Chapter 7: Tin Full of Trouble
Continuation of Sunny and Ahmed
Previously:
Chapter 6: A Green Snake
Sunny sees something she can’t unsee: her preacher father in a compromising position with Brit’s mom. As she grapples with the truth about her family, Ahmed invites her to enter a comedy contest with him. It’s the biggest opportunity of her life—and the riskiest.
When I get over to the church, I go to the storage closet and gather my supplies. Daddy’s office first, like usual. Nobody’s there. Saw they was over at the diner havin’ a meeting when I passed by. I start dustin’ and straightenin’.
Daddy’s desk is always tidy, nothin’ outta place. It’s like he doesn’t really work there. I open a drawer. It’s full of office stuff—Magic tape, a stapler, notepads, pens, a key ring with a few keys. I close it, and open thenext drawer—file folders. Looks like a lot of borin’ stuff I don’t understand. Numbers.
Then I come to a drawer that’s locked. Now that’s interestin’. Could just be the offerin’ money—not that anyone in Citrus Grove would ever steal.
I fetch the keys I saw in the top drawer. Praise Jesus, the second key works. There’s a letter sittin’ right on top in an envelope. The envelope says: To: Pastor Day.
My hands shake as I open it. I know it’s wrong, what I’m doin’. By the grace of God, the letter is short and printed clearly—typed:
I know about you stealing money from the church, and also about the affair you are having with Mrs. Larson. If you don’t want me to spill the beans, you’ll do the smart thing and place $50,000 in cash in this bag, and leave it in the garbage can at the back of the church by eight o’clock tonight.
If you don’t do it, I’ll report you to the police.
There’s three photos and a photocopy in there. I can hardly look at the photos—Daddy’s naked, and so is Brit’s mom. The photocopy is a jumble of numbers, but one number is written in red: $145,000, and the word THIEF! is printed in block letters.
I quick take my phone out. Snap photos of each item. I gotta have some proof. Not sure what I’m gonna do with it, but I gotta have it.
My heart pounds so hard my head’s hurtin’. I fold up the letter and slip it all back in as close to how I found it as I can. Lock the drawer. Just as I’m puttin’ the keys back, I hear the rear door of the church squeak open and slam, then the clickity-clomp of Daddy’s hard shoes comin’ down the tiled hallway.
When the door to the office opens, I’m calmly dustin’ the window blinds.
“Oh, hi Daddy!”
I already knew my daddy’s a cheater, but now I’m pretty sure he’s a thief and a liar too. Who sent him that letter?
Dinner’s what Mommy calls Saturday night leftovers. She, Daddy, and me do like always—eat in silence. When done, I get up and start cleanin’ up the kitchen.
Mommy says, “I’m gonna go lie down. Got another headache.”
Daddy says, “You oughta see Doc about that.”
“It’ll stop hurtin’ soon,” she says, and disappears into the bedroom.
Daddy gets up. I look real hard at him. His face is lookin’ serious. Worried. He should be.
“I gotta go finish up some things at the church,” he says.
“I bet you do,” I say.
“Not sure why you’d say that, but it’s true. The work of the Lord is never done.”
“Right,” I say. He says that every time he leaves the house to do whatever it is he’s doin’. How many times has he said it before goin’ to meet up with Brit’s mom?
He slams the front door as he goes out, like he’s mad ’bout somethin’.
I’m glad, ’cause now I can call Ahmed.
When I get ahold of him, first thing I say is, “Got some new material for our sketch—not sure it’s funny though.”
“Let’s hear it.”
His voice is warm and fuzzy. Makes me feel better already.
“Like you told me, I did some research. Can I send you the pictures I took?”
“Sure.”
“One sec.”
I text them over.
After a time he says, “Oh, wow. That’s bad.”
“Yeah, you can say that again.”
“Does your mom know?”
“I can’t tell, but maybe—she’s got a lot of headaches.”
“Yeah, no wonder, huh? Maybe look around the house to see if there’s any signs of her knowing? It’s not your job to tell her, Sunny. Yer in a really tough spot.”
“Mind if we work on our sketch tomorrow? I feel like I gotta do somethin’ else right now.”
“Yeah, sure. That’d be fine.”
“Thanks, Ahmed. You have no idea how much it helps havin’ a friend like you.”
“I’m the lucky one,” he says. “You take care, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
After I hang up, I go out to the kitchen. Still hungry. Didn’t much care for the leftovers. A new tin of cookies sits on the top shelf. Are they Mommy’s special ones? She makes cookies that only she’s allowed to eat, ’cause Daddy’s pre-diabetic, she says, and sugar is bad for me. Sticks them way up high ‘cause she thinks they’re safe there.
I tried one once on the sly. Tasted more like dirt and grass than a cookie, and made me real sleepy—maybe I’m pre-diabetic too.
I climb up the step ladder and get the tin down. It’s real pretty covered in different colored roses. When I get it open, my jaw drops. It’s full of money—lotsa money—rolled up tight and packed in.
Maybe I’m slow, and I can’t do math, but I can put two and two together.
Mommy knows everything. She wrote that letter, and’s gettin’ ready to leave me and Daddy. How could I blame her?
I’m ready to leave them both.
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