13
He drives home with the urn in the boot. His sister has now called numerous times. She calls again. He looks at his phone with
impatience and puts it on speakerphone.
“Hi, Marquitos. Why can’t I see you?”
“I’m driving.”
“Oh, right. How are you doing about Dad?”
“Fine.”
“I was calling to tell you that I’m planning to have the farewell service at home. It seems like the most practical option.”
He doesn’t say anything. The stone in his chest moves, grows.
“I wanted to ask you to bring me the urn today or tomorrow. I can also stop by your house to pick it up, though that’s not ideal because of
the distance, as you can imagine.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“No. Not today, not tomorrow. When I say so.”
“But, Marqui—”
“But nothing. I’ll bring you the urn when I want to and you’ll have the farewell service when it’s good for me. Is that clear?”
“Look, I understand that you’re having a hard time, but you could
talk to me in another to—”
He hangs up.