And he did all of this in secret.
The answer was there, in the piles of paper.
“Not anymore.”
I copied the return address from one of Marilyn’s letters.
It took me two days to find the courage to go to Marilyn’s address.
It was a neat little house with a basketball hoop above the garage and a lawn to mow. A man in his thirties, wearing a work shirt, opened the door. He had Thomas’s eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
He had Thomas’s eyes.
“I… are you Marilyn’s son?”
His eyes narrowed. He glanced at the box in my arms, then at my face.
“Who’s asking?”
I took a breath. “My name is Margaret. I was married to Thomas.”
The man became completely still. “Uncle Tom?”
“Did you know about him?”
“I… are you Marilyn’s son?”
He nodded slowly, stepping back to let me in. “Mom told me the truth when I turned 18. She told me he didn’t want credit. He just wanted to make sure I could go to university and have a chance to succeed.”
I gave a small, sad laugh. “That looks a lot like him.”
The man’s expression softened. “Actually, he came to my graduation. He was standing at the very back of the gym. Afterwards, he shook my hand and told me he was an old friend of my father’s. I didn’t realize who he was until Mom told me later.”
“My mother told me the truth when I turned 18.”
I handed him the box. Inside were the baseball glove, the baseballs, the newspaper clippings, and the letters from the prison.
“They belong to you,” I told him. “They belonged to your father. Your uncle kept these things all these years because he refused to let your father be forgotten. He loved his brother, even when he couldn’t say it out loud. You should have them.”
He picked up the box, his fingers tracing the worn leather of the glove. “Thank you.”
I handed him the box.
“Don’t thank me,” I replied. “Thank your uncle. He did most of the work.”
When I got home that evening, the hallway no longer seemed narrow or dark.
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