Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
He watched me over the rim of his glass, his expression entirely neutral.
Seventy thousand, I repeated.
It is a very generous number for a place with shifting foundations and a roof that needs total replacement, he said, reaching for the bowl of green beans.
Is seventy thousand really what it is worth? I asked, watching him closely.
The question hung in the air between us, heavy and unanswered.
David smiled his warm, reassuring doctor smile, the one that made patients in Oak Creek believe everything would be fine.
For a half acre of swampy shoreline and a cabin built in the fifties, yes, he said. You should take it before he realizes how much work the place actually needs.
I took a slow breath, my thumb tracing the silver wedding ring on my finger.
We moved into the living room an hour later, the television playing some old movie in the background that neither of us watched.
David sat in his leather armchair, skimming a medical journal, his gold watch catching the lamplight as he turned the pages.