Buryin' Daddy by Nicholas Teresa;

Author:Nicholas, Teresa;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University Press of Mississippi
Published: 2011-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

Sixteen

A broad-faced, middle-aged man came right over to greet Mama, who didn’t say a word; she just nodded and let Debbie do the talking. My sister asked this vice president if we could speak in his office, and after we were seated, if he could advise us about the status of Daddy’s accounts. I was convinced we were making fools of ourselves, until he said he would print out the up-to-the-minute balances. After he left, it was my turn to tap my feet.

“Hold them legs still, young’un,” Mama told me. “I feel higher ’n cat hairs, and you’re shakin’ the whole place down.” Then she drew a piece of Juicy Fruit out of her pocketbook and began to chew.

“Daddy couldn’t have saved a lot more on his salary,” I said.

“Treesa, I’ll lay you a dollar to a dingbat he had money in this here bank.” She turned to Gerry. “You’re thinkin’ this family don’t got all its noodles cooked, ain’t you?”

“Not at all,” he replied, giving us the benefit of the doubt.

When the vice president returned, he was smiling and waving a piece of paper. “Here are the figures for checking and savings,” he announced.

We stared at the total. Finally Mama said, “Well, really.”

Debbie asked if Mama had check-writing privileges, something we’d forgotten about at Delta National. But the vice president said no, the accounts were in Daddy’s name only.

“That money ain’t mine,” Mama said flatly.

“Mama, it will be,” Debbie answered, not stopping to explain.

We stumbled out of the bank, across Main Street, and into the Oldsmobile. Debbie pulled a notepad and pen from her handbag and started computing. Altogether, she announced, Daddy was worth nearly six figures. Then she returned the pen and pad to the bag and shut the clasp with a snap.

“Wow,” I said. “Wow.”

After that stroke of insight, no one said anything. Gerry drove the car in the gutter, the way Daddy used to, at five miles an hour. We passed the courthouse, St. Mary’s rectory, and the First Methodist and Presbyterian churches, staring out the windows as if we’d never seen these places before. We passed the fancy Victorians on Grand Avenue—Dr. Moorhead’s, behind its wrought-iron fence; the Clarks’, with its wraparound porch; the Ericksons’, with its stained-glass windows.

Then I realized something surprising: I wasn’t angry that Daddy had hoarded money while he made us live like paupers. I wasn’t angry that he’d kept it a secret. What I felt was relief—Mama would be taken care of. And I thought of what Mama had said to me, that I didn’t know my daddy. Just where had he gotten all that money, on his salary? Finally I asked, “Mama, what do you think?”

“What do I think?” she repeated. “About what?”

“About everything. Where did he get the money?”

“I don’t know,” she said, still looking out her window. We were passing King’s Daughters Hospital. “Except that he pinched ever’ penny he could. He was good at it.”

I asked, “Do you think he stole from Great-Uncle Dan?”

She twisted in her seat to face me.

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