Elizabeth strode into the room. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do with all of Dad’s things…” She tossed her head as she complained, swinging her chin-length yellow hair toward the objects that filled the table. She tended to speak in italics. She tended to lie about her past. She claimed that she’d had red hair as a kid; she said she’d always been thin. When I knew her, she was mousy brown and fat.

If it weren’t for classmates.com, I wouldn’t be with her. But Valerie Otterholt tried to organize a 35-year reunion and that led to reconnections. She’d stayed close to Valerie Fartham and she let me know when Mr. Fartham died. So there I was with Valerie O. and Elizabeth, doing the funeral chores. Mrs. Fartham was useless with grief. Valerie Fartham had disabled herself with obesity. Somehow I and old Jim Wilson were roped into helping Valerie O. with the family.

There were two big issues: the funeral rites and Mr. Fartham’s “stuff.” His widow and daughters wanted to keep his best guitar for sentimental reasons, and most of his books for their library, but they had little use and less room for all the objects he’d collected. Most of the items weren’t worth much. Mr. Fartham had taken up many hobbies and then hadn’t pursued most of them, so there were parts of stamp and coin collections, beginner equipment for woodwork and tennis, used games, pre-computer puzzles, and classic magazine pornography.

Jim Wilson walked into the room as Elizabeth’s hair settled around her neck. He was still rambunctious, but he’d grown into his personality; he was no longer the completely obnoxious boy of my youth. I understood he was a slut – consistently unfaithful to his wife of thirty years – but he was the most interesting person around.

“God but funerals make me horny,” he whispered as he passed me, ambiguously caressing my waist.

I twisted a little away from him and made some unmemorable comment about a desire for life renewal.

“No, I don’t think it’s that,” he said. “There’s something about women at funerals: well-dressed, quiet, vulnerable I guess, that just turns me on.”

“Well contain yourself,” I advised him. “Help Elizabeth come up with a home for all these things.”

“I’d rather help you,” he leered. “I can’t stand her. She wasn’t too bad as a kid, but she’s a phony joke now.”

I reconsidered him at that. He might be a slut but it appeared he was at least a little selective.

“Bingo,” he said.

“Huh?”

“I mean the game! Let’s array the stuff on the dining room sideboard and play bingo for things! Really. I’ll run the show. Winners can select what they want.”

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Ack-shually,” Jim made it sound British, “it’s a damn good one.”

(to be concluded tomorrow)