“But I won’t tell you what I only suspect.”
That was the beginning of a conversation that would eventually end my marriage.
I didn’t know it yet.
At the time, I was simply annoyed.
My father had never liked borrowing money.
He had worked most of his life as a mechanic and later managed maintenance for a small agricultural equipment company outside Cedar Ridge.
He retired with modest savings, a ranch-style house, a Buick older than several of his grandchildren, and the stubborn belief that a man should pay his own bills.
If he needed one thousand dollars badly enough to ask me, something was wrong.
“How much trouble are you in?”
I asked.
He almost smiled.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Behind us, Natalie moved an envelope from one stack to another.
“Raymond,” she called, “do you want coffee before you go?”
“No, thank you.”
She looked at me.
“Does he?”
“I don’t know.”