Mother was in her room. I gave her the letter. She opened it and took the check out and sat holding it in her hand. I went and got the shovel from the corner and gave her a match. “Come on,” I says, “Get it over with. You’ll be crying in a minute.”
She took the match, but she didn’t strike it. She sat there, looking at the check. Just like I said it would be.
“I hate to do it,” she says, “To increase your burden by adding Quentin. …”
“I guess we’ll get along,” I says. “Come on. Get it over with.”
But she just sat there, holding the check.
“This one is on a different bank,” she says. “They have been on an Indianapolis bank.”
“Yes,” I says. “Women are allowed to do that too.”
“Do what?” she says.
“Keep money in two different banks,” I says.
“Oh,” she says. She looked at the check a while. “I’m glad to know she’s so … she has so much … God sees that I am doing right,” she says.
“Come on,” I says, “Finish it. Get the fun over.”
“Fun?” she says, “When I think—”
“I thought you were burning this two hundred dollars a month for fun,” I says. “Come on, now. Want me to strike the match?”
“I could bring myself to accept them,” she says, “For my childrens’ sake. I have no pride.”