Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“It is taken care of,” he said.
“How was it taken care of, Dad? I didn’t see any withdrawals from the joint maintenance account.”
“I told you, it is handled,” Arthur said, his voice rising just enough to make the waitress at the counter turn her head.
He picked up his fork but only pushed a piece of cold potato around his plate. He refused to look me in the eye.
The yellow streetlamps of the parking lot cast long, heavy shadows across the hood of my father’s old blue Buick. A warm, humid breeze blew off the bay, carrying the scent of salt water and rotting seaweed.
“I need to see the invoices, Dad,” I said, stopping beside the driver-side door. “I need to know what we are looking at for the repairs. My homeowner’s insurance might cover the water damage if it was sudden.”
Arthur pulled his keys from his pocket, the metal jangling in the quiet night air. “No need for that. It is already taken care of.”
“Taken care of how? I didn’t authorize any payments from the joint maintenance account.”
