Chapter 19: The Box at the Credit Union

The credit union opened at nine on Monday, and we were the first three people through the door.

My father had put on his funeral suit. Lacey held my elbow.

A woman at the front desk took Dad's ID and the brass key and typed for a long time.

"Mr. Tindall, you're listed on this box as a joint holder, so you may enter with a guest. Your guest must sign in."

"My daughter," Dad said. "And my other daughter."

She led us down a short hall to a room with a steel door.

Inside were rows of small metal doors, each with a number.

The woman turned her key beside Dad's, and a long flat drawer slid out.

She set it on a table in a tiny windowless room and left us alone with it.

I looked at my father.

"Go on," he said. "I've never opened it."

I lifted the lid.

On top lay a small velvet bag. Inside it were two gold rings.

One was a thin wedding band worn almost smooth. The other had a tiny green stone.

"Grandma's," Lacey whispered. "Mom told me she lost them in the move."

"She told me Grandma was buried in them," Dad said.

Under the rings was a thick envelope, held with a rubber band.

I fanned it with my thumb. It was all hundred-dollar bills.

"Fourteen thousand, two hundred," Lacey said. She had counted them with her lips moving.

"From the fund?"

"From somewhere," Dad said. "Not from my paycheck."

At the bottom of the drawer lay a green cloth book with a red spine.

I took it out and opened it flat on the table.

The first page was dated ten years ago in my mother's neat handwriting.

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