The Assembler of Parts: A Novel (37 page)

Mother and Father tell Brandon D’Woulfe not to take the suit to trial. They cut him off in mid-sentence as he tries to wrap his words around their decision. Either settle it or drop it, they tell him, and hang up the phone. He does settle it. All the hospital offers is expected defense court costs. D’Woulfe takes his forty percent of the eighty thousand dollars. Mother and Father use their share to renovate the basement. They put in a shower and fix a bedroom and add windows. Cassidy moves in. He sings every night. Nana and Ned visit a lot. They tape his songs, often downstairs in the basement where the sound booms off the bright grass-green of the painted cinder block walls, enlarging in its echo. It sounds as if there’s more than one singer down there. Later, much later, Father will play one of those recordings at Cassidy’s funeral because no one, no one, sings “Dark Eyed Molly” like Cassidy.

Father distributes quarters now* to the meter-needy in line at the post office. “Whoa! Who needs quarters? Quarters for sale! Twenty minutes on Uncle Sam. Come and get your quarters!” He never charges for quarters. He holds the record, most free quarters, unbroken to this day*.

Cassidy takes a little nip at night, most nights. Just one before the meal. Rye, rocks. One is enough. He sips it slow. When Mother and Father are not watching, he lets Jeanine or Joey or, later, little Carina dip their fingers in. “A toast ta your big sister, Jess. Her life,” he says before they drink their glass, knuckle by knuckle.

I know that this is true. My tongue, my throat, burn in the hallowed light of every full evening where all is forgiven. And my thumbs, my thumbs shimmer. They are perfect.

A
writer is needy.

A writer needs critical readers. Mine are special. Kathy Carter, Barbara Dagenais, Mary Mason, Suzanne Aro, Mary Ann Hillier, Caroline Wellbery, Chris Gilson, Katie Gekker, Mariah Burton Nelson, Pat Hieber, and Frank Palumbo all provided invaluable critiques and guidance through the drafts of
Assembler.
Thank you all.

A writer needs family and friends who nourish the writer’s life. Mine—my wife, four great children, and dozens of close friends from Northern Virginia, D.C., Maryland, Dallas, Texas, Phoenix, Arizona, New York, and Southern California—provided me every support, from encouraging words for my ears to what apparently is some fanciful concept of a writer’s wardrobe, pipe and slippers included. Thank you, all.

A writer needs an agent. Mine, Sorche Fairbank, is the best. She provided sure-handed guidance, steady resolve, and unerring insight from start to finish. Thank you, Sorche.

A writer needs an editor. Mine, Cal Barksdale, is brilliant. He found the dim and unjoined stars in my writing and showed me how to make them shine and where they fit. Thank you, Cal.

A writer needs a first-believer. Mine, Barbara Esstman, was first to see what lay inside the imperfect sentences of my earliest draft and graciously urged me on. Thank you, Barbara.

And last, but possibly really first, a writer needs the spark of an idea. Holly and Bob Kimmitt asked me to do them a favor one Super Bowl Sunday afternoon. The sacrament of human dignity that walked across the street to meet with me became the rite of initiation, the “Big Bang,” for
The Assembler of Parts.
Thank you, thank you, Holly and Bob.