I found out my father had died in a car park.
I was carrying a bag of mineral tubs out to the truck when an old cattleman I half knew came over and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Sorry to hear about Harlan.”
I put the bag down.
“What’s happened to my dad?”
He looked at me like I had said something strange.
“Troy. Your dad passed near on two weeks ago.”
My father had been in the ground for eleven days.
Nobody had told me. Nobody had told either of my brothers.
Dad worked thirty years at the county livestock sale barn. Every Tuesday he was there before it was light, sorting cattle into the pens. There is not a rancher in four counties who did not know Harlan by sight.
And his three sons found out from strangers, one at a time, over about nine days.
That evening Keith found the obituary online.
It called Dad a devoted husband to his beloved wife, Charlene.
Then it listed who survived him.
Charlene first. Her two daughters, described as his daughters. Charlene’s grandchildren, described as his grandchildren.
Lonnie is not in it.
Keith is not in it.
I am not in it.
Ninety words, and all three of his sons taken out of them.
Keith wanted it to be a mistake. Somebody rushing. A form filled in badly.
Lonnie did not.
“She planned this,” he said. “She waited until there was nothing left for us to do about it.”
I rang a lawyer in Warrensburg. He gave me twenty minutes for nothing and he was straight with me.
Charlene was legally married to our father. Dad had named her on the life insurance. And as his surviving spouse she had the right to make the arrangements.
What she did was cruel. It was not a crime. The sheriff was not going to do anything about a funeral we were not invited to.
Then he said a sentence I have not been able to put down.
“There’s no amount of money that gives you back a funeral you weren’t at.”
We did not take her to court.
Instead the three of us sat in Keith’s workshop on a Thursday night and argued about it for two hours.
Keith wanted to drive out to that house.
Lonnie said no. “She’d love it. Don’t hand her that.”
And then we sat there for a while not saying anything, because underneath the anger was the thing none of us wanted to say out loud, which is that our father was gone and not one of us had said goodbye to him.
Then I thought of something.
Dad knew hundreds of cattlemen over thirty years. Most of them would not have heard.
“She kept us out of the funeral,” I said. “She can’t stop us having one.”
Keith looked up. “Where?”
“The sale barn. He gave that place thirty years.”
We rang the man who owns it. He did not even pause.
“Building’s yours. There’s no charge.”
We spread it the way things actually move out here. Word at the feed store. Farmers telling other farmers. We wrote the details by hand on a sheet of paper and left it by the till.
