This one is a case in point. It is a poignant piece about the prospect of Father’s Day when one has no father to toast, and while the focus is on fathers who have died, I can easily guess she’s thinking of us. She talks about sadness, about the emptiness of the chair at the head of the table and the clothes gathering dust in the closet. She talks about celebrating the man a father once was and doing something to make him proud. Accept what you can’t change by changing what you can’t accept, she advises—and at first read, it sounds preposterous. A dead person is dead, right? When she launches into honoring memories by living the best of who that person was, though, I see where she’s headed. She isn’t thinking of Dad. She’s thinking of Mom. Having been to Margo’s house multiple times, I’ve seen how she keeps fresh peonies, year round, in a clear vase on her kitchen island. Mom did that, though where either of them found peonies in the middle of winter was anyone’s guess.

I’m not there yet with regard to Mom. With regard to Dad, though? Accept what you can’t change by changing what you can’t accept.

I cannot accept that I’ll never know the truths I seek. And while my solution is less honorable than Margo’s, she isn’t here, is she? That means I can avoid confrontation by becoming a snoop.

When I wake up Saturday morning, Joy is gone. A note lies on the pillow. Taking Papa down the hill for breakfast. Come when you wake up.

I will. First, though, I’m hunting for a gun.

Chapter 8

Feeling like a thief, I work quickly and with an ear out for anyone who might return. Since Dad spends most of his time in the living room, that’s where I start. But there’s no gun under a cushion, behind a book, or in a drawer. I blouse out the floor-to-ceiling drapes, hung so long ago by Mom, and find traces of dust that the vacuum missed but no gun, not even cleverly tucked into a wide hem. At the front hall closet, I grope through hats, scarves, and gloves above, in coat pockets and sleeves mid-level, and rubbers and boots below. The dining room, too, is a bust; neither the silver drawer nor any of the linen drawers hold a gun. I’m checking the last of my mother’s decorative vases when my phone vibrates.