FOUR
* * *

He turned. The man was older, late fifties or early sixties, balding, graying hair. A worn, wrinkled face.

"I'm sorry," Chandler said. "I don't know ...."

The man chuckled. "Don't expect you would. It's been, what, fifteen years?" He extended his hand. "Paul Yates."

Paul Yates. Chandler remembered now, slowly, bit by bit. Dad's friend. Drinking and fishing buddy. Never saw him much. He took the offered hand. "Nice to see you," he said flatly.

The man's grip was strong. "Here to see your Dad?"

Chandler regarded the man suspiciously. "Maybe."

Paul nodded. "I'm real sorry about this, you know," he said. "I was always sure he would outlive me. Tough as nails."

"Yeah."

Paul watched him for a moment. "Is your mother expecting you? I don't want to keep you."

"No. She doesn't know I'm here. Neither does he."

One eyebrow on the man's tired face went up.

"Really?" Paul paused, looked around. "Tell you what, then. I hate hospitals, you know? I just came down from your dad; he's sleeping right now. How about we go out for something to eat, then you can come back and do whatever it is you want to do?"

#

Chandler didn't know why he agreed, even as he and Paul walked out of the hospital and made their way to a nearby restaurant. But there was something about the older man, something that went past all the defenses Chandler had erected over all these years, and he found himself walking with him.

An old friend, but not my old friend. Dad's friend. He knows the score, knows how it is, or at least what Dad told him. Guess what, Paul? My useless son went and found God! Went and became a preacher boy. So now I've got a dumb-ass druggie boy, and a dumb-ass preacher boy. Waste of damn time, the both of them.

They sat, he and Dad's old friend. They ordered. Chandler watched him.

"It's been a long time," Paul said finally. "I wouldn't have recognized you except for your brother; at first I thought you were him, except for the clothes. Sid wouldn't be caught dead in a suit."

Chandler nodded.

"So," Paul said. "Last I heard, you were in the ministry."

Chandler nodded again. "Still am."

"Really? How's it treating you?"

"All right. I'm in California. Town called Glenoak."

"Got your own church there?"

"I'm an associate pastor."

Paul had ordered a beer, and now sipped at it as he ate. "You know, your dad and I used to go on and on about God. Argued like hell about it."

Chandler raised his hand, rested his chin there, tried to sound like he didn't care.

"Really."

Paul chuckled. "Oh yeah. He thought faith was a damn fool waste of time. 'We get out of life what we put into it,' he used to say. 'Church is for people too lazy to get things by working. They want God to give it to them without them having to earn it.'"

"You think that?" Chandler asked.

"Me?" Paul laughed. "Hell, no. My wife gets me to church every Sunday; she hates it when I cuss, too. Been a Methodist since I was a boy. Can't say I buy all of it, but my wife's smarter than I am, so I figure I should trust her."

"Smarter?"

"A good woman is always smarter. They talk about who wears the pants in a family; I think they should talk about who wears the skirts."

For the first time Chandler chuckled. "Don't tell my dad that," he said without thinking.

Paul smiled. "I have. A lot of times. We did a lot of fishing, and when you fish you talk about women. That's what fishing is for. And the best kind of marriage is one where you're convinced she's smarter than you are, and she's convinced that you're smarter than she is. Keep that in mind when you're out looking."

Chandler thought of Roxanne, said nothing.

"So tell me, Chandler: You come all the way from California, get all the way to the hospital, and you still aren't sure you want to see your dad?"

Chandler's gut tensed. "Just because he's dying, I'm supposed to?" he snapped.

Paul shook his head. "Relax," he said. "Everyone dies, Chandler. In your line of work you know that. Hell, you could walk out of this restaurant and an anvil could fall on you, or someone could smack your head with a big mallet. Life is a terminal disease; you make the best of it while you have it."

"And that makes it all all right, everything he did to me?"

"No." Paul finished half his beer. "Look, son. I saw your dad, all those years. I saw the way he talked to you and Sid when you were boys. It was wrong and he was a damn fool for doing it, and there was a time or two I told him so. But you know he wasn't the sort to listen to other people. If he'd listened to his doctor ten years ago he probably wouldn't be up in that ward right now with a dozen tubes running in and out of him. I'm going to miss him and I'm not going to apologize to you for that, because he was my friend, and he was a good friend, too. And he loves you and Sid. Maybe it's a screwed up kind of love, but it's there. He was proud of you a lot, but he couldn't say it. I just wish ...."

The man's voice trailed off and he finished his beer in a series of quick swallows.

"You wish what?" asked Chandler.

"I wish he could have told you instead of me."

Chandler watched the older man for a long moment.

"Do you think he could ... now?"

Paul shrugged. "I don't know. Does it really matter?"