My Father Tossed a Blue Savings Passbook into the Mud at Cedar Ridge

I pushed the glass door open.

Arthur was still at his desk, speaking quietly into a beige telephone.

He held up one finger to tell me to wait.

“Yes, I need the restricted filings pulled by tomorrow morning,” Arthur said into the phone.

“Under the Vance petition.

Thank you.”

He hung up and looked at me.

“Did you get it?” he asked.