I thought about stepping forward and telling the people gathered around the open grave that Mr. Harrigan thought the Internet was like a broken watermain, spewing information instead of water. I thought of telling them that he had over a hundred photos of mushrooms on his phone. I thought of telling them he liked Mrs. Grogan’s oatmeal cookies, because they always got his bowels in gear, and that when you were in your eighties you no longer needed to take vitamins or see the doctor. When you were in your eighties, you could eat all the corned beef hash you wanted.

But I kept my mouth shut.

This time Reverend Mooney read the scripture, the one about how we were all going to rise from the dead like Lazarus on that great gettin-up morning. He gave another benediction and then it was over. After we were gone, back to our ordinary lives, Mr. Harrigan would be lowered into the ground (with his iPhone in his pocket, thanks to me) and the dirt would cover him, and the world would see him no more.

As Dad and I were leaving, Mr. Rafferty approached us. He said he wasn’t flying back to New York until the following morning, and asked if he could drop by our house that evening. He said there was something he wanted to talk about with us.

My first thought was that it must be about the pilfered iPhone, but I had no idea how Mr. Rafferty could know I’d taken it, and besides, it had been returned to its rightful owner. If he asks me, I thought, I’ll tell him I was the one who gave it to him in the first place. And how could a phone that had cost six hundred bucks possibly be a big deal when Mr. Harrigan’s estate must be worth so much?

“Sure,” Dad said. “Come to supper. I make a pretty mean spaghetti Bolognese. We usually eat around six.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Mr. Rafferty said. He produced a white envelope with my name on it in handwriting I recognized. “This may explain what I want to talk to you about. I received it two months ago and was instructed to hold it until . . . mmm . . . such an occasion as this.”

Once we were in our car, Dad burst out laughing, full-throated roars that brought tears to his eyes. He laughed and pounded the steering wheel and laughed and pounded his thigh and wiped his cheeks and then laughed some more.

“What?” I asked, when he’d begun to taper off. “What’s so darn funny?”

“I can’t think of anything else it would be,” he said. He was no longer laughing, but still chuckling.

“What the heck are you talking about?”

“I think you must be in his will, Craig. Open that thing. See what it says.”

There was a single sheet of paper in the envelope, and it was a classic Harrigan communique: no hearts and flowers, not even a Dear in the salutation, just straight to business. I read it out loud to my father.

Craig: If you’re reading this, I’ve died. I have left you $800,000 in trust. The trustees are your father and Charles Rafferty, who is my business manager and who will now serve as my executor. I calculate this sum should be sufficient to see you through four years of college and any postgraduate work you may choose to do. Enough should remain to give you a start in your chosen career.

You spoke of screenwriting. If it’s what you want, then of course you must pursue it, but I do not approve. There is a vulgar joke about screenwriters I will not repeat here, but by all means find it on your phone, keywords screenwriter and starlet. There is an underlying truth in it which I believe you will grasp even at your current age. Films are ephemeral, while books—the good ones—are eternal, or close to it. You have read me many good ones, but others are waiting to be written. That is all I will say.

Although your father has power of veto in all matters concerning your trust, he would be smart not to exercise it concerning any investments Mr. Rafferty suggests. Chick is wise in the ways of the market. Even with school expenses, your $800,000 may grow to a million or more by the time you reach the age of 26, when the trust will expire and you can spend (or invest—always the wisest course) as you choose. I have enjoyed our afternoons together.

Very truly yours,

Mr. Harrigan

PS: You are most welcome for the cards and the enclosures.

That postscript gave me a little shiver. It was almost as if he’d answered the note I’d left on his iPhone when I’d decided to slip it into the pocket of his burial coat.

Dad wasn’t laughing or chuckling anymore, but he was smiling. “How does it feel to be rich, Craig?”

“It feels okay,” I said, and of course it did. It was a great gift, but it was just as good—maybe even better—to realize Mr. Harrigan had thought so well of me. A cynic would probably believe that’s me trying to sound saintly or something, but it’s not. Because, see, the money was like a Frisbee I got stuck halfway up the big pine in our backyard when I was eight or nine: I knew where it was, but I couldn’t get it. And that was okay. For the time being I had everything I needed. Except for him, that was. What was I going to do with my weekday afternoons now?

“I take back everything I ever said about him being a tightwad,” Dad said as he pulled out behind a shiny black SUV some business guy had rented at the Portland Jetport. “Although . . .”

“Although what?” I asked.

“Considering the lack of relatives and how rich he was, he could have left you at least four mil. Maybe six.” He saw my look and started laughing again. “Joking, kiddo, joking. Okay?”

I punched him on the shoulder and turned on the radio, going past WBLM (“Maine’s Rock and Roll Blimp”) to WTHT (“Maine’s #1 Country Station”). I had gotten a taste for c&w. I have never lost it.

* * *

Mr. Rafferty came to dinner, and chowed down big on Dad’s spaghetti, especially for a skinny guy. I told him I knew about the trust fund, and thanked him. He said “Don’t thank me” and told us how he’d like to invest the money. Dad said whatever seemed right, just keep him informed. He did suggest John Deere might be a good place for some of my dough, since they were innovating like crazy. Mr. Rafferty said he’d take it under consideration, and I found out later that he did invest in Deere & Company, although only a token amount. Most of it went into Apple and Amazon.

After dinner, Mr. Rafferty shook my hand and congratulated me. “Harrigan had very few friends, Craig. You were fortunate to have been one.”

“And he was fortunate to have Craig,” my dad said quietly, and slung an arm around my shoulders. That put a lump in my throat, and when Mr. Rafferty was gone and I was in my room, I did some crying. I tried to keep it quiet so my dad wouldn’t hear. Maybe I did; maybe he heard and knew I wanted to be left alone.

When the tears stopped, I turned on my phone, opened Safari, and typed in the keywords screenwriter and starlet. The joke, which supposedly originated with a novelist named Peter Feibleman, is about a starlet so clueless she fucked the writer. Probably you’ve heard it. I never had, but I got the point Mr. Harrigan was trying to make.

* * *

That night I awoke around two o’clock to the sound of distant thunder and realized all over again that Mr. Harrigan was dead. I was in my bed and he was in the ground. He was wearing a suit and he would be wearing it forever. His hands were folded and would stay that way until they were just bones. If rain followed the thunder, it might seep down and dampen his coffin. There was no cement lid or liner; he had specified that in what Mrs. Grogan referred to as his “dead letter.” Eventually the lid of the coffin would rot. So would the suit. The iPhone, made of plastic, would last much longer than the suit or the coffin, but eventually that would go, too. Nothing was eternal, except maybe for the mind of God, and even at thirteen I had my doubts about that.