A young attorney arrives at my father’s house now that his law office is limiting visitors per social distancing protocols. He unloads a stack of papers filled with empowering decisions – last will and testament, multiple powers of attorney.
Don, a gentle fossil of a man who has known my father for forty-seven years, is here to serve as witness. Oddly, it is our first acquaintance.
At the circular dining room table, the attorney explains the documents in painstaking detail. My father interjects his own lawyering, attempting to interpret in layman-speak what my brother and I comprehend. The lawyer is polite and patient. He is on the clock.
My eighty-year-old father stops the attorney at the Do Not Resuscitate clause to clarify how resuscitation, should he choke or some obstruction occur, sending wrong signals to a caregiver, requires an addendum. He reads aloud specifics he had the attorney insert.
I catch a side profile of the attorney. The part in his hair, disheveled toward the crown, suggests he rolled out of bed and chose the business casual route. This isn’t a shower-first meeting. I wonder what his billable rate is, if his firm charges full rate for travel, if he’s gunning for partner.
My brother wears his standard-issue Harley Davidson t-shirt and coordinated orange and black ball cap. His beard is working toward ZZ Top promise; his Crystal Gayle waterfall of hair down his back, meticulously sectioned by rubber bands into a ponytail, reveals greater progress. He’s speechless throughout this procession yet upholds the definition of menacing. I notice the attorney avoids eye contact with him, locking eyes with me whenever possible.
As my father completes a recitation of his inserted DNR clause, he gets choked up, pleased with his own act of legalese, perhaps staving off a premature curtain call. He is, after all, part of the vulnerable population. My father and Don sign papers. My father has been orchestrating this moment for weeks, giving us updates along the way – the logistics, purpose, parties involved. Somewhere along the way I assumed we had a bit part in this play. And now I can't tell – is this a comedy? A tragedy? Are there hidden cameras?
Don and the attorney get up to leave. My father pops to his feet. There is a comingling of thank yous and glad-handing among the three actors. There is chatter about sidestepping probate and the noteworthy work accomplished this morning. My father speaks of his desire to orchestrate an encore presentation for my mother at her memory care ward. I remain seated, my eyes affixed on their hands, the all-too-close camaraderie of exceptionally pleased adults, and all I can think of is this pandemic, social distancing, the countless handwashing memes pouring over me. How strange to be a witness to this important tactical execution, of papers notarized, and to be in the company of these men, some of whom I might never see again. Thankfully nobody reached for the doughnut holes at the center of the table, but the paperwork, in the event of an untimely death, has been notarized.
Thad DeVassie's work has appeared in numerous journals including Unbroken, Spelk, Lunate, Ghost City Review, 50-Word Stories, FEED, and Barely South Review. His chapbook, THIS SIDE OF UTOPIA, is forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press. A lifelong Ohioan, he writes from the outskirts of Columbus. Find him online @thaddevassie.