Chapter 2 - THE PAWN TICKET
The drive across Fort Wayne took twenty minutes, but my blood boiled the entire way.
The cab of my truck smelled like roasted turkey and sage stuffing. It was the smell of a family holiday, trapped in aluminum foil and sitting on the passenger seat of a Ford F-150.
I pulled into the gravel driveway of my father’s small, single-story house. The paint was peeling around the porch, and the gutters needed clearing. It was a humble place, but he owned it free and clear. He had worked fifty years under the hoods of broken cars to pay for it.
I grabbed the heavy foil trays and kicked the truck door shut.
When I walked through the front door, the house was silent. The television was off. I found him in the small kitchen, sitting at the laminate table with a mug of black coffee and a single slice of toast.
He looked up, his gray eyes widening beneath his thick, wiry eyebrows. He was wearing his good flannel shirt, the one he saved for church and holidays.
“Rick? What are you doing here?”
I set the trays down on the counter. The aluminum rattled loudly in the quiet room.
“I brought dinner, Dad.”
He stood up slowly, looking at the mountain of food. “Where’s Karen? Where are her folks?”
“They’re eating an empty table,” I said, my voice tight. “Grab some plates.”
He didn’t argue. He knew me too well. He wiped his rough, calloused hands on a dish towel and reached into the upper cabinet.
While he plated the food, I opened the junk drawer to find the good silver serving spoons he kept wrapped in cloth. I pushed aside a stack of old utility bills and a rusted spark plug.
My fingers brushed against a stiff piece of paper.
It was a small, pink carbon copy. A pawn shop ticket.
I froze. I pulled it out and looked at the date. Tuesday. Two days ago.
Item: 14k Gold Waltham Pocket Watch. Engraved: J.D.
My stomach dropped. It was my grandfather’s watch. The only thing of value my father owned, the one he promised to pass down to me. He had pawned it for four hundred dollars.
Beneath the ticket was a carbon copy of a bank cashier’s check.
The amount was staggering. Forty thousand dollars.
I looked at the payee line. It wasn't made out to a bank or a hospital.
It was made out to Arthur Pierce.
May you like
Karen’s father.
In the memo line, written in my father’s shaky handwriting, were three words: For Karen's silence.
