Chapter 3

3: 3

My mother-in-law spoke to my father. "I know these aren't your real feelings."

"All the relatives are here today. You don't have to be afraid of Geraldine. Whatever grievances you have, just say them, and we'll stand up for you."

Everyone nodded hard, watching my father with encouraging faces.

My father kept his head down, not looking at any of them, and said slowly, "I don't have any grievances."

"And when you come right down to it, whatever's between me and Geraldine, that's a private family matter."

"Ma'am, bringing this many people over, that's overstepping a little."

My mother-in-law started to say something. "I—"

She was so angry she threw out one last line. "Fine. Call me a busybody with nothing better to do."

She stormed off in a huff, and the other relatives shook their heads and left too.

Once they were all gone, I gave my father a satisfied nod. "You did all right today. I'll let you eat in a bit."

When the food was ready, my husband went to call my father to the table, but I stopped him.

I sat at the table and ate my fill while my father stood off to the side, drooling with hunger.

Nolan couldn't help himself. "Geraldine, why won't you let your dad eat?"

I said, "His pension's already run out. Starting today, he eats leftovers."

"If there are leftovers, he eats. If there aren't, he goes hungry."

My father teared up, looking wronged.

Half an hour later, with me pushing him, Nolan forced down a little food.

A whole table of dishes, and what was left was one bread roll, half a bowl of porridge, one small plate of vegetables.

I dumped everything together into a basin and set it in front of my father. "Eat."

He looked at me, pitiful. "Geraldine, you didn't give me a fork."

I said coldly, "Does a beggar need a fork?"

My father cried.

He held the basin and swallowed his tears down with the porridge.

After he ate, my father limped out to collect bottles.

Because I'd told him that if he didn't pay for his meals, he might not even get leftovers.

I stood at the window, watching him without a trace of warmth.

He shuffled out to the square in our complex and bent down to pick up bottles.

Then he stumbled and pitched forward onto the ground.

My chest clenched, but I didn't step in.

He crawled up slowly, hands and face scraped raw and bleeding.

He wiped himself off a little and fished a plastic water bottle out from under a bench.

The sun beat down on him, and before long he was drenched in sweat.

Two hours later, a big bag of bottles on his back, he wobbled off toward the recycling depot.

The sky was going dark by the time my father finally came back.

The moment he got home, he obediently pulled out a hundred dollars and handed it to me.

I knocked the money right out of his hand.

It startled him, and he reflexively picked it back up.

I said coldly, "You think I'm stupid? A few bottles sold for a hundred dollars? Where'd this come from?"

My father said carefully, "I met some kind people. They saw how pitiful I looked and gave me a hundred dollars."

"I didn't keep any for myself. I gave it all to you."

He said it earnestly enough, but I still frisked him head to toe.

Once I was sure he really wasn't hiding any money, I gave a satisfied nod.

Early the next morning, my father tried to come to the table, and I sent him right back down.

He said, wronged, "I just handed over a hundred dollars yesterday."

I said, low and even, "Collecting bottles brings in money so slowly. Begging's much faster."

"There's a difference between real hunger and fake hunger. People can tell at a glance."

"Just wear your rattiest clothes when you go out. Out there you've got food, drink, and money too. Isn't that better than sitting at home spending mine?"

My father cried as he went out the door.

But before it was even noon, my husband suddenly came back, soaked in sweat.

He said to me anxiously, "Geraldine, something's happened to your dad."