The Van Dad Drove to Church

How it happened

Garrett is my older brother. He is fifty-eight and runs the parts counter at the implement dealer north of town.

He is not a bad man on most days, and I want to say that plainly, because what he did was bad.

After Mom died, Dad put Garrett on the title of the van with him, with the word “or” between their names.

In North Dakota that means either one can sign it over. Dad did it so somebody could handle things if he got sick.

When Dad went into the hospital with pneumonia, it was bad for the first few days. He was on oxygen and they talked about moving him to Fargo.

Garrett drove up to Valley City every day, and I will give him that. He was there.

But somewhere in those first days, Garrett decided Dad was done driving. He did not ask Dad. He did not ask me.

He put an ad up, a man from Jamestown came on the Thursday, and Garrett signed the title over in his own driveway.

I found out on the Friday, when I drove past Dad’s house to check his mail and saw the empty spot. I called Garrett from the curb.

“He’s eighty-six, Nils,” Garrett said. “He just about died in there. Somebody had to be the bad guy, and it’s always me, so I handled it.”

“And the money?” I asked him. I already knew. I could hear it in how fast he had talked.

There was a little pause. “I’ve driven to Valley City eleven times this month. I’ve missed work. I figure I earned something for handling all of it. Dad won’t miss it. He doesn’t need a van anymore.”

That was his reason, and I have turned it over a hundred times since. He was scared. He was tired.

He had decided something for Dad, and then he had paid himself for deciding it. The first part I might forgive. The second part I could not get past.

“You didn’t ask him,” I said.

“He’d have said no,” Garrett said, and that told me everything.