While I may have missed the intended point of my father’s lesson in the limo, his lesson wasn’t futile, because I wasn’t clueless. My mother did arm me with at least one valuable tool before leaving. She taught me how to recognize, understand, and appreciate beauty. On the day my father let strangers crank Mom’s coffin into a giant hole, he confirmed as much by saying, Oh, she was beautiful all right, and I’d been glad to know we were in agreement. My mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. This was a fact.

I really didn’t give much thought to the full extent of my father’s theory until midway through medical school—which was, not coincidentally, when I first gave any serious thought to marriage at all. Vanessa wasn’t beautiful. She was normal. She was loyal. That’s your choice, my old man had foretold. I guess I never forgot that, even long before I got it.

A choice is a responsibility. Some things are pressed upon us: our names, for example, or our birthdays. We don’t choose our innate talents. We don’t get to pick out our demons. They are every bit as much our birthright as names and birthdays or genetic conditions. For the things we can choose, then, we have a responsibility to pick the option that will best serve us and cause the least suffering. Sometimes the best option still causes suffering, but that doesn’t make it the wrong choice. What I’m saying is, I’m no victim. I married one hell of a beautiful woman.

For the first time in my life, I understand my father’s bitterness and why he asked to be buried in Memorial Cemetery north of here. She’d destroyed him, hadn’t she? She’d broken his heart, then she’d pulverized it by dying on us—and all I ever saw was the man who never loved me as much as she did. Too little, too late. Isn’t that always the way? I start the engine and check the time. Ray will be getting off work soon, and so I go. I drive up Belmont and weave over to Bar None, where Ray has already grabbed stools and two bottles of PBR.

8.

“There he is,” Ray says.

I untie my tie, undo my top buttons, take off my jacket, and roll up my sleeves. I should have left my suit coat in the car. My cuff links cost more than Ray makes in a month. I slide them into my pocket and take a swig of beer.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on,” he asks, “or do I have to wait until you’ve had a few first?”

I raise my bottle in reply.

“Well then. Bottom’s up, buddy.”

We guzzle mediocre cold beer.

“How’s Emily?” I ask.