Six Left Behind Daughters and One Returned White Box Fifteen Years Later

The air downstairs was thick with the smell of shoe polish and steam from the iron.

Jerome was standing near the window, trying to adjust his dark tie in the reflection of the glass.

He looked up as I closed the door.

You look like you just saw a ghost, Robert, Jerome said.

Maya is going to cut off Adele’s tuition if I tell Harry about the letters, I said.

Jerome stopped working on his tie.

He turned around slowly.

How much does she owe? he asked.

Twenty-two thousand, I said. It is the remaining balance for the law degree.

Jerome walked over and placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.

We do not need her money, Robert, he said.

It is a lot of money for a young couple, I said.

Adele is the smartest person I know, Jerome said. She will be a lawyer in eighteen months, with or without Harry’s money.

I don’t want her starting her life with a debt that will take ten years to pay off, I said.

It won’t take ten years, Jerome said. We will live in the apartment on Elm Street. We will drive the Buick.

That Buick has two hundred thousand miles on it, I said.

Then we will drive it until the wheels fall off, Jerome said. But we are not going to let Maya use twenty-two thousand dollars to keep your mouth shut.

My father worked thirty years at the refinery, Jerome said. We know what a dollar is worth. If we have to pay eighty dollars a month for the next ten years to keep that woman out of our lives, we will do it gladly.

Adele wants a husband who stands up, Jerome said. And she wants a father who doesn’t have to bow his head to anyone.

He looked toward the small basement window where the first guests were walking past on the gravel path.

Don’t get dragged into this, Jerome said.

The weight that had been pressing down on my shoulders for the last hour suddenly shifted.

She thinks she can buy our silence, I said.

She is wrong, Jerome said.