Read Farewell Navigator for Free Online

to it—that many a girl dreams of consorting with an elderly shut-in who is doing with his life, hmm, let’s see, not a thing? And who can’t, because he has no car or for that matter valid driver’s license, take her to the movies?
    A girl might like him anyway, I say.
    Why?
    I could answer because he’s handsome , or because he’s smart , or because he’d serenade her sweetly on the guitar . But other people are wiping his chin on too regular a basis. He lets it get dirty, knowing there’s a napkin on the way.
    I haven’t yet told my mother that in the new year my eye will not be so peeled. She will say, But he has such trouble taking care of himself!
    And I will say, It wasn’t your fault about Dad.
    Their Christmas lists are brief: money or what can be traded in for money (brother) and a good cookbook (mother).
    You must want more than a cookbook, I prod.
    No, I’ve got everything I need, she answers, clamping one hand on my shoulder, the other on Horace’s. Have a good expedition! and she pulls the orange scarf snugger around his neck.
    We walk in the glittery cold to the center of town, where ribbons festoon the street lamps and plowed snow hardens on the curbs. You haven’t told me what you want, he complains, and there’s only two days until Jesus.
    Surprise me.
    It’ll have to be an economic surprise.
    At the fire station, we stop to admire the trees. They are selling some really tall ones. How come Mom bought such a fucking midget? he says. These ones are killer. She should’ve gotten one here.
    Can you say one positive thing ever?
    I say many positive things.
    Um, not really.
    Half an hour ago I told you I liked your new peacoat, did I not? Where are we headed? I’m fucking cold. That is—I amdelightfully cold. Cheerfully chilled. Felicitously freezing. See? Positive .
    Let’s finish Main Street then get some lunch.
    Only two days left, he repeats with fake gloom. He’ll be as relieved as I will to have Christmas over with. I never miss my father more than on the Eve, when he used to read us “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” and make up little extra parts where the reindeer said things.
    I know Mom told us cookbook, Horace continues, but I think we should get her a dating guide for seniors. To those about to die, we salute you and your waning libidos . . . . He takes my mittened hand, settles it in the crook of his elbow, and adjusts his lope to my shorter strides. Linked, we cross the snow-scabbed bridge and follow the curve of Main Street toward the outdoor mall, directly across from the bar where cops pushed my brother’s face against a brick wall until the blood trickled onto his sneaker laces. Horace still drinks at this bar. He is becoming one of those town guys who sit on a stool, watch the game, flirt with the bartender, and at last call leave alone.
    Go on in, he says, lifting his cigarette, I want to finish this.
    A rope of bells chimes. The bookstore is warm and quiet.
    The woman behind the counter, bent over a book, says without looking up: Help you find anything?
    Oh shit, I say.
    It is Horace’s writing instructor.
    She looks up.
    I need something for my brother, I say.
    What does he like to read?
    Everything. Except, you know, crap.
    She nods, twisting a piece of hair around her finger.
    He’s a writer himself, I add, so he’s kind of critical.
    Will she say, Actually I’m a writer too! and will I ask if she ever teaches and will she say, Yes, at the community center! and will I mention Horace and try to tell, from how her eyes move, what she thinks of him?
    No. She gets up and leads me to a table display. Here are some new titles he probably won’t have seen yet.
    She returns to her stool and I pretend to scrutinize dust jackets. Sweat seeps down my ribs. Through the snowflake-painted window I watch the back of Horace’s head. Her—the unappreciator—who knows where she roams? And him, the hater, who roams in a tiny circle from his apartment to the blood bank to