I tapped the second memo before Leopold could reach the speaker. It was recorded the same morning, a few minutes later, and Rudys voice was quieter, the way it got when he had thought about something longer.
He said, Teddy, paragraph seven. Read paragraph seven. Page four. I put a yellow sticky on it. And Leo, if you are listening, I love you, little brother, and I want you to hear this too.
Leopold had gone very still. His mouth was a little open.
I pulled the folded agreement out of my coat. Rudy had made me a copy before the surgery, and I had put it in the pocket with the card. I opened to page four. The yellow sticky was there, curled at the corner, in his blocky pencil: Teddy, here.
I read it to the shop. Paragraph seven said that upon the death of either partner, the surviving partner would have ninety days to elect to purchase the deceased partners interest at its appraised value, paid out of the insurance proceeds held by the company. Until that election was made in writing, no change could be made to the name, the signage, the accounts, or the operation of the business.
I looked up from the page. I said, Leo, the banner is a violation. I did not say it unkindly.
The reporter from the local paper had stopped writing. A woman at the front of the line said, Well, that explains why Rudy always read the fine print.
Rudy was still talking. He said, Leo, you are going to want to run it, and I want you to run it. You are better with the customers than I ever was. But you cannot do it without the money to buy Teddy out, and the policy is for that. Take the policy. Pay her what the agreement says. Teddy, take it and do whatever you want with it. Go to Florida. Buy a boat. Hell, buy a new tape recorder.
He laughed. He had a good laugh.
Eleven years of voice memos were wiped from a pocket recorder in one thumbstroke, and a single card the size of a thumbnail brought every one of them home.
The last thing on the card was the password. He said it slowly, so I could write it down. He had set up an account that backed up every memo to the cloud, every job note, every message he ever left for me. He had done it in 2015, after a van fire cost him a customer file. Leopold had wiped the device, not the account.
That night at the kitchen table I logged in. Four thousand and some recordings. I listened to the first one, from June of 2015. It said, Teddy, I am leaving the Hendersons. Home by six. Save me the end piece.
Leopold came to the house on Sunday with a pie from the bakery. He stood on the porch for a good while. He said, I deleted the recorder because I could not stand to hear him. I could not stand it, Teddy. He was my big brother. I was jealous and I was scared and I was a fool.
I told him to come in.
He signed the election letter on Monday. The policy paid out two hundred and forty thousand dollars. By the agreement, I received my half of the appraised value and the balance went to the company. I paid off the house. I bought a good set of headphones, and a small safe for the card.
The banner came down. In its place Leopold hung the old sign, the one Rudy painted in 1996. Haas and Haas Plumbing. He asked me if I would mind. I said it had been right all along.
I have the end piece on the table every Friday. I do not mind eating alone. He is still telling me when he will be home.