“I’m going to make it right,” he said. “I don’t know how yet. But I’m going to.”
“Dad,” I said. “I don’t want money.”
“I know you don’t.” He looked at the pontoon on its trailer under the gray tarp. “That’s what makes it worse.”
He sold the pontoon in May.
Thirty-one thousand dollars. To a man from Sioux City. He drove it up to Okoboji himself and handed over the keys.
Then he drove down to Corning and found me on my lunch break at the hospital. He handed me an envelope. Inside was a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand, five hundred dollars.
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And another one, made out to Brittany, for the same amount.
“Half the pontoon,” he said. “Each. It’s not much.”
“Dad…”
“It’s not half the eighty,” he said. “I can’t ever give you that. But it’s something.” He looked at the hospital parking lot. “And I’m going to keep trying.”
