Below it, in the same slant she used for grocery lists, she had written, “Don’t let Ray keep you for the trust money.
He asked the trust officer how much it would be each month before he asked the doctor how long she had.”
I read it two times.
Then I read it a third time, running my finger under the words.
Lakeland State Bank.
A trust principal of one hundred forty thousand dollars.
Six hundred fifty dollars a month to
Ray Whitfield as guardian until I turned eighteen.
My mother had jotted the figures in the margin, small and tidy, as if she were pricing lumber.
Then came the line that made the kitchen feel too bright.
“If anything happens to me, Diane is the only one I trust with this.
Ray wants the boy for the check, not for the boy.”
For eighteen years I had believed Ray left me on that dirt road because he was fed up with me.
