The Trust by Norb Vonnegut

staving off her pain. After the tears were shed, after everybody said, “I’m so sorry,” or asked, “How may I help?” after they finished their drinks and paid their respects—she would sit alone in Palmer’s big house with nobody but her dog and her despair. The heartache would eat her marrow like myeloma. Nobody ever cheats grief from getting its way.
    “Miss JoJo,” interrupted Ferrell. “The caterers are on the phone for you.”
    “Oh, right. Tell Rose,” she replied, winking at me, “we need three dozen more of those shrimp kebabs. And more of that red snapper she serves with cilantro sauce.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Let’s find Claire,” JoJo said, tugging my hand, squeezing and touching her way through the gathering that was growing bigger by the minute.
    Roses were arriving left and right. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to talk with Palmer’s widow. Or they wanted to catch up with me. A woman whom I hadn’t seen since high school said, “Let’s grab a drink after the wake.” JoJo was on a mission, though, and insisted we find her stepdaughter.
    More of a “stepsister,” given their age difference.
    “I need to talk to both of you,” she said, speaking to me, but somehow connecting with everyone in the room.
    “Lead the way.”
    We found Claire staring at the portrait of Palmer over the fireplace, a Warhol no less. She wore a black top and pleated charcoal skirt, the close shades her signature style. She turned, and it was like we had never left my wife and daughter’s funeral. No hint of aging. No advance of time. Her skin soft in the afternoon light. Claire still possessed that vulnerable look—buffed, elegant, the expression that asked, “Will you take care of me?”
    “Hey, you.” I hugged her with my awkward O’Rourke hello.
    “I’m glad you’re here.”
    JoJo rubbed both our backs and said, “I spoke to Huitt this morning. He asked if we could all meet at his office on Thursday.”
    “Why me?” The request for my presence seemed odd. Huitt Young was one of Palmer’s lawyers. I suspected he was the executor, because the two men had been friends since they attended Bishop England together.
    “Huitt insisted,” JoJo confirmed.
    “Do you know why?” I asked.
    “Just be there,” she said. “Oh, there’s Gordie. Gotta go.”
    “Gordie?” I asked, once JoJo was gone.
    “One of dad’s roommates from college.” With that we stood there, alone with our memories of Palmer and each other.

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
    Back home, everybody called him “Bong.” Not that he was a druggie. And not that he abstained. Through the years, Bong had tried everything at least once. There was nothing better than “black hash,” opium mixed with hashish, especially when made from the really good shit that’s impossible to find outside Myanmar.
    Those days were behind him. He was a businessman. He had no time to get Marley’d. And the truth was, his nickname predated all the sucking, snorting, and shooting up. His parents called him Bong as a toddler because he loved doorbells and was always mimicking their sound.
    “Bing bong.”
    From inside his Chevy, a white nondescript rental, Bong stared at an art deco building across the street. ANACOSTIA was posted on the facade in bold, cursive, billboard-sized letters. And underneath, a signpost marked the streets. He was standing at the intersection of Martin Luther King Avenue and Good Hope Road.
    “Good Hope” my ass, he thought.
    Bong knew a thing or two about poverty. He had endured the worst, seen it, touched it, smelled it, heard it, and yes, tasted it. As a teenager, he lived in a barrio perched on stilts over a river clogged with excrement. There was nothing worse than watching a dead neighbor float facedown and ride the intestine-brown water to wherever. Anacostia was better than the slums back home. But the place was a pit no matter what The Washington Post wrote:
    “Historic district.”
    “Home to a growing