“His sister called while we were packing the garage,” Martha said, leaning against the passenger door. “She wants to know when we are dropping the boxes off at her house.”
“We will leave them on her porch in Oak Creek,” I said. “I told her we would not be coming inside.”
Roy slammed the trunk lid shut, the latch catching with a heavy metallic thud.
“The front brakes on your car are squeaking, Clara,” Roy said, pointing to my white sedan parked three spaces over. “I can change the pads for you this weekend.”
“I can pay for the parts now,” I said, reaching for my purse.
“Don’t worry about the money,” Martha said, checking her wristwatch again. “We have enough to do today.”
I looked at my sedan, remembering the nights I had driven it back and forth to the hospital in the dark, believing every mile was a march toward an end we could not avoid.
“We need to get this delivered,” I said.
We drove to the east side of Oak Creek, where the houses were smaller and the lawns were overgrown with autumn weeds.
Ben’s sister, Sarah, lived in a small white frame house with a sagging front porch.
Roy backed the Buick up to the gravel driveway, the squeaking brakes of my own car behind him finally falling silent as I parked.
“Should we ring the bell?” Martha asked, looking at the darkened windows.
“No,” I said. “Just leave them on the porch.”
Roy carried the two heavy cardboard boxes up the wooden steps, his boots thudding against the rotted pine boards.
I followed him with the plastic bag containing the shaving kit and the comb.
I set the bag on top of the box of books, right next to a rusty metal lawn chair.
Through the front window, I could see the dim outline of a television screen, but no one came to the door.
“She knows we are here,” Martha whispered, looking back from the passenger seat of the Buick.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said.
I turned my back on the house and walked down the steps, my father’s brass ring feeling heavy in my pocket.
The house was quiet when we returned, the kitchen lit only by the pale gray light of the late afternoon.
Martha set her car keys on the counter and began filling the kettle with tap water.
I sat at the wooden table, staring at the empty space by the back door where Ben’s muddy work boots had sat for nearly forty years.
“Gary says you can sue him for emotional distress,” Martha said, turning on the gas stove. “He says the fraud is so clear-cut you would win in a week.”
“I told Gary I do not want to do that,” I said.
“He tried to take eighty-five thousand dollars from you, Clara,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “He would have left you with nothing but a mortgage on a house our father built.”
I twisted my silver wedding band, then stopped myself and let my hand fall to my lap.
“I want my life back, Martha, not his ruin,” I said.
Martha brought two ceramic mugs of tea to the table and sat down across from me.
