“Thea told me you moved downtown.”
“I’ve lived here for three years.”
His face changed.
It was subtle.
But I knew that face.
I’d seen it in boardrooms.
I’d seen it on accountants.
I’d seen it on executives.
It was the expression of someone looking at figures that did not add up.
Then he asked:
“Are you happy with the eight thousand a month Thea sends you?”
I said:
“I’ve never received eight thousand dollars from anybody in my life.”
He didn’t move.
“The church pantry has been keeping me going.”
The color disappeared from his face.
I’ve seen my son white twice.
Once in a hospital in 2015.
And once standing in that room.
He reached for his phone.
He got four digits into it.
Then the front door opened.
Thea walked in.
She had a white wool coat on.
Her keys were still in her hand.
She looked at Emmett.
Then at me.
And something passed across her face.
Fear.
Not guilt.
Fear.
She said:
“Oh, Emmett.”
He turned toward her.
“I didn’t want you finding out like this.”
The room went silent.
He lowered his phone.
“Finding out what, Thea?”
She looked at me.
Straight at me.
Eleven feet between us.
