I eventually drifted away into a short sleep, leaving me feeling cranky and listless after I awoke, as late afternoon naps sometimes do.

Woody went out to get something to eat. While he was gone, my cell phone started vibrating. It was a message from Garret with words of support. Cynical, acerbic Garret Macy does have the soul of a poet.

I got up and splashed some water on my face. I looked like hell, of course: matted hair, red and blotchy face. I tried to spruce up a bit, but there's only so much a scrunchie and some lipstick can do.

Woody returned with burgers. I ate about half mine before the rest of it ended up in the trash can. We talked a bit about our plans for the next day. Woody offered to go clean out my father's rental car and to pick up his belongings at the hotel. It was an enormous weight off my mind. I didn't see how I could get through it on my own.

I needed to pick up my father's ashes. I dreaded that, too, but it was something I had to do on my own.

Woody thumbed through the paper while I curled up onto my side on the bed. We didn't talk, but the company was nice. Eventually, he rose and said he would leave me alone.

I dragged myself in for a nice, long bath. It helped, a little. I lay there, thinking of the events of the past day and a half. I didn't think I could ever fully express to Woody how much I needed him there. My earlier anger seemed silly now.

I liked Woody very much and considered him a close friend, but I had never really thought of him as anything more than an over-caffeinated, charming doofus in the body of a GQ cover boy. It was hard to think of him as just that anymore. He'd been wonderful so far: strong, sensitive, stoic, with more depth than I had ever imagined.

Something was different.

I actually slept that night, a long, hard, dreamless sleep.

XXXXX

I passed up the Waffle House hash browns the next morning for plain wheat toast and coffee. Woody got a double order with extra chili. That boy does like his food.

He took my rental car and headed over to my father's hotel and the salvage yard to clean out the car. He came back and hour or so later with a suitcase and set it on my bed.

"It's just clothes, Jordan. A few pair of pants, a couple shirts. There was a thermos and some maps in the car. That's it."

I looked at it there for a long time. I couldn't open it. "Let's put it back in the car. We can drop it off at a Goodwill."

He nodded with understanding and the suitcase quickly vanished.

"Are you up for some lunch?" he asked when he returned from the car.

"No, thanks. I've got to go to..." The words were so difficult to say.

"You're going to the funeral home, aren't you?" he asked quietly. I nodded. "You want me to come?"

"No. I'd like to be alone, if that's okay."

He nodded. "Of course." He planted a soft kiss on my forehead and handed me the keys.

XXXXX

The funeral home was in a practical, no-nonsense building. It was one of the few funeral homes I've seen that aren't done up look like a miniature Tara. I was greeted by a small, round woman. From her voice, I recognized her as the woman I had spoken to on the phone.

Her eyes were warm and consoling, and I knew that a part of her probably grieved along with everyone who came through the front door.

My voice shook as I introduced myself. The woman smiled sympathetically and went into the back and returned with a simple plastic box.

She set it on the table while she drew up some paper work. I just...stared at it. It was surreal, how this huge man had been reduced to little square box.

She handed the box to me with a gentle smile. "Easter came early for your father this year."

Maybe it was just the way she said it, but a chill ran through me. I was speechless and immobile.

Worry lines creased her forehead. "Are you all right?" She touched my forearm with concern.

I nodded mutely, not quite able to speak, and stumbled out to the car.

Her words rang in my ear all the way back to the hotel.

Easter came early for your father this year. She had said it simply and sincerely, without the saccharine, moralizing judgment of the old nun. Easter came early for your father this year.

I pulled into the lot of the hotel. My father's ashes sat in the passenger seat next to me. I knew it would be this way; I knew it would not be easy. I placed my hand on the top of the box and began to sob.

"Oh, Daddy..." How long since I had called him that? I sat there for a long time, crying at the supreme unfairness of it all, telling him all the things I would never get to tell him in person, raging at him for leaving me

Finally, I made my way upstairs and called the airline to arrange for our trip back to Boston the next day.

XXXXX

Woody stopped by at dinner time.

"You hungry? Come on, you should eat. My treat."

I wasn't hungry, but I said yes, anyway. We walked around downtown Glendale for a bit. It's cute -- a lot of little antique stores. I thought of my father prowling around here, poking into theses little shops.

We somehow ended up at place called Edelweiss Haus, with a vast selection of unpronounceable beers and an obscene amount of German food, all served with snappy Germany efficiency.

We tried to chat, but I always found my mind wandering back to my father. We talked about work; I thought about my father. We talked about the Red Sox; I thought about my father. We talked about the weather, current events, the price of gas; I thought about my father.

Woody chatted on. I knew he was trying to distract me, and I appreciated it; I truly did. I tried to keep up, but I sank further into monosyllabic responses.

And then I started to tear up again. When my mother died, I think I was too young to really process it all. This was much, much harder. "Here I go again." I sniffed loudly and rubbed at my cheeks and eyes. "Jeez...I'm sorry, Woody. I'm not the best company, am I?"

"You don't need to apologize, Jordan."

"I just can't seem to stop, you know?" I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Does it ever stop?"

"No. But it gets better," he said gently. "It'll be hard for awhile. And then every day will get a little easier. Then one day, you'll get up, hit the shower, and you'll suddenly realize it wasn't the first thing you thought of when you woke up that morning.

He was quiet for a moment. His eyes scanned the room, and I knew he was very very deliberately choosing his words.

He started to speak, his voice soft and gentle. "You know...I've always wanted to be a cop. Since I was a kid. I wanted to be just like my dad. But I was just Woody Hoyt, the funny fat kid, Sheriff Hoyt's older boy. My dad used to call me Crisco, because I was 'fat in the can.'" He smiled ruefully. "He used to tell me I'd never make it as a cop. I was too fat, too lazy. Then he was killed, and I just had to prove him wrong. I wanted to be someone Cal could look up to. So, I started watching what I ate, working out every spare minute of the day. I started studying, and I got my grades up. I got a scholarship for kids whose parents have been killed in the line of duty. I never would have been able to go to college otherwise. I got into the police academy, made detective, got a job in Boston.

"I can honestly say that none of that would have happened if my father had lived. I'm not glad my father died, Jordan. I don't think he had to die so I could be a cop. It was just a senseless tragedy. Sometimes terrible things just happen. But I think that no matter what the tragedy is, something good always comes of it. You can call it karma, kismet, or the hand of God. But I don't think it is an accident."

We were both silent for a moment before he tucked back into his dinner.

"You've got to try this sauerbraten, Jordan. It's unbelievable."