“Still smells like coffee,” said the man at the service counter.  He handed over the keys and pointed to the Mini Cooper (red body, silver top).  “Lot of coffee in that car.” 

Oh, he had no idea.  David drove with a mug of coffee in one hand.  He didn’t use travel mugs; he liked the texture of porcelain or pottery.  Sloshing wasn’t a concern, and  sloshing happened less than you might expect when you picture a man driving a standard with a cup of coffee in one hand.  He angled and dipped the mug as he drove; the liquid rose out of the cup and subsided again.  Most of the spills were the dregs in almost-empty cups rolling around on the passenger-side floor. 

But coffee wasn’t the only liquid to soak that carpet.  The Mini sometimes turned on its lights, unlocked its doors, and opened its sunroof while it was parked and its engine was off.   Snow fell through the opened sunroof, melting and puddling and soaking the seats and carpet – and once, it shorted out the electrical wiring that ran along the floor of the car.  A tow truck hauled the Mini seventy miles to the BMW dealer in Minneapolis.  The electrical system took weeks to rebuild; getting the right carpet from Germany took even longer.  David was bereft. 

After the happy reunion of the man and his Mini, it was clear that coffee spillage had increased.  Stains appeared on the long-awaited German floor mats – perhaps because David sometimes had a tremor.  Given the amount of weight he was lifting at the gym, and given his refusal to take time off when he injured his shoulder, the occasional tremor didn’t seem surprising.  He mentioned it at a doctor’s appointment, but it was minor and fleeting and didn’t excite any interest.  Still: he sloshed more coffee, and he stooped a bit, and he started to shuffle his feet. 

We didn’t know what that meant. 

Not knowing was a mercy.