I thought about eleven trash bags in the hallway. About a cot in the basement. About forty-five thousand dollars that I’d earned sleeping in the dirt, worrying about my
soldiers, missing Christmas. About a forged signature at the bottom of a page.
About my grandfather, writing a letter he hoped I’d never have to read.
“I didn’t do this, Mom,” I said. “I just stopped cleaning it up.”
She stared at me.
Then Sergeant Payne gently touched her elbow, and she turned and walked down the porch steps. My grandfather’s porch steps. The ones he built himself in the summer of 1978.
After everyone left, the house was very quiet.
Chloe was still sitting on the gray couch. Vance was standing by the kitchen doorway, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed in any room.
Dalton was packing up his briefcase. Captain Morales shook my hand at the door.
“You did this right,” she said. “Everything by the book. It’s going to matter later.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank your grandfather.” She glanced toward the living room, at Chloe. “You going to be okay?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s the most honest answer I’ve heard all week,” she said, and left.
Then it was just the three of us.
I walked into the kitchen. I took the bow off the champagne bottle and dropped it in the trash. I picked up the card that said CONGRATULATIONS, HOMEOWNERS! and looked at it for a while.
Then I put it in the drawer instead.
Chloe came into the kitchen.
She stood by the island. She didn’t sit on Grandpa’s stool this time. She just held onto the edge of the counter.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I know.”
