I called him a liar, but I didn't want him dead.

Granted, I was weary of his manipulating stories; and the way he lashed back at me even when I tried to help him didn't make him any more endearing. But if I had known he would set fire to the wastebasket in his bathroom, then lay in bed until the smoke had overcome him, I might have said or done something different.

As it is, I did more for Timothy than Carolyn thought appropriate. “You should spend as much time with your pregnant wife,” she would say when I would come home late, having spent the better part of another day trying to find Timothy a job, or covering up his mistakes in an effort to help him keep whatever employment I had found for him.

Even Carolyn grew quiet when she heard the news about the fire. Even she wondered if maybe someone could have said or done something that would have changed Timothy's mind. Even my self-centered, morally-myopic wife stopped to ponder just how responsible we all are for how we interact with those around us.

“I'm not my brother's keeper,” said Cain.

“Au contraire,” replied God.

Then along comes Jesus to up the ante, talking about loving even your enemies and causing no one to stumble.

Tough words to digest when you are reading the obituary of a pathetically lonely, exasperatingly annoying man who turned to you for help. Especially when, in the end, you refused that help.

Yes, my reasons were valid at the time. I'm not sure that matters much. Timothy was still dead.

***** 

The funeral was on a Wednesday in early January; a new year for me, and the end of the road for Timothy. I arranged my work schedule so that I could attend. I was both surprised and a little relieved that I was the only mourner in attendance. I had spent most of the morning trying to compose answers to questions posed by the family and friends I imagined would be there; answers that wouldn't betray my inward guilt, but wouldn't be outright lies, either.

“I don't know if you'd call us friends,” I planned to say. “But I thought your son was a fin man.”

“I couldn't always be there for him,” I would explain. “But I hope some of the things I did for him were helpful.”

It turned out that I needed to answer no questions, nor provide and explanations. The “service” was seven minutes long and presided over by a female pastor from a non-denominational church in town. Timothy hadn't been a member, I learned. Burial service for the indigent was just something the Reverend did as both a ministry and a way to supplement her income. The bare bones service was paid for by whatever state agency pays for such things, seven minutes actually seemed about four minutes too long.

The lack of turnout was disappointing on one level: I had hoped to meet or see someone – or some THING – that would have lent credence to Timothy's fanciful stories. Someone in dark glasses and a dark suit, standing off to the side, watching to be sure the body was really buried would have made me feel better.

As it turned out, I saw no one, and went home wondering just how many of Timothy's tales had been true.

When I mentioned my thoughts to Carolyn later that night, she just chuckled at my naiveté. “I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't have married you if you were dumb enough to believe anything that man said.”

I lowered my head, and went back to assembling the crib she had purchased earlier in the day.