It should belong to somebody here. Somebody who sees the bank every day. Somebody who knows the town.
I called Walt Brennan’s son, Danny, who took over Walt’s law practice. He came over and sat on my porch and drank iced tea and listened.
“Are you sure, Dot?” he asked when I told him.
“I’m sure.”
“It’s irrevocable. Once you sign it, you can’t take it back.”
“I know.”
Ezoic
He drew up the papers.
Ezoic
I signed them on the first Saturday in September.
In the garden. On my knees. In George’s old hat and my green rubber boots. Between the tomatoes and the roses.
Brandon was there. Of course he was. It was Saturday.
He was pulling weeds in the bean row. When he saw Danny Brennan walk up the driveway with a briefcase, he sat back on his heels and frowned.
