Footsteps keep up a steady tap on the stairs. Take what you want, Mom’d said, her arm sweeping across the bed. I watch for a while from my shut door. Dad’s silk ties hang from Uncle David’s arms. Both his hands hold Dad’s shirts, still on their hangers from the dry-cleaner’s. Uncle David dumps everything into Dad’s 1967 yellow Mustang convertible. He doesn’t drive off.
Where’s Dale’s buckskin jacket, Uncle David yells up the stairs. I close my door for real.
The fringes on the jacket smell like a smoker. The man lights up, exposing tiny baby teeth. The radiator wheezes as the man cracks open a window. Maybe I should tell him lung cancer kills. I fold the buckskin into a pillow and rest my head. Then let the man from the bar do whatever he wants.