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The last day he would spend on this mortal coil Bob Irion arose having no clue that would be the case.  There’s an argument among those who congregate at the Grounds for Divorce if that is better than having at least a little warning.  Some steadfastly believe that a little time to prepare and get your affairs in order is beneficial.  Rusty Hammer and Rex Hall are firmly in that camp.  Others, like Chad and Lucinda, feel like no warning whatsoever is best.  BAM!  And it’s done.  Maybe it’s generational.

Bob woke up and took and did the Triple-S, (shite / shave / shower), dressed and drove the Imperial over to the Grounds for Divorce for a morning Folgers and a little conversation at the roundtable.  He wasn’t what you’d call a regular, but everyone enjoyed seeing him when he did show up.  He sat next to Benard Marx and they swapped stories of their youth and made up lies about cars they drove and girls they dated before they settled down.

When he left, Bob drove over to O’Malley Parts Zone and got a fresh can of paste wax and some terry cloth towels. Consuelo later said he told her she looked beautiful while she was ringing him up, something he’d never done before. That led Sister Thelma to speculate maybe he knew more about the end being near than folks thought. Bob wasn’t usually a man given to offering compliments.

Neighbors recalled seeing the huge black Imperial Crown on Bob’s driveway all afternoon while he applied what would be the last coat of paste wax he’d ever put on it.  At the end of the process he went inside for another quick shower before taking the shiny sedan over to K-Bob’s for dinner.  He waved as he took a seat by the salad bar that looked like a big chuck wagon, acknowledging Pastor Peterson and his family on the other side of the room.

When he went through the line at the salad bar there was no way of knowing that new kitchen help had been hired.  Bob loaded up on potato salad, just like he had every other Friday night.  He noticed that the potato salad was chunkier than usual and had more mustard, which should have served as a warning.  But it didn’t. He’d taken his second bite before he realized the even more obvious difference in the new cook’s recipe: paprika.

Bob was deathly allergic to paprika.

When the second bite hit the back of his throat it swelled up tighter than a duck’s butt, completely shutting off his air supply. Having just enough wherewithal to stand up and wave his arms, the waitress Macy-Jo thought he was asking for a refill on his sweet-tea.  Nobody else really took much notice.  Finally Mrs. Peterson glanced up and saw that he had begun to turn a shade of blue that in no way could be taken as healthy.  She rose from the table to see if Bob needed some assistance.  

By then it was too late.  Before she could get to him, Bob was going down.  He still might have lived if his head hadn’t caught the lip of the giant cast iron “Bottomless Pinto Bean Pot” right there at the end of the salad bar. The nasty gash on his forehead that resulted compounded the effect of the paprika.  The Mormon Tabernacle Choir took their places beside the condiments and Bob saw Jesus before the paramedics ever even picked up the phone over at Station #2.

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“All in all,” Lucinda whispered to Delgado at the funeral, “not a bad way to go.  Quick, but with enough drama to make it memorable.”  Delgado made a mental note to throw away the paprika when he got back to the Grounds for Divorce.

The kids and grandkids all met at Bob’s home on Goliad Street after the service to begin the ardent process of going through a lifetime’s worth of memories and possessions.  There was no question they’d sell the house; none of them lived within a thousand miles of Fort Stockton.  The kids each laid claim to a few sentimental items and divided up photographs, family bibles, and things that held some kind of personal meaning. The grandkids all felt a sense of loss that was hard to define. 

“I was always going to come down and visit the old guy,” one said. “But it just seemed like the time was never right or something else got in the way. Never thought about the fact he’d be gone one day.”  The grandkids all spent the night at the Naughty Pine Motel. The family met at the Grounds for Divorce for breakfast the next morning and then the younger generation made their way back to their respective homes. They returned to their regular lives with little or no additional thought given to their departed grandfather, Fort Stockton, or anything else that wasn’t pressing. Bob’s three kids spent a week going through the process of organizing the estate and moving forward. 

They held an estate sale for everything in the house that none of them wanted. After the estate company’s fee the proceeds from the sale was split between the three of them. “Not all that much,” Bob’s daughter commented, “to show for an entire life.”

“Old brown furniture, cracked dishes, and silverware that hadn’t seen the light of day in decades isn’t in high demand,” her younger brother noted. The older brother walked in with a similar look of surprised disappointment.

“Just left Prairie View State, where Dad had his money,” he said as he sat down on a chair that didn’t sell in the estate sale.  “Not much there.  He had less than ten grand in checking and savings in the bank. They’re doing the paperwork for me to close out the accounts. It won’t even cover all of the funeral expenses.”  The three siblings laughed about their dad having a car that was older than they were, but admitted that they were impressed he was able to keep it in such good shape for all these years.

“I’m not sure how he was able to afford to keep the damn thing running. It’s got to be expensive to keep a big ol’ car like that on the road!”  The youngest son said. 

“Probably would have been cheaper to buy a new car,” Bob’s daughter noted, “but you know how Dad hated payments.”

The solemnity of the moment was broken by the sound of a 1971 Mercedes-Benz 280SE 3.5 coupe pulling up in the driveway. Finished in black over red leather, it had a sunroof that was open, the sounds of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons wafting out subtly.   The door of the Benz opened and a rather dapper young man stepped out of it. Standing up straight and brushing the wrinkles out of his obviously expensive suit, the man grabbed a briefcase from the back seat and made his way to the front door of what had been Bob’s house. The kids were watching him from the window in the living room, clueless as to whom the young man might be. 

Inside, the observers watching him noted that the car had to have been expensive and rare, moreso even than Dad’s Imperial, although equally grand.  The suit was imported and finely tailored.  The briefcase was top quality leather and hand stitched.  They knew a guy who looked like that and drove such an automobile wasn’t selling something.  They were curious just what might have brought him to their father’s doorstep.

After looking at the neighborhood from the view of the front porch, the man turned and rang the old doorbell next to the massive oak front door and waited. Bob’s daughter made her way to the door and opened it wide so her siblings could see whatever was about to take place.

He looked pleasant as he stood there, attractive but all business. 

“Good afternoon,” he said as he extended his hand to Bob’s daughter. “First let me say I’m sorry for your loss.”  She shook his hand, no idea who he was or what he might want.

“My name is Franklin Danbury Jr.  I’m your father’s attorney.” 

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