A murmur moved through the crowd. A few reporters started writing fast.
“They came tonight because I promised them I’d give them exactly what they have coming,” I said. “So let me keep that promise.”
I nodded, and a gallery assistant carried out two gift boxes, beautifully wrapped, and set one in each of my parents’ laps.
“Open them,” I said.
They did, in front of the whole room, fingers eager.
Inside each box was a folded plastic garbage bag.
The third one I held up myself, from the podium.
“You gave me away in these,” I said, into total silence. “I kept them for twelve years. Here they are back. That is your inheritance from me. Every cent of it.”
The gallery had gone so quiet you could hear the air conditioning.
“Because the prize money is already gone,” I continued. “On Thursday I paid off the mortgage on the yellow house, so the woman who actually raised me never has to clean an office at night again. I put the rest into a fund — the Marcy Fund — for kids who get dropped off ‘for a while.’ They’ll get art supplies, and someone in the front row at their shows.”
