Chapter 6: Boxes

It took me four hours on Friday morning to pack five years of my life into a dozen boxes.

I took my clothes, my books, my mother's quilt and the lamps I'd bought on sale at Target.

I left the wedding photo on the mantel and the engagement ring in the sugar bowl.

I left the dishes, the sofa, and the whole expensive silence of that house.

At noon Ernest's black sedan pulled into the drive.

He did not come to the door.

He stood on the front walk with his keys in his fist and watched me carry boxes down the steps.

"Those lamps belong to the house," he said.

"They belong to me," I said.

"I bought them at Target, and I have the receipt in my purse."

"I don't mind showing it to you."

A muscle in his cheek moved.

"You've taken advantage of my son's death," said Ernest.

"I'm taking a lamp," I said.

A pickup truck turned in from the road, big and dented and the color of dried mud.

It had a canoe rack on top and a boat trailer hitch on the back.

It rolled up behind Ernest's sedan and stopped, and Terrence got out.

He slammed the door and walked up the drive in work boots and a faded gray sweatshirt.

He looked at his father, and for a moment neither of them said a word.

"Terrence," said Ernest finally.

"You've got your nerve."

"Hello, Dad."

"You haven't set foot in this town in four years."

"You come in now with your hand out, to take what's left?"

"I came to carry boxes," said Terrence.

"You walked out of this family for a check," Ernest said, quietly, so that I almost didn't hear.

"Don't stand in my drive and tell me what you came for."

"You sold your name, and you know the price."

I looked at Terrence.

A line moved across his face and was gone.

He did not look at me.

"I know the price," he said evenly.

"Move your car, Dad."

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