Cutting Scenes - The Fine Line

something different emerged. "We're more than flush!" He should
know. He did the books.
"Still." It was all Carl could say. He could not explain
what he meant by 'afford.'
"But, Dad!" There, Carl's own exasperated arm waving. He'd
last used it when she had talked about buying an RV and touring
the country. Each flail was a reach inside and a scraping at
that artery. "You own this house outright!"
Carl said nothing, just hammered the sign in a bit more,
leveled it. "This is about Mom, isn't it?" his son had said and
then said a lot more, the gist all those Hallmark cards about
sympathy and moving on and Better Places. Carl said nothing.
He got $425,000 for the house, cleared 417,328.35. Simply
astonishing. Simply a matter of markets. The city, 50 miles away
and prohibitively expensive, drove its poorer workers into
Carl's neighborhood. They considered Carl's house a bargain. He
considered them insane.
"Here," he stood on his son's porch and gave him the
cashier's check for $200,000. He also gave him power of
attorney, the business title and the various registrations.
"Sell the shop. Take what's yours. Share the rest with your
sister," he said.
"What are you doing?" his son was shocked. His daughter-inlaw
was behind in the kitchen, kneeling down, holding a
grandson, looking afraid. Don't be, he thought to her.
"You wanted to go to school and be an architect."
"Dad…"
"Go," and he turned and got in the truck, which now pulled
a used 18 foot Airstream, courtesy of what was left in the
savings and checking accounts.
He knocked on his daughter's apartment door. "Dad!" she was
close to crying when she opened it, "Bobby just called me…"
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