Walt went to his counter and pulled out a folded copy of the Knoxville News Sentinel from March. On page three was a short article. Eight-Year-Old’s Video Exposes Father’s Custody Scheme. It didn’t use our names. But it described the moon shirt and the secret pocket.
“I knew it was you the minute I read it,” Walt said. “The moon shirt. You told me about it when you pawned the locket. You said it was for your boy’s birthday.”
He went to a locked glass case behind the counter. He opened it with a small key. He reached inside.
When he turned around, he was holding my grandmother’s locket.
The little tag was still tied to the chain. L. Bellamy.
I couldn’t speak.
“I said I’d hold it as long as I could,” Walt said. “Turned out I could hold it a pretty long time.”
He held it out toward me.
“I can’t afford it yet,” I said. “Not right now. I’m still waiting on the back support—”
Nolan reached into his pocket.
Not the secret one. His regular jeans pocket. He pulled out a small plastic sandwich bag. Inside were crumpled dollar bills, a few fives, and a lot of quarters.
He put it on the counter.
“It’s sixty-three dollars and seventy-five cents,” he said. “Grandma helped me save. I did chores. And I sold my old Legos at school.”
He looked up at Walt.
“Is that enough to start?” he asked.
Walt looked at the sandwich bag. Then he looked at my mother, who was crying. Then he looked at me, who was crying worse.
Then he looked at Nolan.
“Young man,” he said. “I think that’s exactly enough.”
He took the sandwich bag. He picked up the locket. And he put it in Nolan’s small hand.
