My body went rigid on instinct as he climbed out of the cab, smelling of stale tobacco and cheap beer even in the open air.
“Looks like you cleared the place out,” he said, squinting at the empty lawn with a look of calculation.
“Most of it is gone,” I replied, trying to keep my voice as flat and uninteresting as possible.
He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and stepped closer. “So, what’s the take? How much did we make today?”
“It’s about eighteen hundred dollars,” I said, immediately wishing I had rounded down or lied.
His eyes lit up with a sudden, hungry intensity that made my stomach turn. “You’re kidding. Eighteen hundred in cash right there?”
I reached down and grabbed the metal box, holding it tight against my side. “I’m taking it to the monument office tomorrow to put it toward the memorial Mom wanted.”
He held out a calloused hand, his fingers twitching. “Give me the box, kid. That money belongs to me as her legal husband.”
His voice dropped into that low, gravelly register that signaled a storm was coming, the same voice that used to precede broken dishes and slammed doors.
“It’s for her headstone, Raymond. She asked me to make sure it happened,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He took a step toward me, his face turning a blotchy shade of red. “Melanie is behind on her car note, and I’ve got bills piling up at the house. The living come before the dead.”
The heat of the afternoon felt suffocating as I looked at the man who had spent thirty years letting my mother carry his weight.
“She worked for these things, and she wanted a marker. I’m not giving you the money,” I said, surprised by the steady tone of my own voice.
“I’m not going to ask you again,” he snarled, moving so fast I didn’t have time to retreat.
He lunged for the box, his fingers catching the corner of the lid and yanking it upward. The latch snapped, and a cloud of twenty-dollar bills exploded into the air, caught by the afternoon breeze.
We both scrambled for the money, crawling on the hot pavement like desperate animals while the cash skittered toward the street.
“This is mine!” he shouted, shoving me aside as he grabbed a handful of bills from under the table leg.
“It belongs to her memory!” I yelled back, my hands shaking as I tried to pin down a stack of tens near his front tire.