Dorothy listened without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment. Then she said, ‘Did you write your name on that ticket?’ That was the question. I thought back to Thursday, to Garfield’s pharmacy, to Mrs. Garfield handing me the envelope across the counter with the cheerful efficiency of a woman who has done the same thing a thousand times to coming home, setting the ticket on the counter, going to get my tea.
I always sign them, I said slowly, before I sit down. It’s a habit Roland taught me. He said, ‘Sign it the minute you get home because if you win and it isn’t signed, it’s just paper with numbers.’ And this time, I paused. I pressed my memory. I had been tired that day. My left knee had been aching from the cold snap.
I had been thinking about the anniversary of Roland’s proposal. Had I signed it before the tea or after? or had I set it down intending to sign it and then forgotten? I did not know. That uncertainty was the first real fear I felt. Not the fear of losing the money, but the fear of losing the truth.
Because without the signature, without the name in my handwriting across the back of that ticket, the legal claim became complicated in a way that favored whoever was currently holding the ticket and standing inside my house wearing my son’s face. I stood up. My knees protested. I ignored them. I need to think, I said.
And I need to act both at the same time. Dorothy looked at me steadily. What do you need? I need to find out what I actually have in my name, and I need to do it before they cash that ticket because once that money moves, everything becomes 10 times harder. We went inside through the back door. Derek and Cynthia were in the living room.
