It used to be the other way around—Kevin on the bed listening while his mother Heather spoke.  Now, it was she who lay staring up at him.  She was covered by a heap of blankets and her body looked tiny within the fluffy folds.  Only her head and shoulders were visible.  The cancer had worn away her face.  Her skull seemed almost exposed.  The flesh that sheathed it was pale, blemished, and mapped by lines as distinct as scars.  Whenever Kevin looked up from the book his eyes were drawn to the stains of blood on the neckline of her gown—stains bleach could not remove. Had they been washed away Kevin would still have been able to see their faded red fingerprints in the same way that, even though her breathing was now even and non-labored, he could still hear the raspy wheezing of the night before.

      She laughed as he finished a sentence; to Kevin her laugh sounded disturbingly similar to a cough.  “Are you all right?” he asked.

      “Yes.  Keep reading.”

      Kevin knew she was pretending for his benefit. He could see by the tightness in her cheeks that she was struggling.  It was hard for him to look at her.  The hair that remained on her scalp was graying and wispy.  Almost all of the hair on the left side had fallen out during the months of her chemotherapy.  She did not shave the rest because this way, when she went out, if she wore a hat she looked something like she had before.  She hated it when people pitied her.  When Kevin showed too much concern, she would lash out.

      Kevin smiled at her and continued reading.

      Thirty years earlier, Kevin had lain in the same bed and his mother had told him terrifying stories in an impassioned voice.  Back then her hair had been long, brown, and tumbled over her shoulders in a cascade.  Some of the stories she told had been from books, but most had sprung from her delightfully perverse imagination. Her narratives would envelop the surroundings with a layer of mystery. As she spoke she would point at objects. “That vase,” she might say, “once held the ashes of a Lebanese man betrayed by his family. They chained him to his bed and let him starve to death. If you listen closely, you can still hear his final breaths.” People in wall photographs gained eccentricities, accents and dark purposes. Pieces of furniture turned out to have been cursed by one-eyed gypsies or stolen from wealthy sheikhs.

      Kevin tried, but he could not be nearly as entertaining as she had been. He couldn’t make up stories either.  At first, when Kevin had returned from Boston to take care of her, she had asked him to tell her about his relationships and business ventures. When she saw that this depressed him, she had instead asked him to read to her. 

      Kevin turned a page, reaching a climactic action scene.  In an attempt to capture the excitement, he increased his volume and lowered his voice an octave.  His mother laughed again.

      “Not the world’s best rendition of Edgar Allan Poe,” Kevin admitted.

      “I was laughing because the scene is absurd.”

      “You’re a terrible liar.”

      “That’s a sign of good moral fiber.  You should aspire to lie as badly as…” she began, but then a spasm tore through her frame.  Her back arched.  Kevin dropped the collection of stories and moved to a kneeling position beside the bed.  He clutched her emaciated arm as the spasm subsided.  “Should I call Dr. Sheol?” he asked.

      “No, it’s fine.”

      He waited silently to see if she would ask for anything else then offered, “Should I keep reading?”

      “No thanks. That was the best part anyway. I think I’ll try to sleep.”

      “Do you need a sedative?”

      “I’ll just count sheep.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “You are mighty anxious to pump me full of chemicals,” she said sarcastically.

      “Okay. Sleep tight.” Kevin leaned over and kissed his mother on the forehead.  He knew her real reason for not wanting sedatives was that they made her sleep so deeply that she would urinate in her sleep. Whenever he gathered up her piss-soaked sheets after this happened, Kevin would try not to look in her eyes; it was easier both of them that way. 

      When she closed her eyes, Kevin picked up the glossy book lying on the floor then walked out the door and down the hall to his room.  Although he had been staying in it for seven months, it was sparse—as though Kevin was just passing through.  “I wish,” Kevin muttered as he placed the collection beside a large leather-bound journal on his desk.  He had begun the journal when he left Deverton two years earlier.  The first pages contained estimates of the capital needed to start a small business. His mother had given him the money required from the modest family savings account.  Kevin had taken a Greyhound to Boston and what he soon learned was that, while his estimates were detailed, he had made them with too much naiveté.  When the money ran out, he had taken out loans while working at useless jobs.  In letters home he had deceived his mother.  When she had been diagnosed with cancer, he had been working at a gas station.  Three months later—as though cancer was not enough—his mother had a stroke.  Kevin had returned so that he could take care of her.  Only then had he admitted he was broke.  She had not shown any disappointment. 

      Kevin had continued to fill the pages with calculations now that he had a more realistic appreciation of how much money was needed.  Yet his dreams were futile.  Banks would not loan him money because of his credit-record, and while the family account had initially held enough money to get him started, paying for his mother’s medication and treatment rapidly depleted it.

      Initially Kevin had tried to get the best treatments and  medicines.  As the money vanished he had been forced to be more pragmatic. It had been a terrible thing to have to apply mathematics to the fate of someone he loved.  Over time the calculations had got increasingly grim until a week earlier when his mother’s doctor had told him that she had, at most, two weeks left to live.  Kevin was ashamed that the first thought that ran through his head was practical.  How will I pay for the funeral?  He had consulted his journal after the doctor left and realized the situation was impossible.

      Over the last few days he had tried everything: applying for a loan, putting the house’s furniture up for sale. All the while he had attempted to conceal his desperation from his mother.  She needed to see him calm so she could spend her last days comfortable and unstressed.

      Today had been a good day because his mother had been lucid. On some days she spoke gibberish and gazed blankly at Kevin when he spoke to her.  Doctor Sheol had told him that it was not an entirely  bad thing that she was sometimes unaware.  “At least that way, she doesn’t have to take the pain.”  Kevin had wanted to scream at the doctor when he said this.  That person who glanced at him without recognition and spoke without meaning was not his mother.  She looked like her, but she wasn’t.  He would pray to himself whenever he woke her that she would be rational.  Today had been a good day.  Kevin thought of her laughter at his pathetic reading and smiled.  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

      Who would come by at this time? he wondered.  He went downstairs and opened the door to find a man in a maroon suit clutching an umbrella.  It was barely drizzling so he looked a little ridiculous. “Good evening,” he said, stepping forward and closing the umbrella. Kevin stepped aside.  As he was closing the door, Kevin caught sight of the car he had arrived in.  It was a black limousine.  Behind the wheel, a chauffeur was waiting. 

      “Are you Mr. Renville?” the man asked.

      “Kevin. And you are?”

      “Hans.” 

1    Hans placed the umbrella on the floor beside the door and began to take off his coat.  Something about the man’s face was familiar.  He was in his early seventies but had aged well.  Black hair with few grey streaks topped a long wrinkled face.  The wrinkles gave his face a stately veneer.  He was impeccably groomed.  His suit was crisply ironed and not a single hair in the thin ghotti that circled his mouth seemed out of place.  His gray pupils were alight with life and darted about swiftly as he assessed the room.  “It looks different from when I was last here,” Hans said.  His tenor revealed disappointment.      

      “When was that?”

      “Let me think? God, it has been almost thirty years.  I remember it clearly though. I remember that mantelpiece and that painting.  There used to be a lamp there?”

      Kevin looked at the spot where Hans’ long digit directed.  “No, it’s always been bare.”

      “I’m sure of it,” Hans objected.  “It had a mahogany stand and a brown shade with fauns stenciled on it.”

      “That lamp’s in the living room.”

      “It’s been moved.”

      “You could not remember where a lamp was positioned thirty years ago.”

      “I never forget anything.  Besides, it is not as impresive as you might think. Think back to your childhood. Can’t you remember where things were?”

      “I can, but I’ve lived here almost all my life.”

      “A man whose never traveled is incomplete.”

      “I lived in Boston.”

      “Not the same thing,” Hans began. “I recommend Denmark, it—” 

      “Would you like to take a seat in the living room?” Kevin interrupted.  The lighting by the entrance was dim and bleak.

      “Why not…”

      Kevin led Hans to the living room.  He had not cleaned it in weeks but it looked acceptable.  Hans sat opposite Kevin in a wooden armchair beside a vase with dead flowers in it.  He was not bothered by this and continued talking.  Hans spat out his consonants and stretched out the occasional word for emphasis.  “I was always trying to get your father to accompany me on one of my trips, but he always refused.”

      “You knew my father.”

      “We were close for a while.”  As Hans spoke, he perused the armrest of the chair in which he sat.  He fiddled with the global end of the armrest.

      “I never knew him,” Kevin said.

      “That’s right; you were young when he died.  You look a lot like him.”

      Kevin doubted this.  He had looked at pictures of his father.  His father had been chubby with a round face that Kevin had not inherited.  He didn’t look like his mother either.  His broad square features were an anomaly that none of his relatives shared.  “How long did you know my father?” Kevin asked, leaning forward.          

      “Since we were teenagers.  He had a temper, but when he was happy there was no better person to spend time with. You can’t imagine the parties he threw in this house. He would hire at least fourteen caterers and no person’s glass was ever empty.”

      “My mother told me he was always in financial problems.”

      “Of his own making.  I’m surprised your mother never told you about the parties. They met at one of them. Her friends dared her to gatecrash the party. Only wealthy families were invited. She snuck in.  She was not asked any questions because she was so beautiful.  We were all immediately infatuated her.  She had an elegance that was intangible.  I even made a pass at her but…” Hans paused.  “Telling a son about how you once tried to seduce his mother is probably not the wisest thing to do.”

      “That doesn’t sound like her.”   

      “Don’t worry, I am not a skeleton from her past.  She turned me down and rushed into a blissful happy marriage with your father.”  Kevin detected an undercurrent of acid in Hans’ words and his expression showed it. 

      “I’m not bitter,” Hans assured him, “I was back then. Your father and I argued over her and we never reconciled.  I felt betrayed because ‘I saw her first’.  Young love is foolish.  Though, foolishness is not exclusive to the young. I’ve been married twice and I still know nothing about relationships. Both Mrs. Woodruffs proved this repeatedly. I am now single until they nail the lid of my coffin shut.” 

      ‘Woodruff.’ Kevin now realized why his face was familiar. He was the wealthiest person in town. Like most of the ridiculously rich, his name was synonymous with tales of odd behavior that sometimes found their way into the local paper. Hans noticed Kevin’s surprise and raised an eyebrow.  Kevin blurted, “Are you here to see her?”

      The question resulted in silence. Hans spoke after a few moments. “I never considered that. I assumed she was dead.” He paused again, embarrassed. “I have become used to outliving my old friends. I did not plan to see her but I suppose I could.”

      He was hesitant and seemed flustered. 

      “Unfortunately she is asleep right now, but if you came back…”

      “It’s all right. I don’t know what I would say. It’s been so long and we did not leave on good terms. I did not take rejection gracefully.”

      “Then why are you here?”

      “Right, I forgot.” Hans reached into inner jacket pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping.  “I am here about the furniture.”

      “What?”

      “Didn’t you expect interest?”

      “Not really, but I am more surprised because of who you are.”

      “A man who has everything?” Hans tapped the armrest of the chair he was sitting in.  “Come look at this.”    Kevin got up and walked to Hans.  He looked down at the curved mahogany armrest and saw the letters A-N-G-U-S were etched into it in a cursive script.  “This chair was made by Angus Fedweir. He’s not well known, but what’s amazing is that if you look at most of the furniture in this house it also has his signature.”

      “So?”

      “He made every piece.  A house with furnishings all designed by one person was a rare thing before the industrialization of the furniture business.  This house has quite a few treasures. I tried to buy some of them from your father but he refused. Not because he wanted to keep the furniture, but because he knew how much I wanted it. He gained great satisfaction from having things I wanted.  In the end though, when he was broke and in debt, our places had changed.  But to get to the point, I would like to buy a few pieces of furniture?”

      “Of course.”

      Hans rose then pulled out a notebook and a silver pen from his maroon jacket.  Kevin led him through the rooms on the first floor of the house.  In each room, Hans inspected the furniture and made a comment.  “I am definitely taking this,” he said of the faun lampshade in the living room . Kevin then led him upstairs.  He showed Hans passed his and his mother’s bedrooms into the study and extra room.  Hans inspected the furniture in them.  When he was finished, he put away his notebook.  Kevin started taking him back downstairs when Hans stopped.  “Is Heather in there?” he asked.  He gestured at Kevin’s bedroom door.

      “No she’s in that one.”

       “Could I…maybe…see her? I ‘ll be quiet. I don’t have to talk to her. I just want to see her.”

      Kevin was unsure.  There was something about Hans’ expression as he said this that bothered him.  He had mentioned that he had left on bad terms with his mother.  What did that mean?  Would it upset her if she woke up to find Hans there?  A part of him also liked the idea of Hans’ remembering her as beautiful.  His own memories of his mother had been forever tainted.  Still, as these were not reasons enough to refuse, Kevin nodded and opened the bedroom’s door carefully.  He turned on the light, hoping she wouldn’t be disturbed.  She was sleeping on her side.  Her face was visible with feathery strands of hair hanging over it.  The bare side of her scalp faced the ceiling.  Her mouth was open and the blankets rose and fell slowly with her every breath.  Kevin looked at Hans. His facial expression had changed subtly.  It looked more focused.  His upper lip had descended over the lower and hugged it tightly.  His shoulders were tensed and his eyes were transfixed.  Both the inner tips of his eyebrows had dipped downwards. 

      Kevin was suddenly aware of Hans’ hoarse breathing.  He became uncomfortable.  He waited patiently unsure of what to do or say.  It felt like ages before Hans spoke.  “Thank you,” he said.  He dood turn his neck as he said this and was still staring at Kevin’s mother.  Kevin stepped forward hesitantly and closed the door .  He started walking to the stairway again when Hans spoke behind him.  “I’ll take all of it.”

      “What?”

      “All the furniture. The entire set. I realize now it’s only valuable as long as it is kept together. There are quite a few pieces, so the first figure that comes to mind is ninety thousand.”

      “Are you serious?”

      “Do you accept?”

      “I accept. I definitely accept.”

      As Kevin led him to the door, his heart was pumping rapidly.  He wondered if Hans really want the furniture.  Was he just trying to do a final favor for Kevin’s mother by helping her son?  Did he just want something to remember her by?  It did not matter.  Before leaving, Hans told Kevin that he would be going out of town the next day and he would not be back for a few weeks. He would have movers come by and pick up the furniture. He wrote Kevin a check that, when deposited, would take six days to clear.

      Even before Hans’ car drove away, Kevin’s mind was racing.  He had already begun imagining what he could do with the money.  Paying for the funeral would be easy.  He rushed upstairs and began flipping through his journal in delight.  At the first blank page he found he wrote ‘$90,000’ in large letters.  Beneath this he made some calculations.   Perhaps a furniture business, he thought wryly.  He began imagining all the things he would do when he returned to Boston.  He could throw a party when he was successful and invite all the people who had doubted him.  When Kevin went to bed, it took him a long time to get to sleep.  He could not help but fantasize.  When he woke up the next morning he was jubilant.  He wanted to tell his mother everything that had happened but when he woke her up she looked at him with the dead eyes he dreaded.  “I saw these women in the park.  They were singing about weegomin.  They were…” she began in a sad voice.  Her eyes were misty with tears.

      “Yes,” Kevin said barely concealing his anger.

      “They were singing and then the birds came out and—” Kevin got up and left.  She kept talking as though he was still there.  He made her breakfast and returned upstairs hoping, but not expecting, she would be lucid again.  She was no longer talking.  Kevin sat beside her and tried to spoon some poridge into her mouth.  She pushed his hand away violently.  A dollop of poridge fell onto the blankets.  He struggled with her for seven more minutes before he could get her to eat.  He got her to down half the bowl before she started talking to him about women singing about weegomin again.  Her tirade grew louder and she started shaking.  Kevin tried to pacify her but he couldn’t so he filled a syringe with sedatives and stabbed her bicep with the needle.  

      Kevin tried not to be disheartened as he watched her fall to sleep.  When she woke up, he told himself, she would be coherent.  He would tell her about his change in fortune and she would be delighted.  They would make plans together.  With these optimistic thoughts in mind, Kevin returned to his room and began reading a magazine.  The doorbell rang at a little past nine. Kevin answered the door.   Two movers stood outside.  He had not expected them to come so quickly.. Both had stocky builds and were dressed in brown uniforms.  Behind them, Kevin saw two trucks.

      One of them spoke in a guttaral drawl, “I am Cruz. This is Herrick. We’re here for the furniture.”

      Cruz had a leathery face and a bristly moustache. He reeked of sweat. He was holding a small notebook that Kevin recognized as the one Hans had been carrying.  Herrick was taller and more muscular but he had less of an imposing presence.  His eyes gazed at the ground and he shuffled a great deal.  Kevin welcomed them in.   

      “We’ll start in here,” Cruz said in the dining room. “Herrick, grab that side. Hurry up. I want to be finished by lunch.”

      “One thing,” Kevin interjected.  “My mother is asleep upstairs. Could you try and minimize the noise?”

      Cruz looked at him disdainfully and nodded. Kevin watched the movers for a few moments. Cruz barked orders at Herrick, who followed without question. Cruz was rude and despotic but Kevin had to admit he was efficient.  Kevin left the two of them to it and went back upstairs.  He took his book to his mother’s room so that if the noise woke her, he would be able to tend to her needs.  He could hear the occasional thump or scratch but the noise was limited. 

      Hours passed and Kevin went downstairs a little after noon. Despite Cruz’s determination to leave by lunch, they were still at it. This was because some of the furniture had awkward dimensions and getting it through the doors required finesse. Kevin offered them juice and sandwiches which they were grateful for.  They ate in silence and then Kevin returned upstairs.  Forty minutes later, they followed, ready for the upstairs rooms.         

      Kevin closed the door, but he could still hear a lot of banging. He looked at his mother.  He had decided not to wake her up for lunch because he knew how hard it would be for her to get back to sleep. When she was unable to sleep, sometimes she became flustered and unpredictable.  Kevin had injected her with more sedatives so that she would sleep until Cruz and Herrick left.    

      He found it hard to read with all the banging but, somehow, he managed to block it out until he heard a knock at the bedroom door.  

      “You’ve finished?” he asked Cruz when he opened it.

      “No sir. There is still the bed, table, chairs and the closet in there.”

      “You’re not taking the things in the bedrooms.”

      “That’s not what it says here.” Cruz pointed to the notebook Hans had written in.

      “There must be some mistake,” Kevin said and took the book out of his hands. At the bottom of the page, beneath the items Hans had wanted from the extra room and study, he had written, ‘Bedrooms: beds, tables, closets, chairs.’  The words were underlined. Kevin walked past Cruz and Herrick to his room and saw they had taken the furniture from it. His clothes that had been in a closet were bundled on the floor. 

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