“Eleanor was a good woman. She didn’t have secrets. She didn’t have affairs. What could it be?”
“I’m going to find out.”
I stood up. My legs felt strong now. The rye had worn off, replaced by a cold adrenaline.
“Thanks, Bill. You opened my eyes.”
“Wait.” Bill grabbed my arm. “Don’t do anything crazy, Tom. Don’t throw your life away over a rat like him. He’s not worth it.”
“Crazy?” I looked at my friend. “No. Killing him would be too easy. I’m going to make him wish he’d never been born.”
I went home in the dark. The house felt like a tomb. I didn’t turn on the lights. I went straight to the kitchen.
I poured a glass of water. It tasted like iron. My son. My firstborn.
I remembered bringing him home from the hospital. The blue blanket. I remembered teaching him to ride a bike.
“Dad, don’t let go! I’m scared!”
“I’ve got you, son. I won’t let go.”
I’d held on to him his whole life. And all that time, he’d been bleeding us dry. Why? The question circled my mind like a shark.
To bleed someone for forty years, you need leverage. Something terrifying. I went to Eleanor’s craft room. I didn’t feel like a burglar anymore.
I was an investigator. I opened the desk again. I tore it apart. Every scrap of paper.
Receipts, recipes, letters. Nothing. There had to be an explanation. Eleanor wouldn’t just pay.
There had to be a threat. I looked up. The attic crawl space.
In the hallway, there was a small hatch in the ceiling where we kept the holiday decorations and old school projects. I dragged the ladder over. My back screamed, but I didn’t care.
I climbed up. Dust filled my lungs. I started tossing boxes aside. Old Christmas lights, a box of my fishing gear, a bag of baby clothes. In the far corner, behind a stack of old suitcases, was a cardboard accordion file.
On the tab, in Eleanor’s neat handwriting, it said: “Greg. History.” I climbed down, clutching the file to my chest. I sat on the floor right there in the hallway, under the dim light.
I opened the file. The first thing that fell out was a piece of notebook paper. Yellowed, lined. Date: February 12, 1985.
The text was written in block letters, shaky, trying to hide the handwriting. But I knew the cadence. I knew the way he crossed his ‘T’s.
“DEAR MOM, GREG HAS DONE SOMETHING TERRIBLE. HE WAS DRIVING DAD’S TRUCK AND HIT SOMEONE. WE SETTLED IT WITH THE POLICE, BUT NOW HE OWES US. IF YOU DON’T PAY $150 EVERY WEEK, WE WILL TURN HIM IN. HE’LL GO TO PRISON FOR 10 YEARS. DAD MUST NEVER KNOW. IF TOM FINDS OUT, WE KILL GREG IMMEDIATELY. PAY AND STAY SILENT.”
I read it three times. 1985. Greg was seventeen. I remember that year. I was away on a big bridge project for six months.
My Ford F-150 was in the garage. When I got back, there was a dent in the fender. Eleanor told me she’d hit a post while backing out. I believed her. She even had a license, though she rarely drove. He’d taken the truck while I was gone.
Maybe he hit someone. Or maybe he just hit a dog and made up a story. But the letter… “Serious people.”
In 1985? In our town? It was a lie. But Eleanor, my sweet, sheltered Eleanor who grew up on a farm, she was terrified.
“Dad must never know.” That was the hook. She knew my temper back then. She knew I’d have made him face the music. She chose to pay.
To save him. I turned the page. There was another letter. 1995.
“Mom, it’s me. They found me again. Those guys from high school. They’re in the mob now, and the debt has grown. They said they’ll burn the house down if we don’t increase the payment. Don’t tell Dad. His heart can’t take it.”
2005.
“Mom. IRS audit. I might go to jail for tax fraud. I need to pay them off. Regularly. Or I’m gone. You don’t want the grandkids growing up without a father, do you?”
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