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whatever you have to say right here, or else call Philip on his cell phone.”
    Ricky took a deep breath. How to say it? Lead up to it? Blurt it out? What? “Philly’s dead. He died in a car crash at the studio. The stunt car careened out of control and hit him. They said he died instantly. I came here to tell you because I didn’t want you to hear it on the TV or radio.”
    He couldn’t remember the name of the biblical figure who turned into a pillar of salt, but that’s how Roxy Lam looked to him at that moment. She didn’t so much as twitch or blink. She didn’t cry or sob. What she did, after five, excruciatingly long minutes, was back up, step by step, until she was in the room. The door closed quietly. He heard the snick of the lock falling into place.
    He turned around, aware of men and young boys moving about. The gardening crew was trimming and weeding the premises. He could smell freshly mowed grass. The smell reminded him of his boyhood, when he and Philly used to take turns pushing the old mower with the dull blades. Whoever mowed didn’t have to rake up the grass. Then they invented power mowers with bags attached that caught the grass as it was cut. He wondered how many kids were put out of jobs by the new mowers. And then there were riding mowers. His own gardener had one.
    Is it Roxy’s place to make the arrangements, or mine as the closest blood relative? he wondered. Should I knock on the door again and offer my help? Why not? All she can do is say no. He knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked a second and then a third time. While he waited, he noticed the gardeners looking at him strangely. Maybe it was time to leave.
    Leave to go where?
    Home to his empty house and the picture of the two little boys on the mantel.
    Â 
    Roxy wanted to bury Philly in a cemetery in Los Angeles and to hold a service at the grave site rather than at a chapel. Ricky fought her tooth and nail on that and finally won when he convinced her Philly needed to rest in peace next to their parents in the cemetery that was close to their old hometown, Placentia. The private service was mercifully short. Ricky listened to the words, wondering how the minister knew so much about his brother. Roxy must have told him. If everything he was saying was true, Philly was already a saint with a giant wingspread. The minister didn’t say anything about his hard-ass attitude or his do-it-my-way-or-it’s-the-highway philosophy. Nor did he mention his two nephews, Tyler and Max. He barely touched on Philly’s name before going on to say that he was a wonderful father, which was an outright lie. Reba was Roxy’s daughter. Roxy, according to Philly, had married at the age of sixteen. The marriage had lasted six months, and Reba was born three months later. Philly had never adopted Reba, and Ricky wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he wasn’t able to love another man’s child. That had to mean Reba had no claim to his brother’s estate. In the end, it wouldn’t matter. Philly would have provided for his wife and Reba because that’s the kind of guy he was. At least, that’s the kind of guy Ricky thought he was.
    Ricky looked over at Reba, who was standing next to her mother, having flown in from New York the night before. They were both dressed in black from head to toe. He thought Philly would have hated all that black. He’d always said black reminded him of Halloween, witches, and goblins.
    Thank God the service was almost over. The little parade of mourners, and there weren’t many, filed past the casket, each with a flower in hand. Ricky purposely waited, Ted next to him, until Roxy and Reba were on their way to their car.
    â€œSome guy over there wants to talk to you, Ricky,” Ted whispered.
    â€œWho is it?”
    Ted shrugged as he laid his white rose on top of the bronze casket. “He said he’s your brother’s