He rested his thick hands on his belly, lacing his fingers over his brown sweater vest like a grate across his stomach.

I took the sealed September bank draft receipt out of my coat pocket and laid it flat on his mahogany desk between us.

It was a yellow carbon copy from Deer Park National Bank, stamped September fourteenth.

“I found this in Mama’s black leather purse after she died,” I said.

“It shows a monthly bank draft of sixty-five dollars going to a bank in Tyler, Texas.”

Arthur picked up the slip with two fingers and held it close to his bifocals, tucking his chin down into his collar.