Jackson
As far as I knew, Dad had been able to stay away from the bottle. I was thankful for that, too. I never wanted to see him in that shape ever again. I’d never been so terrified in my life.
On Thursday afternoon, I walked over to the auto shop, and I felt a knot in my stomach as I looked up at Dad on a ladder as he hammered away at the Mike’s Auto Shop sign in front of the building.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I asked walking over to him.
“Closing shop,” he replied.
“What? What do you mean closing shop?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” The sign dropped to the ground with one more hit, and then Dad started climbing down the ladder. “I sold the place,” he grumbled, walking into the shop, leaving me flabbergasted.
“Are you drunk? You can’t just give all this away,” I argued, following right behind him.
“Actually”—he shrugged—“it turns out I can. I sold the shop and the cabin along with all the land. Got a pretty penny for it, too.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s my home.”
“Yeah, well, now it’s not.”
“Who did you sell it to? I’ll get it back. It’s obvious you’re not in the right state of mind. You’ve been through a lot these past few weeks, and your mind just isn’t making sense.”
“Nah. For the first time ever, I’m thinking straight.”
“But—”
“What type of art?” he asked me, throwing me off completely.
“What?”
“What art style would you study? Where would you travel to see different techniques?”
“You need a nap.”
“I’ve been sleeping long enough. Now here.” He nodded me over to him, and I hesitated. “Come on, boy, I ain’t got all day. Get over here.”
He handed me a check with a huge amount written on it. “What is this?” I asked him.
“Your cut from the sale. Of course, you won’t see any real payoff until the paperwork goes through and all that bullshit, but that’s enough for you to live off of for a year or so.”
“What?”
“You’re free, Jackson,” he said, giving me a half smile. “Go find yourself.”
“Dad, you’re being ridiculous. I know exactly who is behind this, and I’ll get everything figured out. Don’t worry.”
Before he could reply, I was already on my way to Loretta Harris’s home. It was clear that she was the one behind the sale of the property. She was the only one ever pushing for land for that church of theirs. This situation had her name written all over it.
As I stood on her front porch, I took a deep breath as she answered the door.
“Jackson? What are you doing here?” she asked, confused.
“You really couldn’t help yourself, could you?” I barked, feeling my chest rise and fall.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let’s not play stupid. The property, my dad’s shop,” I told her. She raised an eyebrow. “Him selling everything to you and the church.”
“What?” she said, flabbergasted. “I’m sorry, I have no clue what you’re talking about…”
“Stop with the games and pretending.”
