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frequently. We’d been close. She’d rant about her in-laws, but she loved her husband. There wasn’t much to be done, and there wasn’t much I could suggest. Nor was I being asked for suggestions.
     
    Shutting up is an underrated virtue.
     

TEN
     
    Wednesday 8:47 A.M.
     
    Charles Dudley Grum planted himself in the middle of the room.
     
    In response to his demand for a time frame for breaking horrific news to children, Scott said, “I’m sure she’s doing the best she can.”
     
    Edgar’s father glared from one to the other of us, finally fixed his eyes on me.
     
    He said, “What are you doing?”
     
    I looked up from the tax planner document I’d been about to inspect.
     
    I was not about to justify myself to him. Nor, simply because he asked a question, was I obligated to answer it. Instead, I asked, “How are you and the rest of the family doing?” Scott tossed the coupon booklet he had in his hand into the trash and came around the desk and stood next to me.
     
    Mr. Grum said, “You have no right to be going through those things.”
     
    I said, “Is there anything I can do to help you right now?”
     
    He said, “You will leave this. Go. You will not interfere in this family.”
     
    Before he walked in, he couldn’t have known what we were doing. We hadn’t started sorting until after Barry Grum’s earlier visit. I wondered why he’d come in here in the first place. I didn’t have a lot of patience with these people in normal times. Usually, by this point I’d have told him off. I kept my voice calm.
     
    I said, “I will leave what go, precisely?”
     
    He waved a hand at all the boxes and papers. “I will tell Veronica that you don’t wish to do this, that you will put all these papers back, and that you don’t wish to be bothered.”
     
    Very quietly, I said, “You don’t speak for me.”
     
    He stamped around the room bumping into a few of the larger animals. He slammed his fists down on the desk. He shoved fistfuls of paraphernalia and papers from the desk onto the floor. Throughout, he bellowed and screamed at full volume various versions of, “Get out. Go away.”
     
    There was way more emotion being exhibited here than was called for by the simple truth I’d stated.
     
    I stood up. The man was out of control. Did he need a sedative, a mountain of them? Did he take blood pressure pills? He looked like he needed a whole bottle’s worth. He looked a heartbeat or two short of a stroke. I was more worried about him collapsing than I was about making points about how absurd he was, or demanding to know who he thought he was that he could command me at will.
     
    He grabbed a stack of papers that were on the top of the heap in the box Scott had been going through. The top ones were hunting lodge brochures. He leaned across the desk, waved them in my face, and finished his rant with, “Nothing. You have nothing to do or say. You will do what I say.” He planted his fists on top of the desk. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath.
     
    I’d dealt with far too many idiot administrators in my time to put up with this. I took a breath to begin an angry response. I didn’t get the first syllable out. Scott put his hand on my arm and said, “Maybe you should sit down, Mr. Grum. Can I get you something to drink? A glass of water? Should I call a doctor? Or call 9-1-1? You don’t look well.”
     
    Scott’s deep, calm, thrumming voice brought me to my senses. This was no time for me to be out of control. Charles Dudley Grum might not need me, but Veronica did.
     
    Scott’s voice had no such soothing effect on our attacker. Thrusting his hips against the desk, he bent toward us, his clenched fists mushed onto the top of the desk, concentrated on his breathing. Scott and I stood silently. Finally, Mr. Grum had enough breath to say, “You can get out and not bother this family anymore. Do as I say!”
     
    In deference to his presumed emotional distress over his son, I