Chapter 12

Friday June 25

During breakfast, I asked Dad whether he had talked to Sid since the trip. He looked startled, shoved back his chair, and went straight to the phone. I watched him dial.

“Nora, this is Keith Biggs. I haven’t talked to Sid recently. Is everything alright?”

Nora’s voice came through strained and thin. “Oh Keith ... I’m glad you called. Sid was diagnosed with cancer. He’s spent the last three weeks taking tests and just received the final word yesterday. He asked me to call you later today so you and Jack could come over. Keith ... he is very weak.”

Dad swallowed hard. “When would be a good time to come over?”

“After lunch. Say 1:00?”

“We’ll be there.”

Dad hung up slowly. His face had gone pale.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Sid was diagnosed with cancer,” dad said quietly. “His wife says he’s weak. We’re going over at one.”

I sat back, stunned. Until then, death had been an idea that belonged somewhere outside my life. Now it had reached into our kitchen. Neither of us spoke for five long minutes.

Finally, dad spoke. “Jack ... I know this is your first time being exposed to someone who is probably going to die. I want you to understand something. This is part of the circle of life. Everyone dies eventually. We all just hope to delay it for a long time.”

He paused, gathering himself.

“When we go over this afternoon, the best thing we can do is listen. Sid and Nora have had three weeks to process this. They’ve gone through the shock and anger. Now they’re trying to tie up loose ends. We are one of those loose ends. I’ll listen, and when the time is right, I’ll assure him that our agreement will be honored and that his wife will receive her due.”

His dad looked directly at Jack. “If you feel you need to speak, do not tell him he’ll beat this. And don’t say you understand what he’s going through — because he may not, and you don’t!”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. That came out harsher than I intended. I guess I need to process this news myself. We’ll talk more in an hour. For now ... just tell him thank you for telling us, and that you’re grateful for his efforts to get your ideas to market.”

Dad retreated to his office. I grabbed my bike and rode without choosing a direction, letting the wind fill the space where my thoughts would not settle. I ended up at a small park and sat on a swing, rocking gently while I tried to make sense of how unfair everything felt.

Dad’s favorite line kept circling through my mind: Life is not fair.

It was the only answer I had.

I rode home slowly and arrived just in time to grab a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich before Dad and I left for Sid’s house.

Sid sat on his patio in the warm sun. When Dad and I stepped through the screen door, he smiled. The smile looked familiar; the frailty underneath it did not.

“Keith, Jack — it’s good to see you,” Sid said, his smile bright.

I made myself smile back and shook his hand carefully.

His dad began gently, “Sid, we were shocked when we called this morning. Is there anything we can do?”

Sid shook his head. “Thank you, but no. Nora and I have worked hard these last few weeks to put things in order. She won’t be sixty‑five for three more years, and things will be tight. We’ve decided to sell the house, and she’ll move to Miami to be with Sarah and the kids. If you can help her, fine — but otherwise, we’re okay.”

Keith nodded. “I’ll make sure to get her forwarding address so we can send your share of the royalties.”

Sid smiled faintly. “I never doubted you’d do just that. Speaking of royalties ... what’s been happening?”

Dad explained how we had secured the contracts and worked with our attorney to settle the terms. I listened for the right moment to add the news Sid had helped make possible.

Jack spoke up. “Sid, you remember the drawings I made — the ideas I thought Rubbermaid could build? We presented them to the Board of Directors and signed a contract. The product line includes outdoor children’s playsets, including the Power Wheel tricycle. Nora will receive five percent royalties on that toy line.”

Dad glanced at me and gave a small nod. I hoped I had said enough.

Sid studied Jack for a long moment, then said softly, “Thank you.”

Dad stood. “We’ve taken enough of your time. Sid, please let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

We walked into the house quietly. I closed the door as gently as I could, as if a loud noise might crack something already fragile. Dad set his keys on the counter and exhaled.

“Dad ... I don’t know what to think. Sid looked so different.”

Dad nodded. “I know, son. It’s hard. Death has a way of making everything feel heavier.”

We sat at the kitchen table. Dad leaned back, rubbing his forehead.

“Jack,” he said, “there are things people say—old sayings, clichés—that get repeated because they hold truth. They’re not fancy, and they’re not perfect, but they help us make sense of moments like this.”