I walked to the front door and opened it to find my father, Arthur, standing on the top step of our porch. He wore his heavy gray wool coat with the collar turned up against the autumn wind, his hands jammed deep into his pockets. He looked smaller than he had during his years managing the bank branch downtown, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the yellow porch light.
“Arthur,” I said, staying behind the screen door. “It is late for a drive.”
“I am not here for a social visit, Evelyn,” he said, his voice carrying that precise, formal banking tone he used when a loan application was being declined.
“Come inside,” I said, reaching for the latch. “It is freezing out here.”
“I will not step foot in that house,” he said. “Where is your husband?”
“He is out in the garage,” I said, twisting my silver band. “What is this about?”
Arthur took his hands out of his pockets and polished his wire-rimmed glasses with the corner of his silk tie, his chest rising as he drew in a cold breath. “Get him inside. We are going to have a conversation right now.”
