“Trevor,” I called. “Do you want the TV?”

· · ·

Because I had been standing there feeling like an asshole. Chasing him into the house like that. Not to mention the bloodless way I’d cut him out of our lives, impulsively, at the tail of my call with Margot, after all that he had done for me and Kelli. Also the stiffness of his ruddy, blushing face when he spoke about my mother. How his expression tightened, blankening, betraying nothing in a way that betrayed everything. It broke my heart. Trevor the tough guy, the guy’s guy — all hockey jerseys and lawnmowers and barbecues — traditional in the most stifling sense of the word, with no one but my mother — in her soothing, soft-voiced sanctuary of pastels and throw pillows, potpourri and china saucers — to whom he could confide his secret pain.

The more he protested, the more I insisted. We didn’t need it. Kelli would rather gaze out the window any day, and I watched stuff on my laptop more than I did on my mother’s monolithic screen because I found it depressing to sit in the basement gawking at the thing by myself. It was huge and ungainly and by no means condo-friendly. It was an albatross. Furthermore, it was — I didn’t say this but to me it was — a man thing. It was men who craved giant TVs in basements, because men liked massive screens and high-def resolution and surround-sound speakers — the kind of all-consuming technology that permitted nothing from the real world to creep in and distract them. It made sense that he should have it. I would not take no for answer. The TV belonged with him.

We came out of the house arguing and stood there for several minutes as Jessica and Kelli watched us curiously. Trevor waved his arm and shook his head but what he didn’t do, I noticed, was walk away. Finally things progressed to the point where Trevor said, yes, ok, he would be willing to accept the television — but only if I would let him pay me something for it. This was reasonable, but for some reason I told him no.

Trevor protested that for god’s sake, the TV should be out on the lawn, included in the yard sale — one of the pickers was sure to pay a good price for it. And, yes, I had considered including it in the yard sale, but ultimately decided not to because the TV was so obviously new and top of the line. I figured Kelli and I could watch it until it came time to move, then sell it on Craigslist or something for a decent price. I remember thinking, at the time, how singular the TV was among my mother’s possessions. It had to be the newest item in the entire house, and it didn’t fit with anything else — the doilies, the flowered upholstery, the eyelet-trimmed towels. It was flat and huge and black and rectangular. An austere extravagance. What had prompted her to go all out on such an item, considering her prognosis? Then again, maybe it was her prognosis that prompted it. Maybe she’d thought to herself: Why the hell not?