by John B. Rosenman

“I know you’ve missed me, Dad. I’ve watched you.”

“I see,” he said, aware that Billy hadn’t mentioned missing him. Max found a
handkerchief in his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Hey, Billy, have you, uh, moved on,
yet?”

“‘Moved on’?”

“Yes. To the next plane or whatever.”

“‘The next plane’? Naw, this is cool with me, Dad. I wouldn’t want to be
anywhere else. Man, the things I’ve got to work on up here! Only it ain’t ‘up’ here, exactly, if you know what I mean.”

Max nodded. He was beginning to understand, at least a little. Billy, for example, was surrounded by things to fix, even if he didn’t have hands, exactly, to fix them. Wouldn’t that be heaven for him? And Ruth had always wanted to travel to exotic foreign countries and see the world. Now she had eternity, and all the amazing places the universe held. That is, if she could only move on to experience them.

He went to a chair, pulled it toward the fireplace, and sat down. “Hey, Billy,” he said, “I’d give you the keys to the car, but I guess you don’t need ’em.”

Billy laughed, then turned serious. “Dad, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Yes, son. What is it?”

“I know Mom always blamed herself for the accident. But since she died, has
she . . .”

“What, Billy?”

“Well, what I mean is, I know how she felt when she was alive, how unhappy it made her and all. But I don’t know how she feels now. I thought that since she got in touch with you, you’d know.”

Max leaned back in the chair. “I do know.”

“You do? Well, gosh, Dad, tell me. How does she feel?”

Max sighed. Ruth and Billy cared far more about each other than about him. It
would serve Billy right to know how guilty his mother still felt, how it tarnished even her
afterlife. Maybe he wouldn’t think things were so ‘cool’ then.

“Dad,” Billy asked, “how does she feel? Please tell me.”

Not so happy and complacent now, are we? Max thought. Perhaps you’d like to know how I’ve mourned you for seventeen years, and how empty my life has been since your mother died. You say you know what it’s been like, but you don’t.

“Dad?”

Max took a deep breath. “Billy,” he said, “your mother has gotten over her grief and guilt. Now that she’s, uh, passed over, she knows that your death was just one of those things.”

“Phew!” Billy said. “I’m so glad. That’s a great relief, Dad!”

“I hope you feel better, son.”

“I do. ’Cause the truth is, the accident was my fault, not hers!”

“Your fault?”

“Yeah. You see, I noticed the brakes were a bit soft and tried to fix ’em. But I forgot to re-hook the vacuum line!”

Max felt stunned. “You messed with the brakes?”

“Yeah.” For the first time, Billy’s childish voice darkened, sounding like that of the adult he’d never be. “When Mom couldn’t stop the car in time and the truck came toward me, I remembered my screw-up. My last thought was that I had it coming.”

Max struggled to process Billy’s words. The inspector who had examined the
brake system afterward had said it looked fine, but then, he probably hadn’t checked the
vacuum line.

“Oh, son,” he finally said, “how could you do it?”

A ragged sob. “I know, Dad. Even worse, Mom blamed herself for my death, felt she was driving too fast when she wasn’t.” A pause. “But since she got over it, everything’s okay, isn’t it? Only I sure wish I could tell Mom how sorry I am and that it was my fault.”

Max swallowed. All those years, Ruth had blamed herself. Such needless, pointless suffering!

“I’ll tell her for you, Billy,” Max said. “Next time I, uh, ‘see’ her.”

“You will? Hey, thanks!” A boyish laugh, filled with relief. “Then it’s okay, right? Everything turned out swell, Dad.”

Swell. Max smiled. “Super,” he said.

More laughter. “Well, I gotta go now, Dad. But I’ll be back, promise! Bye.”

“Bye,” he said, knowing as he spoke that Billy was already gone.

# # #

“After loving you so much, can I forget you for eternity, and have no other choice?”

The bleak lines from some poem ran through his mind, reminding him that no love, however fine, lasted forever.

Through the window, he could see the woman across the street pick up her
newspaper from the porch and glance toward his house. Karen. Karen something. Three
months ago, she had invited him to dinner, but he had begged off with an excuse,
promising to call back. He never had.

Nor, probably, would his son call back either. After all, he had set Billy free. And why should his son return when he had all those cosmic lube jobs to perform in the sky? Only they weren’t really lube jobs, were they, and it wasn’t the sky exactly.