A Death in the Family

By Mark T. Pifher

A death in the family can result in profound and enduring impacts on the future of those left behind. Tom O'Brien, a journalist, has lost his wife, Laura, to cancer. Katie, his college aged daughter, and Katie's older brother, Brian, no longer have a mother. In an attempt to mend a strained family relationship, father an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Pifher
• Release date: Jan 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088009529

Mark T. Pifher

Mark Pifher is a 1974 graduate of the University of Wisconsin (Madison) with a major in English/Education and a minor in Comparative Literature. After teaching at the secondary level, he obtained a law degree from UW and for over forty years worked as an attorney and utility manager in the water and natural resources arena. Now retired, he has returned to his original love of literature. He hopes to continue writing works of fiction as he travels the world with his wife, Wendy.

Book preview

Chapter One

Iam writing this to retain a connection between my life and that of my father. This will ensure that he will have a sense of fulfillment and I will have a sense of place. I have just turned twenty-one years old. He is fifty-seven. My mother died when I was fifteen. This would mean that he lost his way when he was fifty-one and a veil of silence fell over our home even when it was filled with idle chatter.

My brother, Brian, is now twenty-five, living in Los Angeles and working part-time for a service that cleans the homes of those who are either wealthy enough to exploit their desire to never do it themselves, or so isolated and lonely that the weekly or monthly visit is an actual social event. Another part of his time is devoted to teaching the young, both those who have an affinity for music and its performance and those whose parents believe that they should. He hopes to someday make enough money to live comfortably just composing original jazz tunes which, in my limited experience, could benefit from more repetitive and soft melodies, and playing his piano in small clubs. One thing most people will notice at first encounter is that he does not walk. He silently saunters, his tall, lanky frame moving in giraffe like motions, soft brown eyes and an enigmatic smile completing the comparison. He has a college degree in economics from Stanford, but he has adamantly refused to let the doors it would open close the window to his soul.

He has a steady girlfriend named Camille who is much too cute for him, wears bright colorful scarves and dark colored vests from Goodwill, and is finishing law school with the naïve thought, my opinion only, that it will empower her to make a difference in the lives of those who suffer from so-called corporate injustice. I think that she and Brian make a good match, as she, like the indefatigable spider, steadfastly recreates the web as unexpected, yet inevitable, setbacks occur. I have observed this phenomenon. They constantly hold hands, completing the connection. Further, Camille’s passing familiarity with the inside of prisons from a work-study program, and her ability to analyze the facts free of premature or prejudicial conjecture, along with her unwavering pursuit of the truth were, as you will see, traits that played an integral role in what is to follow.

And yes, there was thought given to naming him Brian, even though our last name is O’Brien. No, as far as I know my parents were not drinking or taking drugs at the time; but yes, there was a last minute rush associated with a premature birth and a failure to agree on Kaleb, Timothy or Patrick. Don’t ask me where the name Kaleb came from, as I am just disclosing the facts so as to short-circuit the inquiry. It builds character was the only, albeit weak, justification that I was provided for the ultimately accepted but misplaced moniker.

I have many acquaintances, but few close friends. Sarah, a high school classmate who I met my sophomore year after she had transferred from a school in Virginia, is my best friend. She has a level of understanding born of personal pain. On the day we first met, I was about to embark, solo, upon a biology class DNA tutorial involving breeding fruit flies, their colored eyes, plain glass canning jars, outdated microscopes, and non-computerized tally sheets. I was precariously teetering on a steel stool before an emerald green lab-desk, the instruments of potential destruction arrayed before me. The smell of a brown karo syrup mixture combined with wafts of ether to form a cloud of nauseating sweetness as my palms began to sweat and visions of tiny escaping creatures floated in my line of sight. I closed my eyes.

I will work with Katie, was the direct and clearly broadcast announcement that snapped me back to the reality of fifth hour biology class. Sarah pulled up a stool next to mine. I was saved.

Sarah’s dad was career military, so she was never in one place long enough to become comfortable with her own self or realize that she often times is the light which beckons all those who are searching for a harbor. She was my anchor in those most difficult of years when my dad couldn’t assume, or had not yet perfected, both parental roles, and for that I will be forever grateful. She is now in pre-med at Georgetown University, though I do not see her as dedicated to that professional path. She is certainly bright enough, but she is imbued with a measure of both creativity and wander lust that may be ill-suited to such an academic pursuit. We talk or text often and see one another whenever she is home in Denver for a visit with her brother and parents.

My father is, or at least was, a writer for the Rocky Mountain News in Denver. He was laid-off, actually terminated I would say, when the paper went under due to a lack of readership and advertising revenue or, in my opinion, a mass flight by its readers from the facts of newspapers to the fiction of so-called reality television. The Denver Post, its competitor, had no need for additional experienced reporters, and the on-line version of the News begun by former News writers gained a circulation significantly less than that of the weekly Shoppers Gazette.

My dad is of average height, average weight, above average intelligence and below average patience as compared with other men of his generation. Again, this is just my opinion. He has large, strong wrists, big but narrow, knotted tree feet and a deep but soothing voice. His dark brown hair is rapidly turning grey and, more significantly, he is discernibly shrinking before my eyes. I need to help save him before he begins to look favorably upon moving through the years like a plow horse working the field—back and forth, back and forth until he forgets why he is making the turn at the end of the row.

My father now lives in Colorado Springs, though I spend most of my time, and at least all of the weekdays at school in Boulder. That makes Colorado Springs our official residence, though I have yet to locate the water spitting springs which I assume led to its name. We are there because my uncle chose a more stable and financially rewarding employment path than did my dad. Sorry dad. You see, Uncle Pat owns a summer condominium near the renowned Broadmoor Hotel, or at least the brochures proclaim it as such. He told my dad that we, he and I, could be house sitters, not unlike babysitters absent the baby, for at least forty-eight weeks of the year, or until my dad once again had a steady income. This saved us not only from a potential mortgage default on our Denver home, which we were able to quickly sell at a discounted price, but brought us sixty miles closer to Canon City, Colorado, the site of a portion of the journal, or treatise, or novel that my father and I wrote and are currently editing. But I get ahead of myself.

I freely admit that I am cynical to a point well beyond what my young age warrants. I do not like living in the City known for turning off its street lights in the last recession; serving as the hub of the largest collection of religious organizations in the country, each with its own connection to God but a tenuous tie to tolerance; tracking Santa Claus from NORAD on Christmas Eve; and being the so-called home of both the U.S. Olympic Committee and an infamous anti-tax crusader who has captured the attention, for they are without any imagination, of those without any true aspirations—all of this while having enough military installations to wage a small war. That said, however, I do hold out some hope for the future as the existing movers and shakers, or so I am told, were the same ones who have pulled the City’s strings since the 1970’s and therefore should be close to capitalizing on those aforementioned religious connections.

I have been to a psychiatrist exactly three and one-half times, beginning shortly after my mother’s death and ending two months later when I extricated myself, with great difficulty, from an over-stuffed leather chair in his office. I had spent most of the half session wondering how he could have possibly graduated from Yale University. His diploma was prominently displayed on the taupe colored wall right above the solitary, dark shaded lamp that provided the only operating light in the cloudy day room. I said enough, I am finished, and unceremoniously escaped through the heavy mahogany door and out into the metallic trimmed and oh too bright hallway. He had our billing address. Now that I reflect upon it, I am not sure exactly what tripped the outburst, but I am quite confident both that he could not have told me the cause and that it was justified. His name was Dr. Ralph Morton, M.D. I am not sure why, but I’ll always remember that name.

The one idea that came from those three and one half visits, and which made at least a modicum of sense, was the suggestion that my dad and I engage in a common activity for a somewhat extended period of time so as to connect, or re-connect, before it was too late. I concluded that the too late part came either from the psychiatrist’s belief that I hadn’t reached closure with my mother before she passed, or with her death after she passed, and therefore had latent feelings of guilt, something that he could not, in my opinion, have concluded in such a short period of time, or his determination that my days were somehow numbered, a concept that I am obviously not accepting.

My major in college is English, with a minor in comparative literature. I chose the minor because Shakespeare, Chaucer, Milton, Melville, Emerson, Hawthorne and Poe can be deadly if not complimented with other worldly visions. One can intellectually and emotionally go just so far, in my opinion, with tall Tales, Lost Paradises, symbolic Whales, Kings and Summer Dreams, swinging Pendulums and the like—you get the idea. My dad being the journalist and I the dreamer, we decided that perhaps, despite it having originated from a Dr. Mo suggestion, we could join in a shared research and writing exercise. However, since my dad needed to put the proverbial food on the table, and I was one semester from graduation and pressed to get to the finish line, we decided that the exercise should be related to the story he was already going to write as a freelance journalist, that is, one without a regular paycheck. Before we go there though, I need to finish my part of this introduction.

With the exception of my mom’s untimely death from breast cancer, and now my dad’s unfortunate loss of employment, our life has been fairly normal with the possible exception of my hemiplegic cerebral palsy. By definition, cerebral means primarily intellectual in nature, while palsy is a condition marked by uncontrollable tremors. That pretty well sums it up for me as I see it, with the doctors constantly commenting on my rather exceptional intellectual capacity, even though early tests showed no cognitive impairment. However, my scissors like movements, accentuated by a rigid left leg and a constant tip-of-the hat movement of the head, absent the fedora, provide the cue that all is not as it should be. I tend to choose my words carefully and say them slowly, as I aspire not to aspirate, a phrase that I practiced often. Having people hang on your every word is a laudable goal, that is, unless they begin to choke in anticipation of your completing the utterance. Perhaps this is what led me as a child to more readily enter the world found inside paperback books and the melodies of full symphonic orchestras. Each one transported me to that place where one thinks about the next note or the next word, the next chapter or the next movement, the next book or the next piece, rather than focusing on her own current state of affairs.

Some of my favorite memories of growing up are of the mundane things that I now realize not only helped shape my perception of others, but have become the basis upon which I judge them and are attracted to, or repelled by, them. This is important in understanding my initial reaction to, relationship with, and eventual opinion of, the characters that are the substance of this story.

For example, my grandfather was a slender, soft spoken, white haired man of significant stature, being six feet, three inches, who was able to find shirts with sleeves a little too long, and pants with legs a little too short. He had worked for forty-two years in a small iron foundry. He had the burn scars, from the early molten metal years on the shop floor, and the hunched shoulders from the latter years in the dingy office that was precariously suspended over the working concrete surface below like a boat captain’s bridge, to prove it. He always wanted grandkids, grandsons to be more accurate, and would take my brother and me either fishing or to a hometown double AA baseball game in the summer, hunting in the fall, and skating at the neighborhood hose flooded rink in the winter. He made fun of me, in a non-malicious manner, on numerous occasions. This included when I refused to put a slimy night crawler on a barbed hook, or remove the gasping fish from that same torturous tangled metallic tip, to hold my carefully buttered and tied Rawlings baseball glove anywhere near where that very hard ball was headed, to actually shoot a gun in the direction of another living thing, or to place stiff metal bladed skates on my delicate feet. But yet he took me along, encouraged me, waited for me, kissed me on the forehead when it was needed, and never let my handicap be a factor in these decisions whether I wanted it to be or not. He instilled a sense of calm underscored with patience, competitiveness tempered by compassion, and honor born of truth. I miss him.

My grandmother passed away when I was only two, so I have no memory of her other than the black and white, though it appeared to me to be more brown and yellow, photo of her that was prominently displayed in a gold rope frame that sat on the dresser in my grandfather’s bedroom. He always said that she was quiet, shy and wise. She was the one who bestowed grace upon the mundane tasks essential to the success of the household as a family enterprise. Those are my words, born of observation, not his.

My great uncle, Harry, was another matter. He was the youngest of my grandfather’s six siblings, and was with us, in the sense of alive and breathing, albeit at times through a yellowing plastic tube attached to his bulbous nose on one end and a metal hissing canister on the other, until last year. He had three wives, all of whom wore large hoop earrings with valueless encrusted stones of various crayola box colors and overly bright lipstick of equally elusive tones, each of whom preceded him in death, none of whom were married to him at the time of death. He lived large as they say which, in my mind, meant he lived well beyond his means, both physical and financial. He drank too much and ate too little, drove too fast and talked too slow, thought about the consequences only after committing the act, and never asked for forgiveness. None of this served him especially well, yet it meant that he never noticed that I was different, or at least he didn’t think that it mattered enough to be mentioned. I need to borrow some of that unbridled boldness, or at least wear his type of squared, thick, dark frame glasses that shout, look over here.

I suppose that before I turn this little introduction over to my dad, I need to say a few words about my mom. It is not that I don’t want to, it is that I fear that I cannot accomplish the task in a way that adequately reflects her influence upon lives that continue without her. I hate to say that she had a quiet intelligence, because I am not sure if people will take that to mean she was smarter than she looked or acted, or if she lacked the passion of her positions, neither of which is true. She was insightful and considerate, yet stern and determined when the situation demanded it.

She grew up, as I see it, in an era when the equality of women was recognized, but not yet fully acknowledged. She taught high school English and hence was, at least in part, responsible for my love of the written word. She was a passable cook, a poor driver, a tasteful dresser, and a great listener. She had the heart of an artist, feeling the strength of orchestrated color, sound, composition and movement. I am convinced that she was Brian’s inspiration and know that she was the root of both my determination and current consternation. She was not perfect, as she would, and was, the first to admit.

I will let my dad explain where and how they met. I can certainly understand the initial attraction, as she could be endearing to the point of coquettishness and, though small of frame, quite beautiful. I know that she struggled with how to best prepare me for life with a handicap, letting me take the necessary falls and deal with the inevitable failures, yet she was always there in the background as a rail to firmly grasp—until she wasn’t.

I have reviewed my daughter, Katherine’s, or as we all call her, Katie’s introduction, and share what I sense to be her doubts over the utility of this joint venture. We have nevertheless decided to proceed down this uncharted path, old world explorers hoping to discover a new world vision. Well, maybe not so grandiose. Let me say at the outset though that I will attempt to be judicious in my edits of her contributions, while she has promised, without prompting, to limit her attempts to challenge or explain any inaccuracies or biases reflected in my observations and conclusions. She is too young to be making such statements, but I will let that go.

This undertaking actually scares me on a number of levels. I am fearful that it won’t be a financial success, a literary success, or a personal success. But then a lot of things seem to scare me of late, a fact that I am quite adept at hiding from most of the people around me. Shortly after Katie’s fourth birthday, when the cerebral palsy potential was apparent and then later confirmed, I was afraid it would inevitably, yet in unfathomable ways, disrupt our plans, her life, and my dreams. That fear proved totally unfounded, as Katie is a jewel. She is not only very bright, and I say that without any measure of parental bias, but she inherited the radiant glow and infectious smile of her mother, the mystic brown eyes of her grandmother, and the slender height of her grandfather. I should have been worried instead about the premature death of my wife, Laura, and the early termination of my reporting career. But who really sees such things coming. Maybe I should have. Katie has turned bouts of adversity into layers of resiliency and fateful opportunity. I need to do the same. As she said the other day, dad, you are about to do what you always wanted to, write a book.

I met Laura when I was twenty and a junior at the University of Wisconsin. I worked in the dormitory cafeteria, though I had long since left the dorms for a large old house on Lake Monona shared by more people than there were rooms and more mice than there were traps to catch them. I was in the process, or so I thought, of secretly and expeditiously pilfering a banana from a flat green lunch tray as it was whisked past my station on an endless string of metal rollers and towards the cavernous mouth of the ever steaming dishwashing machine when I heard a voice behind me forcefully ask, are you going to eat that thing? And the pudding?

Flustered and beginning to blush, as we were constantly warned that taking uneaten food off of the returned plates was a termination offense, I swiveled around only to peer into a pair of luminous bright blue eyes and a comforting smile framed by what I imagined to be strawberry blonde hair captured in a truly hideous black hair net. Glancing down and noticing for the first time the Dutch chocolate pudding adhering to the formerly clean sleeve of my oversized, white dish room jacket, I quietly mumbled maybe.

An awkward conversation ensued later that evening as we left the boisterous cafeteria and leisurely made our way down a well-worn path. It crisscrossed the dormitory common area lawn which was now littered with a damp mosaic of colored leaves. This stroll led to some not-so-coincidental meetings at one of the campus libraries over the following weeks. I must admit that I had followed her there after sighting her leaving one of her classes. In these encounters, she was the open book, willing to share and almost eager to challenge. I felt like a series of missing pages, unable or at least reluctant to disclose my true feelings and studiously avoiding any confrontations, friendly or otherwise. Hers was a nascent, shy passion, while I was palpably moved by her very presence and excited by the light touch of her soft hands. Our shared interest in the written word further cemented the tie. Upon graduation, we had a small marriage ceremony attended by only immediate family and close friends. I am afraid that I will never again experience the level of anticipatory energy that accompanies such young love.

There were, of course, marital challenges, exasperated by my repeated reporting assignments which required odd and long hours and quite a bit of out-of-town travel, and by Laura’s depression after the birth of our son. I chose to treat these momentary lapses in connection as shared diversionary excursions on a long journey, the cloudy days that made the sunshine seem even brighter. I should have spoken to her more about them.

Brian, our first born, was a surprise as we were in the process of working our way through the various forms of birth control then freely available. I was not sure that I was ready to be a father, but Laura was convinced that it was meant to be, and her calm confidence soon took over. Together we learned that having a child does result in an absolute, yet somehow imperceptibly subtle shift in one’s assessment of the future, with its vision being temporarily clouded by the new daily demands. Brian truly was cute as a baby and young child, with blonde curls that eventually turned brown, a smile that was slow to appear but heartfelt and endearing when it did, and the ability to appear thoughtful at an age when one would guess that thoughts are but fleeting impressions at best. His deep attachment to music initially manifested itself when I played the radio to soothe him, or perhaps me, in the middle of the night when he needed to be fed, rocked, changed, or as I suspected, simply entertained. I would sit in the corner of the oversized brown corduroy couch, a remnant of our last college apartment, and simply gaze upon his inquisitive face in the silver glow of the moonlight as it scissored through the slats of the patio door window covering. I knew that he wanted to tell me something or perhaps, as I later concluded, teach me something.

Music quickly became the center of his desires. He was provided, after repeated and rather vociferous requests, his first musical instrument at age eight. It was a well-worn guitar protected in a battered black case with music rocks and soulful sound stickers pasted on the sides and two misaligned gold colored metal closure clips in the center. They reminded me of yellowed teeth that no longer quite aligned as the swamp creature bit down. He soon demonstrated a special affinity for the soothing melodies emanating from a violin or cello, which I thought evidenced a certain deep sadness in one so young. However, it proved to be just the prelude to a desire for playing and listening to pieces that eventually soared to a joyful crescendo. By eleven, he had advanced to a walnut brown upright piano, the poor cousin of a baby grand, with a matching felt top bench seat. It had for years been a corner display in the living room of Laura’s parents’ house, soundless and seemingly useless, a room sized paperweight absent the floating, colorful synchronized shapes. That is until Laura’s mother passed away and her dad began to distribute the family assets. I hope that Brian’s decision to pursue his passion, which I half-heartedly embraced, does not leave him disillusioned, but these are probably just the misgivings of an unemployed, or hopefully just underemployed, journalist breaking through.

I was born and raised, for the most part, in a small Wisconsin town at a time when one could walk to school without any parental presence. At least this was the case if you were in the company of your nine-year-old brother. You could also purchase Smith Brothers cough drops, cherry or licorice, at the movie matinee for a dime; sit at the soda fountain in the drug store until the older kids came in and demanded your seat; drink chocolate milk from a cardboard topped bottle through a straw; and place either grasshoppers of many sizes or honey bees of one size in an empty peanut butter jar with nail holes in the tin top. Daisy BB guns were for kids under ten awaiting their first twenty-two, beauty parlors or hair salons were for women only, and rolled shirt sleeves could double as cigarette pack holders.

As Katie mentioned, my dad, Katie’s grandfather, was a manager in the local iron works. He never went to college, but he had the wisdom of experience and an innate sense of how anything mechanical was assembled and meant to operate. He served in the army on the European front during World War II, but never spoke of it. He married my mother after the war, when he was twenty-seven and she twenty-three, though neither one ever mentioned the particulars of their wedding day. Tall, yet barrel-chested, he was the family disciplinarian. My brother and I had to wait until our father got home to be swatted with either his hand or my grandfather’s well-worn shaving strap. I often wondered if he ever thought that we should have a right of appeal. There was no evidence of that except in the level of restraint inherent in the intensity of the falling blows. In any event, I think that he was a better grandfather than a father. His memory faded as he grew old, with Alzheimer’s slowly, stealthily robbing him of current thoughts and then distant memories until even his children were faces painted on a foreign canvass.

My mother was my conscience. Soft spoken and dedicated to ensuring that her children would have a better life than she had, she spent most of her days performing the homemaker chores of cleaning, washing, cooking and caring until we were in our teens. After that, she also ran the register from noon until closing time at the small neighborhood grocery across the street. On occasion, my brother and I would jay walk from the house to the store, stooping low and then edging through the base of the thick lilac bushes that constituted the fortress wall between the patchy grass of our side yard and the buckled sidewalk on the other side. We crossed the busy two-lane street, having first looked both ways as a direct consequence of oft repeated verbal drillings. We sat on the wooden bus bench, with its long faded Pepsi logo, that guarded the front of the small paint chipped building until the last customer of the day emerged and we could push open the spring-loaded screen door that mercilessly snapped back after we entered. We would ask her if she had any fudge sickles for us. For free, of course. She never did, so each of us reached deep into our jean pockets and pulled out a dime in exchange. We rose up on the tips of our toes, stretching, leaning, and slowly extracting the bars from the depths of the box like freezer. The vaporized cold squeezed our arms and enveloped our faces. She always checked our report cards, made an appearance at every parent teacher conference, and encouraged us to read the newspaper so we would know, or so I later came to conclude, that there was something going on beyond our little town. She somehow grew gray and stooped before we realized it, aging in slow motion and then dying unexpectedly shortly before I graduated from college. Perhaps this was an omen of what was to come.

As I said, I had one brother. His name was Patrick, though everyone called him Pat, and he was three and a half years my senior. He was forever taller and more amiable, with a larger group of friends. He was more at ease than me around the neighborhood girls, who were forever smiling when he approached. He did not exactly excel at sports, yet he was athletically gifted enough to be a starting wide receiver on the high school football team in his junior and senior years. Though not an academic standout, he finished college in the requisite four years, but only after a two-year detour that included a year in Vietnam. He earned a degree in business administration which eventually turned into an MBA. He struck campus recruiters as someone who was driven, even if there was no specific direction or destination in mind, and someone who could lead, even if it was right to the cliff’s edge. He started out with Exxon Mobile, but soon held the reins at a series of smaller energy related businesses until the price and presence of offshore fossil fuels, for which he had invested in government leases, made him quite wealthy. Success came with a cost, however, and he had already experienced two failed marriages. Fortunately, in my opinion, no children were the product of either one. When asked if I am close to my brother, I am at a loss to respond. We went our separate ways as we grew older, but we always kept in touch and I am constantly reminded that our paths began at the same point and would forever continue to cross.

While in high school I filled my free hours, and began what was to become my college fund, laboring at various after-school and summer jobs. Each one helped to convince me that there was great potential merit in obtaining a college degree. Nevertheless, I did pick up some cooking, janitorial, landscaping and, most importantly, people skills that periodically proved, over the ensuing years, to be of some worth. My specialties were pancakes grilled to a golden brown, ready to serve when the vapor stopped rising from the edges, eggs over easy, the yokes fully intact, burgers with a pink center placed on lightly toasted buns, and grilled cheese where the outside of the bread achieved an almost crisp consistency while the cheese nestled inside would string across the plate like sagging high wires in a circus act as the two halves of the sandwich were separated. I could also make a toilet shine, remove gum that was well beyond the hardness date from the underside of most pieces of furniture, and dance an electric floor scrubber in concentric circles from one end of a hall to the other, removing a decade of black scuffs while buffing the surface to a glassy, slippery shine. I will freely admit that the continuing value of these particular skills remains somewhat in doubt.

I have been sidestepping it to be sure, but this brings me back to my daughter, Katie. I will not say too much at this point, as we have many pages yet to share. As I said, I have read what she had to say about herself, and find her to be a lovely, bright and tenacious young lady. She has risen to the challenges presented by her condition with great fortitude and grace, and I am extremely proud of her. I also continue to worry about her. As long as I am making admissions, I will disclose that I was initially fearful regarding my own ability to face the realities of her physical limitations and not fall short of parental expectations, and by that, I mean the expectations of myself as a father. Yes, I drew away at times. It was simply easier to allow Laura to handle the everyday trials and tribulations of our two children. My upbringing supported that course of action, but that is no excuse. I know that. From the moment Laura fell gravely ill, I should have been there to assume her role, as inadequate as my attempt may have been. I now know that too.

When I pause to reflect upon how quickly my children have passed through the same life early stages that I experienced, including scattered memories of insignificant childhood crisis and unnoticed, yet momentous, young adult realizations, and then I attempt to assess the imprint that I may have left upon them, I realize the difficulty of gauging my own place in the never ending cacophony of life’s events. These events march forward irrespective of my desire to slow them, or sometimes even shape them.

With that overly introspective observation, it is time to begin an introduction to our story. It was in October 2008 when James Worthy realized that he would be going to prison for fifteen to twenty years for a variety of offenses, including, most notably, manslaughter. His once promising political career was at an end, his assets were in the process of being seized and liquidated, and his only daughter, Joan, had escaped from his life to points unknown, though as Katie and I would learn, he had encouraged her to do so. His divorce had become final only the year before, a tearless parting laced with acrimony and accusation. There would be no visits, conjugal or otherwise. His boyish good looks, accentuated by dimples and a mischievous grin, had melted into a Mardi Gras mask of anguish, his upright soldiers’ shoulders sagging under the weight of worry, loss and disgrace.

It was in January 2010 that Mr. Worthy first realized that he would undoubtedly die in prison. This was so despite the fact that he was then only forty-eight years old. A cursory knowledge of such matters, combined with a belief that there were many more salient facts yet to be disclosed, including the circumstances underlying the currently ephemeral nature of the relationship between me and my daughter, became the foundation for our desire to proceed with this journalistic undertaking.

Chapter Two

The heavens were engaged in a sputtering, hapless attempt at snow making as we approached the Eisenhower Tunnel, a wide hole carved into a high mountain. We were headed to Breckenridge for a Christmas holiday stay at my uncle Pat’s ski vacation home. No sooner were we to the far side of the tunnel than the moisture became the type of damp driving snow where the temperature is near freezing and the flakes partially melt as they hit the warm glass, creating mounds of glacial slush on the sides of the wiper blades which often times requires human intervention to remove. I sat quietly in the passenger seat, watching the truckers pull over to chain up their rigs, wondering if they resented the delay or just considered it a part of their normal winter working day. The gray light was already fading as the sun, obscured by the blanket of clouds, drifted to the far side of the silhouetted peaks. Our departure had been delayed by the need to pick up Brian and Camille at the airport on our way out of town. They slept in the back seat, huddled together in their goose down coats that, except for such journeys home, never left their LA closet.

We had caught up on gossip, old and new, in the first hour of the drive, and now the two of them wanted to rest, or to at least avoid any more familial probing regarding their future plans. Lonely yard lights appeared on each side of the road as we slogged past long abandoned mining outposts, their yellowish tailings dripping down the mountainside like the panting tongues of frozen dragons, their fires long extinguished. It would be dark when we arrived and I wondered if Uncle Pat and his girlfriend of almost two years, Susan, would be there to greet us when we pulled up. I liked her.

As we entered the town, which consisted of a patchwork of modern stone facades interspersed with colorful wood frame buildings of a bygone era, I recognized the old saloon, now a so-called cowboy bar, where we were to turn left and head up the hill. I hurriedly passed along those directions just in case my dad had forgotten, but he hadn’t. The elegant stone house with a glistening copper roof soon came into view. The snowbanks were piled high along the drive, having been shoved into strangely symmetrical peaks. A barn shaped mailbox was barely visible along the road. The front yard lamp and its motion sensor garage mounted counterparts were already turned on. Pat, or a hired hand, had even managed to place strands of small, iridescent white Christmas tree lights on the three large pines that stood as silent sentinels along the far side of the pavement.

We slowly inched forward, the snow from the street still crunching beneath our tires, when the garage door rose as if it had been expecting us. Uncle Pat stood behind this wooden curtain, a game show host ready to introduce the contestants and begin the program. The bottoms of his jeans were lost in high-topped winter boots that had not been laced, and he was wearing a checked woolen shirt underlain by a black cotton turtleneck. His appearance suggested to me that only moments before he had returned from the slopes or, more likely, the bar at the base of the slopes. In any event, in my humble opinion his attainment of relative wealth had not resulted in any aspiration or ability on his part to grace the cover of GQ. Brian and Camille had sensed the slowing of the vehicle and were rustling about in the back, their hands blindly searching the darkness along the car floor for their discarded shoes.

Pat motioned for us to pull up right behind his Land Rover. Welcome, welcome, he blurted in a genuinely warm tone as he slogged towards us.

I put on my best happy face as all of us emerged from our warm haunt. We exchanged a polite hug. He shook hands with my dad and Brian, for we were not, as Brian put it, a full scale sensory family. Camille added a nice to meet you acknowledgement.

The formalities complete, we went into the house through the garage entrance, rolling our suitcases up the remainder of the drive, except for mine that is, which was a red canvass duffle with bold yellow stripes. Uncle Pat had grabbed it before I even had the chance to reach into the cargo area. A short hall, with a laundry room on the right, led to a brightly lit kitchen, where Susan was waiting with wine and appetizers.

Please, take off your coats. Let’s sit in the family room, she said, motioning in the proper direction with a tilt of her head. She was balancing a small sharp knife in one hand as she finished cutting and placing cheese slices on an ornate platter. The tray appeared to be a composite of many different varieties of wood, and it was quite striking. I can be readily distracted if I allow my mind to wander.

I had met Susan only once before, and that was at my high school graduation, an event that I wanted to avoid, but had attended at my dad’s insistence. It struck me as odd at the time, but I think that this particular occasion may have been her first real date with my uncle. He had flown from Houston to Denver in order to be present, and probably did not want to show up unaccompanied. At the time, she worked in the public relations department of his business. Pat’s divorce to wife number two had only recently become final. When I briefly spoke to her, she didn’t seem to know very much about our family, and I had the impression that this included about Uncle Pat.

I nevertheless immediately admired her way of charming the assembled guests, a broad smile constantly affixed as she effortlessly glided about the cozy but cramped reception hall which my dad had rented from an acquaintance of his. She always seemed to have sincere small talk at the ready. Susan struck me as someone who had experienced her own share of tests and bloodless torture over the years, but who had walked away fully intact, though more than a bit wary. She exuded confidence, and I immediately warmed to that. She dressed her age, which I guessed at the time to be her mid-forties, and she did so with more than a touch of flare and elegance. Colorful designer touches accented basic yet perfectly fitted dresses. I envied that. I could picture her as the bell of the ball when she was a teenager, yet she had moved well beyond that stage of trivial recognition and child-like adoration. She was now on a path of her own making. She would be good for uncle Pat.

Having left our snow-covered shoes on the braided rug near the door, all of us gravitated, despite Susan’s urging, towards the granite center island in the kitchen. Uncle Pat slid some wine glasses out from their overhead wooden holder and offered a choice of merlot or chardonnay. I asked for coffee, decaf, with plenty of cream. Susan joined me, while the others started with the red. The family room seating would have to wait, at least until the initial obligatory chatter subsided and the coffee and wine had removed the chill.

Cheers were exchanged all around.

How was the drive, Pat inquired. It must have been snowing around the tunnel.

Not too bad, my dad responded, first closely eyeing, as if they were a foreign substance, and then meticulously retrieving, two small cheese squares and the accompanying seed covered crackers before passing the tray to Camille.

We slept most of the way, Brian chimed in. And how is the skiing?

You can imagine the rest of the next half hour, which included a second glass of wine for each of those drinking, an update on mutual friends, and questions regarding our health, our future plans, and our state and local politics. Pat was the only one other than my dad who was truly interested in the latter. For a few awkward moments the conversation even steered in the direction of the family burial plot. This was precipitated, I am sure, by our decision to reminisce upon something that my grandparents had or had not done. Brian brought this particular topic to an abrupt closure when he observed that it sounded as if all of us already had a reservation and now only needed to know the time—or something to that effect. It was only when we finally gathered on the dark brown leather sofa and matching chairs located near the fireplace that the discussion turned to a more serious subject.

Pat attempted to nonchalantly launch the topic. So, I hear that you are trying to interview Jim Worthy, he said, looking straight into the dancing flames before slowly raising his eyebrows and turning his head towards my dad.

Yes, that is the plan. My old boss has pulled a few strings with the prison authorities and he is now willing to talk. At least to me. This had been said with an air of defiance, as if my dad felt that someone was going to challenge the decision.

And Katie is being allowed to come with me, at least for an initial introduction, he continued.

This was the first time I had heard about any potential constraints on my participation, but I knew that this was neither the time nor the place to press the issue.

I just hope you know full well what you may be getting into, Pat responded. Even though it’s been what, over two years now, the whole episode has left a lot of influential people very nervous from what I can tell. He cast a searching glance towards Susan as if seeking words of concurrence, but only received a knowing nod in return.

Uncle Pat had spent his fair share of time in political circles, at first because, or so he surmised, the politicians coveted his cash, and then because he felt that he had paid to play, or so he protested. However, even I could easily tell that this was not his preferred milieu in which to operate. I eventually came to the conclusion that the discomfort was in part due to how gains or losses were assessed, measured, and ultimately achieved. It was an almost Epicurean pursuit. Yet, I too was admittedly a neophyte in such matters as we, my dad and I, embarked upon this joint adventure. All of us would learn more, much more, about both ourselves and the essence of those whose orbit circled around us as the story unfolded.

My dad twisted the base of the stem of his wine glass back and forth in his nimble fingers. I am aware of that Pat, and I also know that a plea bargain was readily accepted by all sides so that as little of the story came out as was possible. He paused for emphasis. I am going to try and change that, he eventually uttered in a tone that was more harsh than necessary, especially in this family setting.

Well then, let’s hear how you and Katie are going to go about it, Susan said in the authoritative manner of one who had handled more than one public relations crisis for Pat’s company.

I was not yet prepared to even explore, let alone share, the details of what avenues we might pursue in investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of Wally Nelson and the imprisonment of James Worthy. Further, though everyone now knew that Katie was going to assist me in this undertaking, they did not know that we planned to co-author a book, or at least a diary, in an effort to address more personal concerns, issues that Katie and Dr. Morton had brought to my attention and which, as a parent, I could not ignore. This reluctance to engage in a full family disclosure is how we both preferred it to be, or so I thought at the time.

So, what are we doing for dinner, I asked in an attempt to divert attention from Susan’s inquiry about the investigation.

We weren’t sure exactly when you would get here, so we thought we might just go out, Pat responded, fully cognizant of the clumsy sleight of hand that was underway, but not sufficiently motivated to challenge it.

I began to extract myself from the deep chair, needing to rock forward in order to gain enough momentum to escape, while studiously avoiding eye contact with Susan. That sounds great. Will we need two cars, I asked.

Everyone proceeded to move in unison, a raucous flock of geese taking flight after the first shot echoes across the pond. Pat assured us that his new Cadillac SUV could easily accommodate six.

We gathered our coats and slipped on our shoes. The inside of each of them was filled with a welcoming warmth, as they had been placed next to the heat register. We piled into Pat’s vehicle once I had moved mine to the far side of the drive. The snow had tapered to a few flurries, and I could tell from the occasional star, which hung above, untethered and suspended between the remaining moonlit clouds, that the skies were clearing. It was going to be one of those biting cold nights where the frost mysteriously appears and stubbornly adheres to any and all exposed surfaces. For a moment, it reminded me of winter evenings in Wisconsin when Laura and I would hesitate before venturing out the door of our rented duplex, fearing numb toes and alabaster noses. However, we would quickly warm as we aimlessly ambled down the familiar, well shoveled walks, our gloved hands hidden in oversize pockets and our ears tucked inside knit caps. We would eagerly share the mundane events of the day. I digress.

It took only five minutes before we were pulling up in front of an upscale Italian restaurant situated along Main Street. Young gentlemen who were probably ski instructors or lift operators by day served as parking valets at night. Pat had made a reservation for six people and we were shown to a large booth in the corner. There were wood panels on three sides, creating an atmosphere of privacy.

As the ladies slid around towards the table center, a tall, middle-aged, rotund gentleman with a winter-tanned and weathered face approached from across the room. He was dressed in what I took to be, if store windows are the benchmark, the latest in après-ski attire. His fleshy hands were held high in the air, waving about so as to attract our attention. It looked like he was about to guide a plane to the gate.

Pat, Pat Obrien, how the hell are you, he bellowed.

Pat swung around, reluctantly extending his hand to the intruder. Dave, longtime no see. How have you been, he said in a tepid tone. A second or two of hesitation at the outset of his reply had noticeably disrupted the rhythm of the salutation.

Not bad, and you.

Let me introduce you to my brother, Tom, and his family. I think you have already met Susan, Pat said, extending his hand towards her as if she required a life-saving grip. Susan’s silence was palpable.

This is Tom, his daughter, Katie, his son, Brian, and Brian’s friend, Camille. Each announcement had been accompanied by a nod in the direction of the identified character. This is Dave Malone from Malone and Hastings, Pat then added, staring at the interloper. He ended the introductions right there, evidently not seeing a need for any further narrative or explanation regarding our presence.

I shook Malone’s hand, noticing that it felt overly soft, not unlike a damp cotton diaper. Yet the grip was purposefully, one might say artificially, firm. The others, except for Susan, nodded politely. She simply glared.

Nice to meet all of you, Malone said in the amiable, practiced manner of a politician, bowing ever so slightly. The greeting had been uttered with a noticeable and notable lack of sincerity.

I need to get back to my table, but I thought I needed to say hello to my friend Pat when I saw you all passing by, he stated as he pointed to a booth near the opposite corner of the restaurant where two other men and three ladies were engaged in an animated conservation. An admirable array of empty Martini glasses was displayed before them. With that, he took his leave and shuffled off stage.

Now fully seated, Katie asked Pat about whom it was that she had just met.

Dave is a former state legislator turned lobbyist and party fundraiser, Congressman want-to-be, and a shrewd political prick, he explained. There was more than a trace of venom in his voice. Excuse the French, he added, having exhibited a habit acquired during his military days.

Susan was even more blunt in her assessment. A self-centered asshole, she muttered.

Brian, Camille and Katie exchanged quick glances that were accompanied by pained grins. None of them had ever seen or heard either Pat or Susan publicly avow, in such blunt terms, an obvious dislike of an individual.

Unfortunately, Tom, you may have to meet with him again if you truly want to pursue that Jim Worthy story. He always knows more than he lets on. Little happens in the local world of political intrigue that he is not aware of, Pat noted as he dislodged the heavy silverware from his napkin with a flourish and snapped the red cloth over his lap.

We can discuss that later. Now, let’s enjoy our dinner, I said.

Susan switched the topic to our apparent lack of ski gear and our plans for the next day. Pat immediately spoke up, indicating that he had purchased us three-day ski passes and he knew a ski rental shop that owed him a favor. He asked us if we preferred traditional skis or snow boards. By virtue of parental habit, I immediately turned in the direction of Katie. She observed me observing her, and she came to my aide.

I, for one, am staying at the base lodge where it is warm and undoubtedly safer, she observed, noting that Brian and Camille were snow boarders, while joking that I was too old to try anything new. I felt a passing moment of pride mixed with sympathy. I knew that she was adept at dealing with her handicap and the emotional reactions of others to it yet I wanted her to feel that she would always be an essential participant in our family activities.

I will need frequent breaks, I observed, thinking that I could, at times, keep her company, but also recognizing that after a long absence from the sport, my legs would be a burning and unsteady foundation after only a couple of runs.

The conversation drifted aimlessly amongst a myriad of topics that families or friends might discuss as they reconnected the circuits of time and place. It seamlessly shifted from past personal plagues long cured to acquaintances long forgotten, from useful and useless skills learned over the years to old pastimes favored and disfavored, from cinematic blockbusters and quirky art films, to television remakes, reruns and yes, even to regrets. We concluded, after the second bottle of wine, that the popularity of reality TV does indeed signal that we, as a society, have taken the first step towards a major cultural decline not unlike the telltale message sent when the citizens of ancient Rome enthusiastically embraced slaughters in the Coliseum. We also agreed that sheer luck plays a role in most major successes, at least if they don’t come your way, that wisdom does indeed come with age, though the price may be, at times, too high, and that broken hearts do heal, but the scar remains forever. Naturally, having stumbled upon the maudlin, we had to ultimately, though reluctantly, acknowledge that to some extent we were all, as Susan so succinctly put it, full of shit and that others, many others, may not concur with our observations.

Having finished dinner with coffee, and for some a heavy port wine, we returned to the house. I noticed upon our departure that the Malone party was still ensconced in their booth, evidently sharing uproarious stories of the day’s hillside blunders. Brian and Katie, whose eyelids had been rapidly sinking from the weight of the day on our short drive back to Pat’s, immediately said their goodnights, while Susan said she was going to make progress on a Grisham novel that was taking her much too long to complete.

Pat offered Camille and I a nightcap, which consisted of sipping whiskey that he secreted in a cut glass decanter that sat on the end of the saloon style bar which was found in the corner of the family room opposite the fireplace. Camille claimed the chair nearest the fireplace, while Pat stretched out at an angle on the couch. His feet, which were adorned with powder blue socks that had random white clouds scattered over them, were centered on the top of the coffee table. Camille had leaned a small nylon backpack against that same table earlier in the day, from which she now retrieved a large manila envelope.

Tom, after getting your call I was able to obtain a copy of the transcript from the hearing at which Worthy entered his plea and the one during which his sentence was imposed, she began.

It crossed my mind that her calling me by my first name may seem to some a bit forward, as we had met only a few times, but with Cam, which is the name that both she and Brian preferred, it felt totally natural and appropriate.

The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes each time, both the plea and the sentence having been agreed to in advance by the parties. The judge’s name was Martinez, Denver District Court, Division 5. It appears that he simply went through the motions. No bail had been posted from the time of arrest and he got credit for time served. Obviously, no request was made for time to put his affairs in order, and he was immediately returned to his cell for transport to Canyon City.

She had said this with an air of familiarity as she quickly slipped through the few typed pages that were initially balanced in her hand and then tossed onto the table. No one, including his attorney, spoke on his behalf. He simply said he understood and accepted the plea, she added.

I was able to speak by phone with the bailiff, I interjected, and he said there was no evidence of any family in attendance. At least no one said anything on his behalf. He said though that there was a young blonde lady who came in alone just as the proceeding commenced, sat in the back bench, and quietly slipped out as soon as the sentence was read. He felt compelled to add that she was dressed to the T’s and quite a looker.

Cam slumped back in her chair. That could have been his daughter, Joan. She is a recent college graduate who was interning for none other than Malone and Hastings at the time of the killing. She cast a questioning look at Pat and then me, anticipating that we would have a response to this disclosure.

Pat placed his feet on the floor, leaned forward and rubbed the back of his neck, a pensive look telegraphing his concern. He reached for his glass and took a generous gulp, draining the remaining liquid. It gets more and more strange, almost incestuous, all the time, doesn’t it, he observed.

Chapter Three

The clock radio on the nightstand next to the bed flashed 2:20 a.m. as I turned onto my right side, listening for