“The deed is in the safe,” I said.
“Check it,” Frank said. “And remember the guardianship hearing on November fourteenth. If they file that petition, they will try to freeze his assets immediately.”
“I will,” I said.
I hung up the phone and pulled a yellow legal pad from my briefcase.
My hand was steady but cold as I wrote down the lawyer’s words, the ink dark against the yellow paper.
At ten o’clock the next morning, I stood at the end of the gravel driveway on Elm Lane and watched my brother Robert park his blue sedan near the mailbox.
The squeaking fan belt of his car died with a wet hiss when he finally cut the ignition, leaving only the sound of dry oak leaves scraping across the concrete.
Robert did not get out of the car immediately.
He sat behind the steering wheel for a full minute, staring straight through the windshield as if hoping I would simply disappear from his path.
When he finally pushed the heavy door open, he kept his chin tucked low into his collar.
“What are you doing out here, Clara?” he asked, his voice a low mumble.
“Waiting for you,” I said.
He did not look at me.
He kept his eyes fixed on the toes of his brown work boots, shifting his weight back and forth on the loose stones of the driveway.
I stepped directly into the center of the concrete path, blocking the walkway that led to my father’s front door.
“We need to talk about last night,” I said.
“I came to get the mail,” Robert mumbled, gesturing toward the metal box at the curb with a brief wave of his hand.
“Dad forgets to bring it in,” he added. “It piles up if someone doesn’t check it.”
“The mail carrier doesn’t run on Elm Lane until one o’clock, Robert,” I said, pointing to the empty red flag on the side of the box.
