When he finally spoke, it wasn’t an insurance man’s voice.
“He bet the place on me.”
“He did.”
“He thought I’d do right.”
“He was sure of it.”
Phil took his glasses off. He pressed his thumb and finger hard into his eyes.
Then he reached into his shirt pocket and took out a folded piece of paper of his own. Soft at the folds, like it had been carried around a long time.
He handed it to me.
It was a page off a legal pad. Written in his neat office handwriting. Dated the first of March.
Down the left side, he’d figured what the place might sell for. Then the bank debt, subtracted. Then a line. And what was left, divided by two.
Next to one half, it said Phil.
Next to the other half, it said Wade.
“Don told me about the note at the bank the day after he read the will,” Phil said. “I thought you knew. You were out here every single day. I figured you’d known for years, and it was just one more thing nobody in this family was going to say out loud.”
