“You forgot after ten years,” I said.
“I wanted someone to find me,” Clara said.
My father picked up his fallen chair and pushed it under the table.
“You are tearing this family apart over a mistake,” he said.
“The mistake was the fire that never happened,” I said.
The dental bill from March lay between my coffee cup and the bread basket.
“You paid for her absence and you lied to me for ten years,” I said.
My mother kept her eyes fixed on the floorboards.
“Nobody is going anywhere tonight,” my father said.
“I am leaving in five minutes,” Clara said.
“Where will you go,” I said.
“Back to the motel on Route Four,” Clara said.
“You have no car,” I said.
“I have the bus at six in the morning,” Clara said.
My father sat back down and stared at his hands.
“If you walk out that door don’t expect any help from us,” he said.
“She hasn’t had any help from you in a decade,” I said.
My mother reached out and touched the corner of the bank statement.
“We kept you safe,” she said.
“You kept me in the dark,” I said.
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck eight times.
“Will you come with me tomorrow,” Clara asked.
“I have work at the library,” I said.
“You don’t have to stay here,” Clara said.
“I live here,” I said.
“You live in a house full of ghosts,” Clara said.
“I am the only one who knows the truth now,” I said.
My father looked across the table at his empty plate.
“Get out of my house,” he said.
“I don’t own this house,” Clara said.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” my father said.
“I am staying until ten o’clock to pack my records,” I said.
My mother began to weep without making a sound.
“Don’t start that now,” my father said.
“She has been doing it for ten years,” I said.
The kitchen refrigerator hummed twice and went quiet.
“What do you want from us,” my father asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“You want an apology,” my father said.
“An apology doesn’t bring back ten years,” I said.
Clara stood up and pushed her chair back.
“I am going to the porch for some air,” Clara said.
“Put your coat on,” I said.
“It isn’t cold enough,” Clara said.
“It is freezing outside,” I said.
My father looked at the wall above my head.
“We did what we had to do,” he said.
“You committed fraud,” I said.
“Prove it in court,” my father said.
“I don’t need a court,” I said.
The folder with the bank statements sat open by the sugar bowl.
“Who else knows about this,” my father asked.
“The lawyer on Maple Street,” I said.
My mother stopped crying and looked up.
“You went to a lawyer,” she said.
“I went this morning after the dental office called,” I said.
“What did he say,” my father asked.
“He said the statute of limitations on fraud doesn’t apply to falsified death certificates,” I said.
My father reached for his teacup and found it empty.
“We have lived in this town for forty years,” he said.
“Then you should have known the records don’t burn as easily as cars,” I said.
Clara opened the front door and let the cold wind sweep into the dining room.
Clara stood on the porch with her bag zipped shut.
Her thumb moved over the silver ring on her finger.
“You could take the early bus with me,” she said.
“My car is in the driveway,” I said.
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
She looked down at the floorboards between us.
A delivery truck shifted gears down on the highway.
“Mother will call you by Tuesday,” Clara said.
“Let her call.”
“She will want to know if I reached the city.”
“Tell her yourself.”
Clara reached out and touched the porch railing.
The wood was splintered where the frost had lifted the grey paint.
“You still have our old photograph album,” she said.
“It is on the shelf by the window.”
“Leave it there when you are done looking.”
“I am not giving it to mother.”
“I did not say you should.”
A bluejay landed on the railing and pecked at an empty seed tray.
Clara stepped down onto the first concrete step.
“The lawyer has another box of papers coming,” she said.
“What papers?”
“Tax forms from the year after the fire.”
I did not answer her.
She waited three seconds for a word.
“You always did keep your mouth shut longer than anyone else,” she said.
“Someone had to.”
She walked down the remaining steps to the gravel path.
The crunch of her boots sounded loud in the cold air.
She did not look back when she reached the mailbox.
I watched her turn the corner toward the bus stop by the hardware store.
The family photo album sat inside on the kitchen table where I left it.
I walked back inside and pulled the front door closed.
The latch clicked into place without a sound.
I picked up the telephone receiver and set it on the counter.
The dial tone hummed in my ear for thirty seconds.
Then I dialed Arthur’s garage number.
“He is busy under a truck,” the boy said.
“Tell him it is the woman from the kitchen table.”
“Hold on.”
Arthur came to the phone with grease on his thumb.
“Did she leave?” he asked.
“She went toward the highway.”
“The mailman brought a registered letter ten minutes ago.”
“Whose name is on the return address?”
“A law firm in Lansing.”
“Open it before you bring it over.”
“I already opened it.”
“What does it say about the insurance payout?”
“It says the claim was filed twice under two different names.”
“Whose was the second one?”
“Our father’s brother who died in nineteen ninety-two.”
I laid the phone down on the counter next to the half-empty cup of tea.
Arthur was still breathing on the other end of the line.
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“I am here.”
“Do you want me to bring the paper over now?”
“Bring it before noon.”
“I have to drop off a water pump first.”
“Make it eleven then.”
“See you at eleven.”
