One winter evening, the neighborhood was silent except for the swish of snow angels and the crack of icicles. Nobody was around, except me in my mom’s old 1960s wool coat with a fur collar.

 And then I went indoors, because Dad had called to say he was coming for a late dinner. That could mean 4 o’clock or midnight, depending on what we called “Dad’s clock.”

My relationship with Dad is what I call “hopeful.”  He’s like one of those guys who rappels down the Empire State Building and is still restless. What more?  Now what?  We understand the yearnings of Lewis, Clark, and Sacagawea, but Dad never finds what he wants.

Of course I was anxious. Would  this be the time we had a heart-to-heart? He said a few years ago that he he had to “make amends” to me. Perhaps it was because he’d nagged me when I refused to go on a “date” with Zachary, aka Z.

“He’s a heroin addict, Dad.”

Dad said that was absurd. 

“Ask him. He’ll tell you the truth.”   

The next time I visited Z’s house I organized his albums by genre and band.  He strummed on his electric guitar while I looked at his Kinks collection. “Did you know you have an American and British Best of?”

“They’re two different Best ofs. But take one. I don’t need both.”

Z reminded me of an ideal brother who buys you candy necklaces and gives you rides on his older brother’s motorcycle. “Z, I have something awful to say.  You can’t drop by my house because Dad is an idiot.”

“Doesn’t he like a guy with a high IQ who would share drugs with you if he didn’t love you so much?”

I said with tears in my eyes, “That’s the most charming thing anyone said to me.”

“We’re still friends then?

“Yes, always.”

“Platonic, or hand-holding?”

“Very platonic”.

“How about soulmates?  Heathcliff and Cathiy?”

“Wuthering soulmates?’

Then a few years later he overdosed and died.

 I didn’t tell my dad about his death. The funeral was horrible. During the wake, I asked his brother if I could have Z’s  Frank Zappa records. That’s how I g t to know him.”o
“Of course.  Take anything you want.”

I was like the widow, only I didn’t commit suttee.

Some heroin addicts make pretty good soulmates, Z was a great soulmate,  I imgined him in the Peace Corps, as as a brilliant physicist at Stanford.

What I couldn’t imagine was him dead.