I Was There the Night He Died by Ray Robertson Page A

be so adamant that Dad’s fees are in arrears fifteen thousand dollars. Uncle Donny goes to the sink and runs the tap. Frank croons away about how he did it his way.
    â€œI guess the thing to do is to just pay them and let it all get settled out later,” he says.
    Uncle Donny stands at the sink with his back to me. “Are you crazy? Why would we pay them money we don’t owe them? How would we pay them money we don’t owe them?”
    Uncle Donny shuts off the tap but stays where he is, stares out the kitchen window. “I thought maybe me and you could pay them. Just until everything gets straightened out.”
    â€œWhere would you and I get fifteen thousand dollars?”
    He finally turns around from the sink; sticks his hand in his pants pocket and pulls out a roll of bills. “There’s nearly a thousand dollars here,” he says. “If you could put in the rest, maybe we could get this all behind us.”
    I stand up. “Uncle Donny, there’s no—”
    â€œI’d pay you back my fair share. I know I’d owe you half.” He holds out the money like a begging old man with a wad of bills in his palm.
    â€œJust put that away, okay? There’s no reason for anyone to panic. I’m going to talk to someone at the bank tomorrow. That’s where I probably should have gone in the first place.”
    â€œWhy do you want to get the bank involved?”
    â€œI don’t want to get anyone involved. But they’re probably our best bet at figuring out why Dad’s cheques aren’t getting through to Thames View.”
    Uncle Donny is looking at the money in his hand like he can’t remember how it got there. “I don’t know,” he says, slowly shaking his head.
    â€œYou don’t know what?”
    Uncle Donny just shakes his head.
    I take the hand with the money in it and carefully push it back inside his pants pocket. Uncle Donny isn’t the sort of uncle you hug—in forty-four years, I can’t remember doing it even once—but once the money is returned I rest my hand on his shoulder.
    â€œDon’t worry about it, all right? I’ll take care of it. You stay home tomorrow and take a break and I’ll get my own ride to Thames View. I’ll bet you by this time tomorrow it’ll all be sorted out. And as soon as it is, I’ll give you a call, okay?”
    Uncle Donny doesn’t speak, but looks as if he’s going to say something anyway, eyes anxious in their sockets, tongue licking his lips.
    â€œGo get your car keys, okay?” I say. “I better get home. I’ve got work to get to.”
    Talk of my leaving returns his attention to me. “I’ve got a call to make,” he says. “It’ll only be a minute.”
    It’s only now that I notice he’s not wearing his latest and only fashion accessory. “Where’s your cell phone?” I say.
    â€œWhat the hell do I need a cell phone for? Do you know how much one of those things cost? It adds up, you know.”
    I don’t argue with him, and Uncle Donny goes to his bedroom to make his phone call while I remove my coat from the back of the chair. While I’m doing up the buttons on my jacket I wander into the living room to get a peek at what Uncle Donny’s idea of a mess really is.
    Where I’m shocked. Not because there’s stuff lying everywhere, but because there is no stuff. Almost no stuff: a crisp brown plant rotting in a green plastic pot on the floor where the TV used to be; several empty Cott Cola cans scattered around the room; a pile of Pro-Line tickets raked and ready to be made a bonfire of. But certainly none of the things that make Uncle Donny Uncle Donny, like his heated, vibrating recliner or his chair-side, glass-encased mini-fridge or his fifty-two-inch television or the revered collection of several remote controls laid out for easy access. He must have sold all of it to get the