I recall once pondering what it would be like to have his money, what would I do with it? Now that memory is a stain of guilt, not strong, not enough to take me under, but sufficient to fill me with a sense of regret I haven't had for some time. The cheque is no more than a rectangle of paper, thin, inconsequential. The digits are crudely stamped in oil, barely even aligned properly. This is what George Henry Parker's life came to, Grandpa. These numbers are what he slaved for over broken refrigerators and stoves. Some of them are from his army pension, money earned putting his life on the line to push back against Nazi Germany. Now for me to take them all it is a short walk from the lawyer to the bank in an ambient twenty one degrees heat under a cloudless sky. He wanted me to have it, make use of it, and I will. I won't be conned into handing it over to anyone; I won't fritter it or go on vacation. I'm gonna do something with it that would make the ol' boy proud, you wait and see.
There was nothing I wanted with the money, I made my own and to take his felt dirty. I'd never liked him, not ever. Apparently in his old age he felt bad; I've got a few scars to hint at why that might be. It was a tidy sum alright, not to be sniffed at. Once it was wired to me I fed it right into the children's hospital fundraiser - an anonymous donation. I guess that should have been the end of it, but they wanted to make sure the sum was legit to avoid a police investigation. The coppers came and asked questions, funny thing, turns out the old man was a criminal after all. The hospital got to keep the cash but I've got a few new "fans" - friends of the ol' fella that think I owe 'em. I was laughing it off at first, but when they turn up after dark with little brown envelopes and mouths grim slashes, it's all "Take the job, or we'll just frame you for it anyway. At least this way you have a chance to stay out of jail."
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