It lay in the middle of the kitchen table like a dropped apple, addressed to Cat and me, Mama’s name in the left-hand corner. I’d watched Cat walk up the front path from the mailbox, slowly, as if caught by the camera in slow motion or in a series of what Grandfather called stills: Cat smiling. Cat looking eager. Cat, her face suddenly unfolding out of a smile. She brushed past me at the front door and opened her hand, the letter falling to the table. “No return address,” she said flatly. My grandmother stirred soup on the stove 7 and looked sideways at me. After a moment she looked away again. Grandfather, cleaning his camera lens with lens paper, lifted his shoulders in a sigh, the way he always did when he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “I expect—” he began. Grandma’s voice made me jump. “Marcus!” Then softer. “Let it be.” Cat began to cut carrots at the kitchen counter. My grandfather flinched with each violent stroke. “I think (thwack) that what Grandpa (thwack) means is that there will be (thwack) money in that envelope.
