Brian asked Trevor to sit down and say how he knew their father had died. Was he sure?
“Yes.”
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Trevor rubbed his face and looked up. He said, “Well…” and halted. He said, “Brian…” but could not think what to say next.
Brian watched, practically stunned. Trevor’s expression shifted from a slight retreat into a feeling that to Trevor was unheard of and wholly unknown: embarrassment. Despite their father almost certainly being dead, Brian marveled that Trevor’s imperturbable personality had never before experienced common embarrassment. Trevor frowned; the sensation made no sense to him.
The unreasonableness of embarrassment just heightened Brian’s discomfort. He lived in a state of low level stage-fright. Even a particle of far-off shame was enough to induce queasiness. Unreasonable and futile. Like now—here Brian was filtering Trevor’s confusion through his own mean little self. When for all he knew, Trevor felt grief. Was that possible?
He put his hand on Trevor’s shoulder, resting it there for half a minute at least. “I’ll telephone the local newspapers. The hospitals in Brandon and Tampa. And then,” Brian touched his face, amazed by the prospect, “I’ll call him. I’ll call the bastard in case he can answer.”
“He choked on a pretzel,” Trevor said, rising a little in relief. Now he was ready to say what the details were. “Sick liver and kidneys, but you remember the bully—afraid of the truth. No trust in him. So he was watching football and a pretzel killed him late last night.”
Hailey brought them coffee. “Trevor, it’s sad.” She kissed Brian’s head, stepped away, and returned to finger his hair. “I’ve read that it can be harder for people when a father dies that they didn’t get along with. The extra anger is so deep rooted.”
“Nobody’s gonna miss our dad, sweetheart.”
Trevor nodded. “Pure dogheart.”
Brian kept telephoning various authorities, who offered no answers. No suggestions even. “Maybe he moved away years ago, Trev.”
“Nuh, he’s dead in front of the television.”
By now Brian accepted Trevor’s visions without question. It upset him that people were acting like he was some kind of prophet. But when Trevor said he saw “the beginning and the end,” Brian believed him. Brian had begun believing the unbelievable because of Trevor. And that part hardly bothered him. Everybody else believing him, though—that worried Brian. He wanted Trevor to be happy; not locked in ancient, desperate paradigms. Not branded as a miracle man. Who would eventually become a martyr, one way or another.
Trevor, back to being imperturbable, grinned at Brian’s unspoken feelings. “Don’t worry about me so. Try calling the police.”
“They’ll ask why I’m calling from North Carolina.”
“No, they won’t.”
So Brian phoned the Brandon police station. Right away Trevor cocked an index finger, indicating he could hear the officer talking.
“The drunk? Uh, sorry…no disrespect if he’s your father…Yeah, we’ll check. The neighbors are always complaining.”
Fifteen minutes later, a policeman in Brandon, Florida phoned Brian’s cell. “You’re the son who called? Sir, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this.”
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