Jeff takes the white envelope with grease-darkened fingers and pulls out the check without a word.

He looks down at his boots while scratching his collarbone with his thumb, his face flushing red under his hair.

“Twenty thousand for you, Jeff,” Ron says, his heavy hand still on Judy’s chair.

“That ought to make a down payment on one of those new ranch houses out in the west subdivision.”

“It gets us off the propane delivery truck shifts,” Jeff mutters to his plate, his slow, halting voice quiet in the room.

“Thank you, Dad.”

Ron picks up the third envelope and hands it to Stacy, who sits beside Jeff with her hands clasped tight in her lap.

“And twenty thousand for Stacy,” Ron says, waving his broad hand.

“To make sure that new place gets furnished right.”

Stacy pulls out her check, presses her forehead against Jeff’s shoulder, and starts crying softly right there at the table.

I press my thumb against my index finger under the edge of the linen tablecloth, adding up the sums out of habit.

As a hospital billing clerk, I check every account total three times before filing it.

Twenty thousand for Kim, twenty thousand for Jeff, twenty thousand for Stacy.

That’s sixty thousand dollars passed across the ham platter in under three minutes.