My Father, Body and Soul
By JOSH MAX
JUNE 14, 2014
IT’S been eight years since I last saw my father, lying in his reclining chair in his living room, as perfectly still as the half-filled coffee cups on the side table.
I was driving about 40 miles from Dad’s place when I got a call from one of my brothers, who told me to pull over, then delivered the news: Dad was gone. The super of his apartment complex had noticed mail piling up on the front steps, looked through the window, saw what he saw, then called the cops and my brother.
My brother told me to go there right away. I pulled myself together and numbly drove to Dad’s apartment, where a lone, hard detective stood in a full suit and tie in the blistering July heat. “You might not want to go in,” the detective said. “He’s been there awhile.” My dad would have liked this guy.