In the corner, at the foot of a stump, a square of sod had been cut and replaced. The edges were rough. Somebody had done it quickly. I knelt, wedged the shovel under the lip, and lifted.
Underneath, wrapped in a feed sack, was a gray metal cash box.
I sat back on my heels.
I knew the box. It was the one Tom’s father had used for the cattle money in the sixties, a dented thing with a broken latch that Tom had kept in the shop. I’d thought it lost. I lifted it out, brushed the dirt from the lid, and thumbed the latch.Inside lay a stack of envelopes, rubber-banded, and a single folded sheet of paper on top.
My name was on it. In his square, careful capitals.
KAREN.
I unfolded it. My hands didn’t want to cooperate. The meadowlark sang on and on, as though nothing had happened to anybody, as if the world were just a pleasant morning in a good country.
