Tucked into the back pocket of the leather cover was a folded sheet of yellowed onion-skin paper.
I carefully unfolded the paper, recognizing my grandfather’s script, addressed to his brother.
*Dear brother,* the letter read, *I cannot take credit for her word. It would be a lie, and we both know it.*
The letter ended there, unsigned.
My trust in my grandfather’s absolute honesty, the foundation of everything I believed about our family legacy, felt like dry sand slipping through my fingers.
At two in the afternoon, I stood in the drafty lobby of the local historical society, where the air smelled of floor wax.
Robert, the director, was polishing the glass of a display case containing a vintage three-pound lard tin.
He adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles as I approached.
“Robert, I need to find the 1937 payroll registry for the meatpacking plant,” I said.
He cleared his throat. “Martha, those records are not in the general catalog.”
“I need to look up a woman named Mary,” I said. “She worked there during the summer of the naming contest.”
Robert breathed on the glass and wiped it with a yellow microfiber cloth.
