“You were never that,” I said.
“I was getting there,” he said. “You girls were going to let me. And I was going to let you.”
He looked at me over the top of his glasses.
“Thank you for driving me out there. Thank you for not doing it all yourself.”
“I almost did,” I said. “I had the phone in my hand in that parking lot. I almost called her.”
“I know you did,” he said. “You’re your mama’s daughter. She’d have had it on the phone too. And then she’d have hung up and come and got me.”
Then he opened the envelope.
He did it slowly, with his thumbnail, the way he’s always opened everything, so he wouldn’t tear what was inside.
He took out the check and held it up to the window light and looked at it for a long while.
Thirteen thousand dollars. Pay to the order of Clayton Akers. In the memo line, Nancy had written “fall rent,” the same as she had every November for twenty-two years.
“Get me a pen, Teresa,” he said.
I got one out of my purse.
He turned the check over on his tray table and held it flat with his left hand. His right hand shook. It’s shaken for about two years now. A little worse in the mornings. Some days he has trouble with his shirt buttons, and Kayla has to help him.
“You want me to write it, Daddy? You could just sign it, and I’ll fill in the rest.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll write it. It’s my rent.”
So I sat on my hands and let him.
Out in the hall, somebody was pushing the lunch cart, and one of the wheels squeaked. Down the way, somebody’s radio was playing old gospel music, low.
He wrote it slowly. One letter at a time. Pressing down hard so the pen wouldn’t skip.
Pay to the order of the home. The whole long name of the place, spelled out, every single word. It took him a good while. He didn’t ask for help. And I didn’t give it.
Then, underneath, his own name.
Clayton Akers.
The C was big and shaky, and the rest of it went uphill a little. The way his signature has always gone uphill, ever since I can remember. On my report cards. On feed bills. On the back of every rent check Bobby Whitt ever wrote him.
He looked at it a long time when he was done.
Then he held it out to me, his hand still trembling.
“Take that down to the business office,” he said. “Tell them it’s from Clayton Akers in fourteen. Tell them it’s my rent, from my land, for my keep.”
He took off his glasses and folded them.
“And tell them to quit sending my daughter a bill.”
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.
At TheArchivists, Lila is known for her meticulous attention to detail and her ability to uncover hidden gems within extensive archives. Her work is praised for its depth, authenticity, and contribution to the preservation of knowledge in the digital age.
Driven by a commitment to preserving stories that matter, Lila is passionate about exploring the intersection of history and technology. Her goal is to ensure that every piece of content she handles reflects the richness of human experiences and remains a source of inspiration for years to come.