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help you?” she asked.
    I handed her the postcard. “I’m confused about this card,” I said. “My father died a month ago. I’ve been getting his mail at my address in Durham and this card came and—”
    “We send these out when someone hasn’t paid their bill for their post office box,” she said, looking at the card. “It’s a warning. They don’t pay it in two months, we close the box and change the lock.”
    “Well, I understand that, but see”—I turned the card over—“this isn’t my father’s name. I don’t know who Fred Marcus is. My father was Frank MacPherson, so I think this came to me by mistake. I don’t even think my father
had
a post office box. I don’t know why he would. Especially not in Pollocksville when he lives—
lived
—in New Bern.” It would take me a long time to learn to speak about my father in the past tense.
    “Let me check.” She disappeared into the rear of the building and came back a moment later holding a thin purple envelope and a white index-type card. “This is the only thing in the box,” she said, handing the envelope to me. “Addressed to Fred Marcus. I checked the records and the box is assigned to that name at this street address.” She held the index card out to me. The signature did look like my father’s handwriting, but his handwriting was hardly unique. And besides, it wasn’t his name.
    “That’s the right street address, but whoever this guy is, he must have written his address down wrong,” I said, slipping the purple envelope into my purse.
    “You want me to close the box or you want to pay to keep it open?” the clerk asked.
    “I don’t feel like it’s mine to close, but I’m not going to pay for it, so …” I shrugged.
    “I’ll close it then,” she said.
    “All right.” I was glad she’d made the decision for me. I smiled. “I hope Fred Marcus doesn’t mind, whoever he is.” I turned toward the door.
    “Sorry about your daddy,” she said.
    “Thanks,” I said over my shoulder, and my eyes stung by the time I got to my car.
    Driving into New Bern, I passed through the historic district. Old houses were packed close together on the tree-lined streets and gigantic painted bears the town’s iconic symbol, stood here and there among the shops. A pair of bicycle cops pedaled down the street in front of me, lightening my mood ever so slightly. Although I hadn’t lived in New Bern since I went away to college, it still had a hometown pull on me. It was such a unique little place.
    I turned onto Craven Street and pulled into our driveway. Daddy’s car was in the garage. I could see its roof through the glass windows—one of them broken—of the garage door. I hadn’t thought about his car. Was it better to sell it or donate it? I had an appointment with his attorney in the morning and I’d add that question to my ever-growing list. The car should really go to my brother Danny to replace his ancient junker, but I had the feeling he’d turn it down.
    My old house was a two-story pastel yellow Victorian in need of fresh paint, with a broad front porch adorned with delicate white railings and pillars. It was the only house I could remember living in, and I loved it. Once I sold it, I’d have no reason to come to New Bern again. I’d taken those visits home to see my father for granted. After Daddy’s sudden death, I came back for two days to arrange for his cremation and attend to other details that were now a blur in my memory. Had he wanted to be cremated? We’d never talked about that sort of thing and I’d been in such a state of shock and confusion that I couldn’t think straight. Bryan had been with me then, a calming, loving presence. He’d pointed out that my mother’d been cremated, so that would most likely be my father’s wish as well. I hoped he was right.
    Sitting in my car in the driveway, I wondered if I’d been too hasty in ending it with Bryan. I could use his support right now. With Daddy gone