Dad's Book of Love

Ben Curry couldn't even look at his father. Not with that peaceful, smug, final look on his embalmed face. Ben's only regret in the moment was that he couldn't watch the old man roast in a cremation oven.

He had followed his dad's final wishes to the letter. Daniel Curry left specific instructions in his will that he wanted a small funeral, a closed casket, only close friends and family members in attendance, and no obituary. The old man really thought he was worth something. He'd accumulated a life's fortune of just over a million dollars. And he thought "Christmas card relatives" and "fair weather friends," as he called them, would "come out of the woodwork" once he died to lay claim to his money.

But Daniel's will had left Ben with one other directive. That the entire estate go to the man's alma mater, Duke University. Specifically to its School of Business as, again in his own words, his "college years were the best years of my life."

So, what had Ben been bequeathed? His father's wardrobe? His black Corvette? The man's baseball card collection? None of that. The will stipulated just one thing go to his only son, but it was described as Daniel's "most prized possession." A small, black notebook of names, phone numbers, addresses, and e-mail addresses; all of them female; and all assigned ratings of one to four stars. They were all the women Daniel Curry had slept with throughout his life. Thankfully, his late mother was not one of the conquests listed.

"Such a punchable face," Ben muttered softly, sneaking one final glimpse just as the funeral home director closed the lid shut forever.

The mortician pretended like he hadn't heard Ben's bitter lament. Instead, he focused solely on the business at hand. "Mr. Curry, I have just a couple more details to fill out on your father's death certificate. Would you like to wait until later or--"

"No, no. Let's move this along," Ben said.

"Very well, sir. Now, let's see. What was your father's occupation?"

That was an easy question to answer. Daniel Curry had worked in the same business for 40+ years. "He was an executive in the soap industry."

"Oh really?!" the mortician replied, somewhat excitedly. He had not heard that one before. "What brand? Dove? Zest? Irish Spring?"

"Pretty much all of 'em," Ben answered with a small sigh. "For occupation, just write down 'soap scum.'"

The mortician chuckled slightly, but quickly composed himself. "OK, and just one other question. Was your father ever in the U.S. armed forces?"

A booming voice from behind answered before Ben could. "No way! But when he saw a hot chick he liked, you could suddenly address him as 'Major Woody!'"

Daniel's best friend, A.J. Robertson, was a larger-than-life man. He was big physically, frequently loud, and always in search of a good time. He and Daniel met as fraternity brothers back in college, and A.J. was usually the one in their close circle of guy friends to yell "Beer run!" whether they were 21 or 71.

You couldn't not like A.J. Ben tried many times over the years, but it was quite impossible. "A.J.," he said with fondness, genuinely happy to see the man and the lightness he always brought to any situation. "Thank you for coming."

"I wouldn't be anywhere else, Little Ben," A.J. cracked, using a nickname he had assigned his friend's son at an early age and never stopped using.

A.J. had brought with him Daniel's other two long-time pals, Floyd Johnson and Hugh Bricker. All three were still vital, energetic men for their ages. But today, only A.J. was his usual boisterous se lf. "A great man has left us, gents," he said, patting his friend's coffin. "He was as kinky as a cheap garden hose. He could be as dramatic as Meryl Streep with dementia. And he was the kind of a-hole who would leave Burger Kings yelling, 'My compliments to the chef!' But he was harmless. I mean, he wasn't harmless to cheerleaders' poontangs back in the day! But he was the Dan Man, and we're gonna miss him."

"This is why you ain't delivering the eulogy, A.J.," Floyd chided.

"That's OK. I'm sure Little Ben here will do a great job. Dang, you had a great Pa!"

All three men noticed Ben immediately bristle. He tried to hide his hurt with a polite smile, but they could tell the younger man was hurting. And it was more than just the usual grief.

Hugh spoke up first. "You're not giving the eulogy?"

Ben didn't feel like hiding anything. He was in no mood to lionize his father. "No, I'm letting Pastor Schmidt do the honors."

Floyd shook his head. "That unbelievable bastard. He didn't leave you anything, did he? Oh, I can just hear him now with the lawyer. 'I made my way in this world. He has to, too.' Let me guess. He left it all to--"

Ben completed the sentence. "Duke University."

All three of Daniel's buddies moaned and groaned. With three sons of his own, A.J. was perhaps the most disappointed in his deceased buddy. "So, he left you nothing?"

"Oh, no," Ben quickly answered, eager to show all three his pathetic inheritance. He instantly whipped out the small, black notebook. "He left me this!"

To Ben's surprise, the three older men collectively gasped. Hugh and A.J. each took a step back at just the mere sight of the book. Floyd looked like he was about to kneel down in front of it, he was so in awe. He was the first one to speak. "Sweet Caviezel! Can it be?"

Hugh's voice cracked. "I think it is," he rasped. "Oh, God, it's beautiful."

A.J.'s eyes practically filled with tears. "Little Ben, do you have any idea what you have in your hand?"

Ben scoffed. "Yeah," he said dismissively. "It's my father's 'little black book.' A lifetime's ledger of the poor, unsuspecting women he bedded and ultimately disappointed. Pathetic. He even rated each one like you'd rate a movie or a restaurant. I mean, how low--"

"It's not just any little black book," A.J. cut him off.

"It is THE little black book!" Hugh exclaimed.

"A record of the finest women the Almighty put on this Earth in our lifetimes," Floyd mused. "And your father had them all. The man got more tail than a toilet. And that rascal never kissed and told. He never shared the … well, you know … the details. I mean, he didn't even give us, his best buddies, a simple Siskel & Ebert thumbs up or down on any of those many, many mornings after."

"He would only flash that notebook," A.J. added. "Proudly, smugly, he would scribble in it right in front of us, creak it shut -- he was very dramatic -- and then he'd stash it in the back pocket of his pants and say something like, 'Any of you see the game last night, 'cause … I didn't!"

"Yeah," Hugh interjected, as multiple memories came rushing back all at once. One in particular repeated. "And he'd always hold it up in the air and proclaim, 'Gentlemen, you can have this book."

And then all three in unison exclaimed, "When you pry it from my cold, dead hand!"

A.J. laughed. An idea came to his mind, and he quickly voiced it. "Hey, we should open his box, put it in his moribund hand, and then snatch it! I can't think of a better send-off for that ol' skirt chaser."

The other two were more than eager to go with A.J.'s idea, nodding their heads and yelling "Yeah!" and "Hell, yeah!" But Ben suddenly felt very possessive of the book. He even placed it in his own back pocket. "Now wait," he said. "We're NOT doing that! The casket's closed. I've said my goodbyes, and--"

"How much do you want for it?" A.J. impulsively asked.

Ben was dumbstruck. "What?" he asked. "Uh, sorry, fellas. It's not for sale."

A.J. confidently shot back, "I got a thousand dollars that says it is."

Ben passed dumbstruck and moved right to shock. "You gotta be kidding me."

Hugh then made his opening bid. "I got two thousand bucks for ya, boy-o."

Floyd wasn't playing. He upped the stakes without hesitation. "Ten thousand," he said.

Ben couldn't believe his ears. They had to be pulling his leg. "OK, come on, guys. This isn't some poker game you three are playing on a Friday night with stogies and--"

Hugh kept the auction going. "Fifteen!" he exclaimed, fairly certain that would be the trump bid. "Fifteen K!"

A.J. groaned. He still had one kid to put through college. And none of his three boys had been smart enough or athletic enough to warrant a scholarship. Dejected, he grumbled, "I'm out. I'd have to answer to the wife anyway."

Floyd dismissed him immediately. "Aw, too bad, so sad. Fortunately, Hugh and I are both divorced. Twenty thousand dollars, Ben! Now that's a halfway decent inheritance, wouldn't you say?"

A silence fell over the room. All eyes turned to Hugh Bricker. The man, tall and lean from his years as a coach and fitness trainer, considered his finances. He also considered what had become a near-mythic book to the three men and to so many other guys who'd been in Daniel's orbit over the years. But, in the end, it was just too much money. He had to bow out.

"It's yours, Floyd," he said quietly.

Floyd let out his best "Yee-haw!" as he reached for his checkbook. Ben eyes watered as Floyd wrote out the words and numbers "$20,000." He didn't even feel any remorse handing over the book. Not for that kind of cash. The two made the exchange, and the three older men scurried off to crack open the book and pour through its secrets.

Ben was left alone in the room with his father's casket. He felt a slight temptation to open the lid and look on his face one more time. But he conquered that urge. In the moment, he felt a mix of emotions. A bit sad, a bit angry, a bit elated that he suddenly had a $20,000 check in hand. But, mostly, he felt alone. He had yet to take a wife himself. And both of his parents were now gone.

Right at that moment, the soft voice of a man from the room's entryway called out, "Excuse me. Um, is this the room where Daniel Curry's funeral is going to be?"

The man was younger than Ben, and Ben didn't recognize him. His father's wishes were for a funeral of only close friends and family. Ben was only waiting for two other people, his Uncle Jack and Aunt Rachel. This man was not Jack.

"Yes, it is," Ben answered. "Who are you?"

"My name is Timmy," the man said, a bit sheepishly. He had no idea who he was talking to and how he was connected to the deceased. But he had no problem adding, "My mom just told me yesterday that Daniel was my father. I guess I've come to pay my respects."

Ben's heart pounded in his chest. With his father's philandering, he always wondered if he had a sibling or three out there somewhere. And this man looked very much like his dad when he was younger. Nevertheless, Ben challenged, "Your father?! How do you know for sure?"

The man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small, brown notebook. "Well," he began slowly. "Apparently, he knew he was going to die. And so last week, he mailed my mom this. And inside of it, he wrote, 'This is your only inheritance, son!'"