Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
I drove to my father’s apartment on the north side of town. The building was a red-brick two-story complex built in the seventies, the stairwells smelling of old carpet and fried onions.
Arthur was standing by the kitchen sink when I walked through the unlocked screen door. He was washing a greasy iron skillet, his hands covered in yellow dish soap. An old calendar from a local auto parts store hung on the wall, showing a year that had ended three years ago.
“Benson served me with a restraining order,” I said, standing in the doorway.
He did not turn around. He kept scrubbing the skillet, his calloused knuckles turning white under the soap.
“I told you to let it go, Maria,” he growled.
“He is trying to keep me away from my own property,” I said. “And you helped him do it.”
“I helped your brother,” he said, finally turning around. He wiped his hands on a damp dish towel, his eyes small and red. “Chad was in deep, Maria. You do not know the kind of people he owes.”
