PART 1 — THE BROWN ENVELOPE
I watched my father slide the brown envelope deeper into his jacket, and for once, he did not look at me when he spoke.
“Do not let her ask you what’s inside it.”
I glanced toward the kitchen doorway.
Natalie was still there, one hand resting on a stack of unopened mail, the envelopes squared so neatly that every corner lined up.
“She is going to ask,” I said.
“Then you don’t have to answer.”
Raymond Mercer stepped away from the table.
The wooden chair behind him scraped the floor.
He stopped to push it back into place before reaching for his cane.
That was my father.
Seventy-one years old.
Bad right knee.
Blood pressure that worried his doctor.
A man who would rather straighten somebody else’s chair than admit he needed help walking.
“You gave me a thousand dollars,” he said.
“You have a right to ask why.”
“I already did.”
“And I gave you part of the answer.”
“Documents, legal help, and a test.”
He nodded.
“What kind of test?”
Raymond looked toward the doorway again.
“A signature test.”
I waited.
“Whose signature?”
He picked up a folded receipt and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
“That is why I need the documents first.”
I stared.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You cannot ask for a thousand dollars from my emergency savings, tell me it’s for lawyers and some mysterious test, and then walk out before explaining.”
He adjusted the cuff of his shirt.
“I can explain what I know.”
“Then do it.”