By Mark Russ
“Take what you want.” My sister slumped in the one available chair.
My father’s studio apartment in Alphabet City appeared as I had imagined, a dilapidated sofa bed with cigarette burns on the upholstery, a chrome dinette table and matching chair, a four-drawer chest, and a single lamp in the corner. I hadn’t seen my father in ten years and now he was dead.
Nothing in sight sparked my interest. I opened the single closet where his clothes hung. I ran my hand along the shelf above the clothes rack and found the multitool my wife, Ingrid, and I, had given him for his sixtieth birthday, just after our daughter was born. We saw the gizmo on TV. “Only $29.99. Call now. Operators are standing by.” My father was handy when he wasn’t drunk. It seemed like the perfect gift.
I dropped it in a Gristede’s shopping bag. A Planters Peanut can, blue, abraded in spots, sat on the shelf across from the tool. I reached for it, curious to see what was inside. It was heavier than I had expected, filled nearly to the brim with screws, nails, nuts, washers, bolts, of every size. There were oddly shaped pieces of metal as well, likely scavenged from contraptions that outlived their usefulness. I placed the can in the bag, thanked my sister for taking care of the arrangements, and left for my home in Yonkers.
“What’s in the bag?” Ingrid, asked.
“You should’ve seen the place.”
“The bag.”
“Oh. I took back the tool we had given him years ago. Along with a can of junk he must have been collecting for decades.” I removed each from the bag for Ingrid to see.
“He must’ve used that stuff to fix kids’ bikes in the neighborhood. Remember your sister told us he did that from time to time?”
“Yeah. I remember him fixing my bike growing up.” I retreated to the basement where I found a place above my workbench for the can and tool.
Two weeks later Ingrid called me into the kitchen and pointed at a cabinet drawer.
“The drawer pull fell off.”
I inspected the knob, the metal shaft, and screw threads.
“The nut’s missing. Did you hear it fall?”
Ingrid shook her head. I searched the drawer and floor but couldn’t find the nut. I brought the drawer pull to my workbench in the basement and fumbled through my collection of screws and nuts which were neatly arranged by size in small plastic containers. None of the nuts fit.
“My father’s stash,” I mumbled to myself and tried to remember where I put the can. “There it is.”
I emptied a portion of the contents onto the workbench counter with the motion of a gambler shooting craps. Then I sifted through the pile with my index finger and when a nut looked promising, I tested it.
“Damn. Close but no fit.”
I rummaged through the contents of the can for another three or four minutes.
“Got it. A bit rusty but it works!”
I shoved the nut in my pocket and carefully guided the mound of rejected pieces into the can using the side of my hand. I climbed the steps to the kitchen, and replaced the drawer pull.
“You fixed it. Nice.”
“With a little help from my father,” I said, leaning against the laminate counter with my arms casually folded across my chest.
Ingrid looked baffled.
“I found a nut in the stupid Planters Peanut can.”
Her expression did not change.
“The can of hardware bits and pieces I brought from my father’s apartment?”
“Oh, yeah. I remember. Your inheritance.”
Six weeks later, a similar thing happened. This time it was a hex screw I needed to adjust Ingrid’s seat post on her bike. I returned to the can at least a half dozen times during the next year, and each time I found just the right part. I shared my observation with Ingrid.
“Uncanny,” she said, raising her left eyebrow.
“Funny. What do you think it means?”
“What do you think it means?”
I shrugged.
A year passed. The unveiling of my father’s gravestone was scheduled around the anniversary of his death. My sister had arranged for a simple inscription to be placed on the stone he shared with my mother; “Loving Husband, Father, and Grandfather.”
“You left some things off,” I whispered to my sister.
She glared at me, but her disapproving expression rapidly faded.
We were all gathered at the grave; my sister, wife, daughter, brother-in-law, nephew, and the rabbi we hired for the occasion.
“Would you like to say a few words?” The rabbi looked at my sister and me after reciting several psalms in Hebrew.
My sister cleared her throat. “Dad was a complicated man. It wasn’t always easy. My parents often didn’t get along, but they loved each other. And now they’re together forever. In peace, I hope. No arguments now about who will get the last word.”
The rabbi suppressed a chuckle.
“Truth be told, my brother got the worst of it. He and Dad fought all the time.” My sister turned to me. “But he loved you. He once asked me for advice on how he could make things better with you. I told him not to drink so much. He smiled.”
“Rabbi, may I say something?”
“Of course.”
I told the story of how I went to my father’s apartment after he died and found the blue Planters Peanuts can. I described what was in the can and how I always seemed to find just the right screw or nut or washer to fix whatever needed to be repaired. As I spoke, a quivering feeling started in my feet and climbed to my head. My eyes welled and tears streamed down my face and onto the crown of the monument. My sister, wife, and daughter embraced me. It was a perfect fit.
* * *
Mark Russ is a psychiatrist in Westchester County, New York. He was born in Cuba, the son of Holocaust survivors. He has contributed to the psychiatric literature throughout his career and has recently begun to publish short stories and nonfiction pieces. His work has appeared in The Jewish Writing Project, The Minison Project, Jewishfiction.net, The Concrete Desert Review, Literally Stories, Fig Tree Lit, Of the book, Blue Lake Review, BooksNPieces, and Sortes.