I went, I thought about picking up his dangling hand and putting it back in his lap. I almost did, but in the end I couldn't bring myself to touch it. It would be cold.
I took his iPhone instead. It wasn't stealing. I think it was grief, because the loss of him was starting to sink in. I wanted something that was his. Something that mattered.
* * *
I guess that was the biggest funeral our church ever had. Also the longest cortege to the graveyard, mostly made up of rental cars. There were local people there, of course, including Pete Bostwick, the gardener, and Ronnie Smits, who had done most of the work on his house (and gotten wealthy out of it, I'm sure), and Mrs. Grogan, the housekeeper. Other townies as well, because he was well liked in Harlow, but most of the mourners (if they were mourning, and not there just to make sure Mr. Harrigan was really dead) were business people from New York. There was no family. I mean zero, zilch, nada. Not even a niece or a second cousin. He'd never married, never had kids—probably one of the reasons Dad was leery about me going up there at first—and he'd outlived all the rest. That's why it was the kid from down the road, the one he paid to come and read to him, who found him.
* * *
Mr. Harrigan must have known he was on borrowed time, because he left a handwritten sheet of paper on his study desk specifying exactly how he wanted his final rites carried out. It was pretty simple. Hay & Peabody's Funeral Home had had a cash deposit on their books since 2004, enough to take care of everything with some left over. There was to be no wake or viewing hours, but he wanted to be "fixed up decently, if possible" so the coffin could be open at the funeral.
Reverend Mooney was to conduct the service, and I was to read from the fourth chapter of Ephesians: "Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you." I saw some of the business types exchange looks at that, as though Mr. Harrigan hadn't shown them a great deal of kindness, or much in the way of forgiveness, either.
He wanted three hymns: "Abide With Me," "The Old Rugged Cross," and "In the Garden." He wanted Reverend Mooney's homily to last no more than ten minutes, and the Rev finished in just eight, ahead of schedule and, I believe, a personal best. Mostly the Rev just listed all the stuff Mr. Harrigan had done for Harlow, like paying to refurbish the Eureka Grange and fix up the Royal River covered bridge. He also put the fund drive for the community swimming pool over the top, the Rev said, but refused the naming privilege that went with it.
The Rev didn't say why, but I knew. Mr. Harrigan said that allowing people to name things after you was not only absurd but undignified and ephemeral. In fifty years, he said, or even twenty, you were just a name on a plaque that everyone ignored.
Once I had done my scriptural duty, I sat in the front row with Dad, looking at the coffin with the vases of lilies at its head and foot. Mr. Harrigan's nose stuck up like the prow of a ship. I told myself not to look at it, not to think it was funny or horrible (or both), but to remember him as he'd been. Good advice, but my eyes kept wandering back.
When the Rev finished his short talk, he raised his palm-down hand to the assembled mourners and gave the benediction. Once that was done, he said, "Those of you who would like to say a final word of goodbye may now approach the coffin."
There was a rustle of clothes and a murmur of voices as people stood. Virginia Hatlen began to play the organ very softly, and I realized—with a strange feeling I couldn't name then but would years later come to identify as surrealism—that it was a medley of country songs, including Ferlin Husky's "Wings of a Dove," Dwight Yoakam's "I Sang Dixie," and of course "Stand By Your Man." So Mr. Harrigan had even left instructions for the exit music, and I thought, good for him. A line was forming, the locals in their sport coats and khakis interspersed with the New York types in suits and fancy shoes.
"What about you, Craig?" Dad murmured. "Want a last look, or are you good?"
I wanted more than that, but I couldn't tell him. The same way I couldn't tell him how bad I felt. It had come home to me now. It didn't happen while I was reading the scripture, as I'd read so many other things for him, but while I was sitting and looking at his nose sticking up. Realizing that his coffin was a ship, and it was going to take him on his final voyage. One that went down into the dark. I wanted to cry, and I did cry, but later, in private. I sure didn't want to do it here, among strangers.
"Yes, but I want to be at the end of the line. I want to be last."
My dad, God bless him, didn't ask me why. He just squeezed my shoulder and got into line. I went back to the vestibule, a bit uncomfortable in a sport jacket that was getting tight around the shoulders because I'd finally started to grow. When the end of the line was halfway down the main aisle and I was sure no one else was going to join it, I got behind a couple of suited guys who were talking in low tones about—wouldn't you know it—Amazon stock.
By the time I got to the coffin, the music had stopped. The pulpit was empty. Virginia Hatlen had probably sneaked out back to have a cigarette, and the Rev would be in the vestry, taking off his robe and combing what remained of his hair. There were a few people in the vestibule, murmuring in low voices, but here in the church it was just me and Mr. Harrigan, as it had been on so many afternoons at his big house on the hill, with its views that were good but not touristy.
He was wearing a charcoal gray suit I'd never seen before. The funeral guy had rouged him a little so he'd look healthy, except healthy people don't lie in coffins with their eyes shut and the last few minutes of daylight shining on their dead faces before they go into the earth forever. His hands were folded, making me think of the way they'd been folded when I came into his living room only days before. He looked like a life-sized doll, and I hated seeing him that way. I didn't want to stay. I wanted fresh air. I wanted to be with my father. I wanted to go home. But I had something to do first, and I had to do it right away, because Reverend Mooney could come back from the vestry at any time.
I reached into the inside pocket of my sport coat and brought out Mr. Harrigan's phone. The last time I'd been with him—alive, I mean, not slumped in his chair or looking like a doll in an expensive box—he'd said he was glad I'd convinced him to keep the phone. He'd said it was a good companion when he couldn't sleep at night. The phone was password-protected—as I've said, he was a fast learner once something really grabbed his interest—but I knew what the password was: pirate1. I had opened it in my bedroom the night before the funeral, and had gone to the notes function. I wanted to leave him a message.
I thought about saying I love you, but that would have been wrong. I had liked him, certainly, but I'd also been a bit leery of him. I didn't think he loved me, either. I don't think Mr. Harrigan ever loved anyone, unless it was the mother who had raised him after his dad left (I had done my research). In the end, the note I typed was this: Working for you was a privilege. Thank you for the cards, and for the scratch-off tickets. I will miss you.
I lifted the lapel of his suit coat, trying not to touch the unbreathing surface of his chest beneath his crisp white shirt . . . but my knuckles brushed it for just a moment, and I can feel that to this day. It was hard, like wood. I tucked the phone into his inside pocket, then stepped away. Just in time, too. Reverend Mooney came out of the side door, adjusting his tie.
"Saying goodbye, Craig?"
"Yes."
"Good. The right thing to do." He slipped an arm around my shoulders and guided me away from the coffin. "You had a relationship with him that I'm sure a great many people would envy. Why don't you go outside now and join your father? And if you want to do me a favor, tell Mr. Rafferty and the other pallbearers that we'll be ready for them in just a few minutes."
Another man had appeared in the door to the vestry, hands clasped before him. You only had to look at his black suit and white carnation to know he was a funeral parlor guy. I supposed it was his job to close the lid of the coffin and make sure it was latched down tight. A terror of death came over me at the sight of him, and I was glad to leave that place and go out into the sunshine. I didn't tell Dad I needed a hug, but he must have seen it, because he wrapped his arms around me.
Don't die, I thought. Please, Dad, don't die.
* * *
The service at Elm Cemetery was better, because it was shorter and because it was outside. Mr. Harrigan's business manager, Charles "Chick" Rafferty, spoke briefly about his client's various philanthropies, then got a little laugh when he talked about how he, Rafferty, had had to put up with Mr. Harrigan's "questionable taste in music." That was really the only human touch Mr. Rafferty managed. He said he'd worked "for and with" Mr. Harrigan for thirty years, and I had no reason to doubt him, but he didn't seem to know much about Mr. Harrigan's human side, other than his "questionable taste" for singers like Jim Reeves, Patty Loveless, and Henson Cargill.
I thought about stepping forward and telling the people gathered around the open grave that Mr. Harrigan thought the Internet was like a broken watermain, spewing information instead of water. I thought of telling them that he had over a hundred photos of mushrooms on his phone. I thought of telling them he liked Mrs. Grogan's oatmeal cookies, because they always got his bowels in gear, and that when you were in your eighties you no longer needed to take vitamins or see the doctor. When you were in your eighties, you could eat all the corned beef hash you wanted.
But I kept my mouth shut.
This time Reverend Mooney read the scripture, the one about how we were all going to rise from the dead like Lazarus on that great gettin-up morning. He gave another benediction and then it was over. After we were gone, back to our ordinary lives, Mr. Harrigan would be lowered into the ground (with his iPhone in his pocket, thanks to me) and the dirt would cover him, and the world would see him no more.
As Dad and I were leaving, Mr. Rafferty approached us. He said he wasn't flying back to New York until the following morning, and asked if he could drop by our house that evening. He said there was something he wanted to talk about with us.
My first thought was that it must be about the pilfered iPhone, but I had no idea how Mr. Rafferty could know I'd taken it, and besides, it had been returned to its rightful owner. If he asks me, I thought, I'll tell him I was the one who gave it to him in the first place. And how could a phone that had cost six hundred bucks possibly be a big deal when Mr. Harrigan's estate must be worth so much?
"Sure," Dad said. "Come to supper. I make a pretty mean spaghetti Bolognese. We usually eat around six."
"I'll take you up on that," Mr. Rafferty said. He produced a white envelope with my name on it in handwriting I recognized. "This may explain what I want to talk to you about. I received it two months ago and was instructed to hold it until . . . mmm . . . such an occasion as this."
Once we were in our car, Dad burst out laughing, full-throated roars that brought tears to his eyes. He laughed and pounded the steering wheel and laughed and pounded his thigh and wiped his cheeks and then laughed some more.
"What?" I asked, when he'd begun to taper off. "What's so darn funny?"
"I can't think of anything else it would be," he said. He was no longer laughing, but still chuckling.
"What the heck are you talking about?"
"I think you must be in his will, Craig. Open that thing. See what it says."
There was a single sheet of paper in the envelope, and it was a classic Harrigan communique: no hearts and flowers, not even a Dear in the salutation, just straight to business. I read it out loud to my father.
Craig: If you're reading this, I've died. I have left you $800,000 in trust. The trustees are your father and Charles Rafferty, who is my business manager and who will now serve as my executor. I calculate this sum should be sufficient to see you through four years of college and any postgraduate work you may choose to do. Enough should remain to give you a start in your chosen career.
You spoke of screenwriting. If it's what you want, then of course you must pursue it, but I do not approve. There is a vulgar joke about screenwriters I will not repeat here, but by all means find it on your phone, keywords screenwriter and starlet. There is an underlying truth in it which I believe you will grasp even at your current age. Films are ephemeral, while books—the good ones—are eternal, or close to it. You have read me many good ones, but others are waiting to be written. That is all I will say.
Although your father has power of veto in all matters concerning your trust, he would be smart not to exercise it concerning any investments Mr. Rafferty suggests. Chick is wise in the ways of the market. Even with school expenses, your $800,000 may grow to a million or more by the time you reach the age of 26, when the trust will expire and you can spend (or invest—always the wisest course) as you choose. I have enjoyed our afternoons together.
Very truly yours,
Mr. Harrigan
PS: You are most welcome for the cards and the enclosures.
That postscript gave me a little shiver. It was almost as if he'd answered the note I'd left on his iPhone when I'd decided to slip it into the pocket of his burial coat.
Dad wasn't laughing or chuckling anymore, but he was smiling. "How does it feel to be rich, Craig?"
"It feels okay," I said, and of course it did. It was a great gift, but it was just as good—maybe even better—to realize Mr. Harrigan had thought so well of me. A cynic would probably believe that's me trying to sound saintly or something, but it's not. Because, see, the money was like a Frisbee I got stuck halfway up the big pine in our backyard when I was eight or nine: I knew where it was, but I couldn't get it. And that was okay. For the time being I had everything I needed. Except for him, that was. What was I going to do with my weekday afternoons now?
"I take back everything I ever said about him being a tightwad," Dad said as he pulled out behind a shiny black SUV some business guy had rented at the Portland Jetport. "Although . . ."
"Although what?" I asked.
"Considering the lack of relatives and how rich he was, he could have left you at least four mil. Maybe six." He saw my look and started laughing again. "Joking, kiddo, joking. Okay?"
I punched him on the shoulder and turned on the radio, going past WBLM ("Maine's Rock and Roll Blimp") to WTHT ("Maine's #1 Country Station"). I had gotten a taste for c&w. I have never lost it.
* * *
Mr. Rafferty came to dinner, and chowed down big on Dad's spaghetti, especially for a skinny guy. I told him I knew about the trust fund, and thanked him. He said "Don't thank me" and told us how he'd like to invest the money. Dad said whatever seemed right, just keep him informed. He did suggest John Deere might be a good place for some of my dough, since they were innovating like crazy. Mr. Rafferty said he'd take it under consideration, and I found out later that he did invest in Deere & Company, although only a token amount. Most of it went into Apple and Amazon.
After dinner, Mr. Rafferty shook my hand and congratulated me. "Harrigan had very few friends, Craig. You were fortunate to have been one."
"And he was fortunate to have Craig," my dad said quietly, and slung an arm around my shoulders. That put a lump in my throat, and when Mr. Rafferty was gone and I was in my room, I did some crying. I tried to keep it quiet so my dad wouldn't hear. Maybe I did; maybe he heard and knew I wanted to be left alone.
When the tears stopped, I turned on my phone, opened Safari, and typed in the keywords screenwriter and starlet. The joke, which supposedly originated with a novelist named Peter Feibleman, is about a starlet so clueless she fucked the writer. Probably you've heard it. I never had, but I got the point Mr. Harrigan was trying to make.
* * *
That night I awoke around two o'clock to the sound of distant thunder and realized all over again that Mr. Harrigan was dead. I was in my bed and he was in the ground. He was wearing a suit and he would be wearing it forever. His hands were folded and would stay that way until they were just bones. If rain followed the thunder, it might seep down and dampen his coffin. There was no cement lid or liner; he had specified that in what Mrs. Grogan referred to as his "dead letter." Eventually the lid of the coffin would rot. So would the suit. The iPhone, made of plastic, would last much longer than the suit or the coffin, but eventually that would go, too. Nothing was eternal, except maybe for the mind of God, and even at thirteen I had my doubts about that.
All at once I needed to hear his voice.
And, I realized, I could.
It was a creepy thing to do (especially at two in the morning), and it was morbid, I knew that, but I also knew that if I did it, I could get back to sleep. So I called, and broke out in gooseflesh when I realized the simple truth of cell phone technology: somewhere under the ground in Elm Cemetery, in a dead man's pocket, Tammy Wynette was singing two lines of "Stand By Your Man."
Then his voice was in my ear, calm and clear, just a bit scratchy with old age: "I'm not answering my phone now. I will call you back if it seems appropriate."
And what if he did call back? What if he did?
I ended the call even before the beep came and climbed back into bed. As I was pulling the covers up, I changed my mind, got up, and called again. I don't know why. This time I waited for the beep, then said, "I miss you, Mr. Harrigan. I appreciate the money you left me, but I'd give it up to have you still alive." I paused. "Maybe that sounds like a lie, but it isn't. It really isn't."
Then I went back to bed and was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow. There were no dreams.
* * *