They said it was the law that turned him out of the house.
They lied, saying he could have stayed if it was up to them.
They didn’t exactly blame him for her death.
They just didn’t want him around as a reminder of her decline.
He blamed himself, of course.
For a while he drifted up the coast, working odd jobs, staying a week or a month.
He sent postcards every so often.
A cannery in Monterey, a trawler in Moss Harbor.
A sailor saw him in an opium den in San Francisco.
That was the last anyone heard.