Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
I stood up, leaving a ten-dollar bill on the table. “I am going to his apartment now.”
The lights were on in my father’s second-floor apartment when I climbed the concrete stairs at seven that evening. The building was old, the yellow paint peeling from the doors, the sound of a television news broadcast echoing from the unit downstairs.
I knocked twice on the screen door.
He opened the door, his hand still holding a yellow grease rag, his face darkening when he saw me standing on the landing.
“I told you to stop asking questions, Maria,” he growled, blocking the threshold.
“I need to see the original power of attorney, Dad,” I said, stepping past him into the narrow living room before he could close the door.
The apartment smelled of stale tobacco, old carpets, and the cheap vegetable oil he used to fry potatoes.
“It is filed with the county,” he said, shutting the door behind me. “You have the copy.”
“The notary has no record of it,” I said, stopping by the roll-top desk in the corner. “The original has to be here.”
