Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“Biloxi,” he said, his gravelly voice sounding thinner than usual. “Or maybe Gulfport. He had a friend with a boat.”
I stood on the second step, looking down at the gray hair at the crown of his head. He looked smaller than he had in the diner, his shoulders curved inward.
“He left me with the rent on the apartment,” my father said. “And the interest on the three thousand he borrowed from the diesel shop owner.”
“That is not my problem,” I said.
“I need six hundred dollars to keep the landlord from lockbox-keying the door on Friday,” he said. “Just six hundred, Maria. I can pay you back when the pension check clears on the fifteenth.”
I adjusted my uniform collar, the starched fabric cutting into the side of my neck. The heat seemed to rise from the porch steps, smelling of dry wood and old dirt.
“I am not going to put you in prison, Dad, but I need you to leave my property now,” I said.
