600 Hours of Edward (27 page)

Why I remember it: It was the last game Grandpa Sid and Grandma Mabel ever went to, and they called us in Billings afterward to tell us about it. When my father was hanging up with Grandpa Sid, he said, “I love you, Pop.” And then he told me he loved me, too. I liked it when he would do that.

Game number 6: January 16, 1996

Result: Cowboys, 38; Green Bay Packers, 27

What happened: The Cowboys, after a one-year hiatus, returned to the Super Bowl, this time under Coach Barry Switzer. They haven’t been back since. My father hated Barry Switzer. “That guy couldn’t coach a dog to lick his balls,” my father said. “How they got to the Super Bowl, I’ll never know.” My father talked about balls a lot.

Why I remember it: As my condition was worsening, my father and I were growing apart more and more and weren’t talking as often or as nicely as we had before. When this game was over, my father said, “You’re the best football buddy I ever had, Edward.” That made me feel good.

Game number 7: January 4, 1981

Result: Cowboys, 30; Atlanta Falcons, 27

What happened: The Cowboys scored twenty points in the fourth quarter in Atlanta and rallied to beat the Falcons, which allowed them to go on and play the Philadelphia Eagles in the National Football Conference championship game. They lost that one, though, which is why it isn’t on my list.

Why I remember it: My father was despondent when Roger Staubach retired. “That’s the greatest Cowboy ever, Teddy,” he said. (That’s a subjective judgment, not a fact, but my father was never the stickler for facts that I am.) On this day, Roger Staubach’s successor, Danny White, led a comeback every bit as good as any Roger Staubach ever led. That pleased my father very much.

Game number 8: October 27, 2002

Result: Seattle Seahawks, 17; Cowboys, 14

What happened: Emmitt Smith, the last of the Dallas Cowboys’ so-called “Triplets”—the other two were Troy Aikman and Michael Irvin—set the all-time National Football League rushing record with an eleven-yard run against the Seattle Seahawks. It was really neat: They stopped the game and everything to recognize Emmitt Smith’s achievement.

Why I remember it: Much like the other loss on my top-ten list, the result didn’t matter. My father and I saw National Football League history together. “That guy’s the greatest player in Cowboys history, bar none,” my father pronounced, perhaps forgetting that he had already made that judgment for Roger Staubach. But
that’s the nice thing about subjective judgment, if there is a nice thing about it: you can change your mind.

Game number 9: September 5, 1983

Result: Cowboys, 31; Washington Redskins, 30

What happened: The Cowboys rallied from 23–3 down after the first half to beat the hated Washington Redskins in Washington, DC. The truth is, I could have picked ten times the Cowboys beat the Redskins as my favorite games, because I dislike the Redskins just that much. I would say hate, but I think it’s a misapplication of the word.

Why I remember it: I didn’t see it. It was a
Monday Night Football
game, and because the Cowboys were losing so badly, my mother suggested that I didn’t need to stay up and see the rest of the game. The next morning, I sat down to have breakfast with my mother and father and asked how the game ended. “Oh, you know,” my father said. “About how you’d expect…They won!” I couldn’t believe it, but he said yes, the Dallas Cowboys had won, and he showed me the proof in the
Billings Herald-Gleaner.
It was really neat.

Game number 10: November 22, 2007

Result: Cowboys, 34; New York Jets, 3

What happened: The Cowboys beat the stuffing out of the New York Jets on Thanksgiving. It really wasn’t that great a game.

Why I remember it: Because I realize now that it’s the last game I ever saw with my father.

Today’s Dallas Cowboys–New York Giants game definitely would not make my top-ten list, even if my father were here to
see it with me. For a moment, I think it’s better that he’s not here, but that makes me feel bad. I think Dr. Buckley would say that it’s only football and that I ought to have more perspective about things. Dr. Buckley is a very logical woman.

But even someone with perspective would say that the Cowboys are terrible today. I wish Tony Romo would hurry up and get better from his broken pinkie, because the guy who is playing in his place, Brad Johnson, cannot play very well. The New York Giants are a very good team, and I don’t know if the Dallas Cowboys could beat them even if Tony Romo was healthy—how could anyone know such a thing? But maybe if Tony Romo were playing, the Dallas Cowboys wouldn’t be trailing 21–7 at halftime, with the seven points coming only because the Giants did something uncharacteristically sloppy.

The way the Cowboys have been playing lately, it is not much fun to pull on my blue or white Tony Romo jersey and root for them.

– • –

The knock on the front door comes while I am rummaging around in the freezer for that Häagen-Dazs chocolate sorbet, only to remember that I tossed it out after my father died, a decision I am now regretting. I head across the living room to the front door and peek through the spy hole.

It is Donna Middleton. Holy shit!

I consider backing slowly and softly away from the door and pretending that I am not here, but now Donna Middleton is saying, “I heeeeaaaar you, Edward.”

Holy shit!

I open the door.

Donna Middleton is not wearing her nurse’s scrubs, even though Sunday is a day she works. She is wearing a jacket and gloves. Behind her, Kyle is sitting on the Blue Blaster.

“Hi, Edward,” Donna says. “I’m off today. We thought you might want to come outside for a while.”

“I—”

“No way!” Kyle says, standing up and pointing at my chest. I look down at my white Tony Romo jersey.

“The Cowboys suck. Denver rules.”

“Kyle!” Donna Middleton snaps, looking over her shoulder at him. She then turns back to me. “I hate it when he says ‘sucks.’”

“You don’t know, Kyle!” I say. “Dallas doesn’t suck. Dallas has won five Super Bowls and gone to eight. Denver hasn’t done that.”

“Edward! You’re fighting with a little boy,” Donna says.

“He started it by saying Dallas sucks,” I say, and then I shout again at Kyle, “Dallas doesn’t suck!”

“He started it? Edward, he’s nine.”

“So what? What are you doing here, anyway?”

“We thought you might want to come out and watch the Blue Blaster, but that was obviously a bad idea.”

“Yes, it was. I’m busy, and you shouldn’t be here.”

Donna looks shocked, and then she looks mad. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll leave.”

“Good.”

“Let’s go, Kyle.” They leave, hand in hand.

The Blue Blaster stays.

– • –

I sit down for the second half of the Dallas Cowboys’ game against the New York Giants, but I don’t really watch. What difference does
it make? The Dallas Cowboys are stupid. Donna Middleton is stupid, and her stupid kid says stupid things. The whole world is stupid.

– • –

By 10:00, I’m still frustrated, but I decide that I’m calm enough to at least try to watch tonight’s episode of
Dragnet
. It’s called “The Big Bookie,” and it’s one of my favorites.

This episode, which originally aired on April 13, 1967, is one of the few in which Officer Bill Gannon isn’t Sergeant Joe Friday’s partner. This is because the case that’s being worked is in North Hollywood, where Officer Bill Gannon apparently worked for many years, and so there is concern that he will be identified if he is working undercover.

For this episode, Sergeant Joe Friday is paired up with Sergeant William Riddle, who is also the department’s chaplain.

Sergeants Joe Friday and William Riddle are investigating a bookmaking operation, and they’re posing as surveyors who frequent a bar, where they try to win the confidence of the bartender, who sets up the bets. Meanwhile, Officer Bill Gannon stakes out the home office, where the bets come in.

Eventually, the gambling ring is busted, and Sergeants Joe Friday and William Riddle take the bartender, Richard Clinger (played by Bobby Troup), to jail.

It turns out that Richard Clinger has a little girl with a bad heart, and she dies while he is in jail. He calls Sergeants Joe Friday and William Riddle and asks if they can help him make the funeral arrangements, since he is in jail.

He says he wants a nice service for his little girl and asks if they know anyone who can do that for him.

Sergeant Joe Friday tells him, “We have someone,” then gives him a nice pat on the arm.

And so it is that I am sitting here, in the living room, crying. And I cannot stop.

– • –

Donna:

I wish I could tell you why I cannot speak to you. I suppose I could, but somehow, I think you would think less of me if you knew that I had signed an agreement not to. Perhaps it’s better that you just think I am mean.

I wish I had not yelled at Kyle. You were right: That was childish, and when I tell Dr. Buckley about it, I bet she will tell me the same thing. I am not feeling very secure about the Dallas Cowboys these days, and I overreacted.

It would be easier for me if you would just quit coming around here. Then I would not have to be mean and I would not have to see the disappointment in your face. And perhaps I would not be so disappointed in myself.

Maybe you could think about this the next time you’re tempted to come over and knock on the door.

Regards,

Edward Stanton

Just before midnight, I slip outside and see the Blue Blaster still sitting in my front yard. I quietly roll it up the driveway and put it inside the garage.

Donna Middleton and Kyle have just told me the funniest story, and we are all laughing hard. I don’t think I have ever laughed so much.

I glance out onto Clark Avenue from the front porch, and I see my father’s Cadillac going by. My father rolls down the window as he passes and looks at us there, and he shakes his head disapprovingly.

I stop laughing.

“What’s wrong?” Donna Middleton asks.

I don’t say anything, but I reach into the mailbox and fish out today’s letters. There is only one.

It says Lambert, Slaughter & Lamb, Attorneys at Law, on the envelope.

I open the letter.

Mr. Edward M. Stanton Jr.:

You have broken the agreement set forth with your father regarding fraternization with Donna Middleton. This will have serious consequences.

Regards,

Jay L. Lamb

A wrecking ball crashes into the house my father bought for me to live in, destroying it with a single swing.

– • –

It’s 7:38 a.m.

I am awake.

I am out of breath.

I have been awake at 7:38 a.m. 226 times out of 308 days this year (because it is a leap year).

I am not looking forward to day number 308, the fourth full day without my father.

I reach for my notebook and pen to record my data. The pen does not work. I reach for backup pen number one. It does not work. I reach for backup pen number two. It does not work.

I do not believe in omens, as what people call omens usually can be explained as coincidences, and although coincidences are facts, the belief in omens is not a belief in science. People who put stock in omens believe that some mysterious, mystical force is guiding what happens in our lives. I believe in science. I believe in facts.

But if I did believe in omens, I would not be enthused about the fact that none of the three pens on my nightstand works. Until I get up and find an operational pen, my data will not be complete.

– • –

The same perfectly put-together, impossibly pretty secretary is the gatekeeper to Jay L. Lamb’s office. Today, however, I am not
waiting alone in an uncomfortable chair to find out my father’s displeasure with me. I am sitting next to my mother, who is also in an uncomfortable chair, waiting to find out what my father has intended for us.

“Can we go in yet?” my mother asks the impossibly pretty secretary. It is 9:11 a.m. We have been waiting eleven minutes longer than we should have to see Jay L. Lamb.

“It should only be a few more minutes,” the impossibly pretty secretary says apologetically. “He’s had a conference call that ran a little long.”

“Thank you,” my mother says, an edge in her voice.

“Oh, and Mrs. Stanton,” the impossibly pretty secretary says, “I am so sorry about your husband. He was the sweetest man.”

“Thank you,” my mother says, and now her lips are pursed. I think about
Dragnet
actor G. D. Spradlin and his mouth tighter than a chicken’s asshole. That’s what my mother looks like right now. I stifle a giggle.

At 9:16, the impossibly pretty secretary tells us we can go in.

– • –

“Maureen, I am so sorry about the wait,” Jay L. Lamb says, getting up from behind his desk to meet my mother. He takes her hand and guides her to a chair. He has never done that with me, and I’ve been here many, many times, although it occurs to me that I never bothered to count them. No matter. I wouldn’t want Jay L. Lamb to touch me.

“Edward,” he says, nodding at me and gesturing for me to take a seat. As I sit down, he goes back behind his desk and sits in his big office chair, which looks far more comfortable than the chairs my mother and I are occupying.

“So,” he says, clapping his hands together, “we’re here to go over Ted’s estate and how it will be apportioned. Maureen, of course, you know all of this, being Ted’s wife. Edward, I’ll go over it with you, and please ask any questions if you’re unable to understand.”

“I’m developmentally disabled, Mr. Lamb. I’m not stupid.”

Jay L. Lamb looks momentarily dumbfounded, and then he smiles thinly. “Yes, of course. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

– • –

My father is rich—really, really rich. You would be shocked if I told you just how rich, and that’s why I am going to tell you:

My father has an estimated $27.85 million in assets—that’s stock holdings, savings, pensions, and the like, as Jay L. Lamb tells it—and that doesn’t even include the house and cars and boat and cabin on Holter Lake. As Jay L. Lamb tells it, my father had a remarkable penchant for getting into and out of investments at just the right time. He left the oil business before it tanked in the early 1980s. He invested heavily in tech throughout the 1990s, and then he shifted his holdings before the bubble burst in 2001. He bought a lot of Google stock in the initial public offering and has seen that investment grow. My father, it seems, was as good a businessman as he was a politician.