Mama had stayed in the kitchen, washing the same iron skillet three times without speaking. She had kept her back to me, her shoulders stiff under her cotton housecoat.
Now, looking down at the fresh dirt, I realized she had known the truth while she washed that skillet. She had known every dollar Wayne spent on his fishing trips and his used Buick was mine. She had lived with that secret in the same house for decades, watching me walk with a limp to my shift at the Red Oak Hardware Store.
I walked back to the truck, the gravel crunching under my orthotic shoe.
Russell rolled down the window, the smell of his coffee filling the air. “We need to get some supper. We’ve got three rooms left to pack tomorrow.”
“Did you know?” I asked, leaning against the cold metal door.
“Know what?” Russell said.
“About the sixty-three thousand.”
Russell looked straight ahead through the windshield, his fingers tapping the steering wheel.
“Wayne was Wayne,” he said. “Nobody asked him where the money came from. He said it was settled, and we let it go.”
