The red line on the survey was not where Brent said. It was twelve feet the other way, on his daddys side, and under it, in Mr. Clarences hand, it said, Gave this strip to Bobby Rays father in 1979. Paid in full. Ask Brent what happened that night.
What night, Brent, I said. And from the porch out front, Mr. Clarence called out, stronger than I had heard him in years, Tell him, son. Or I will.
It came out there in the yard, with the surveyor standing between us. In 1979, my father pulled Clarence and his wife out of a house fire on this very street, and lost the use of his own right hand doing it. Clarence deeded him that strip of land in thanks, recorded it at the courthouse, paid in full. It has been Tucker land for forty-six years.
Brent had not been defending his familys property. He had been trying to steal mine, with his own fathers signature sitting in a Folgers can in my shed.
And that night Brent did not want anybody asking about? He was nineteen, and he left the space heater too close to the curtains, and then left town for a week while his parents nearly burned. My daddy went in for them. Brent never forgave the family that saw him run.
The surveyor filed the real 1979 survey with the parish that afternoon. The buyers got the house with its honest property line, twelve feet short of what Brent promised them. Brent did not sue me for my truck, or my house, or my Marine pension. His lawyers took one look at a recorded deed and told him to go home.
Mr. Clarence is in Baton Rouge now. I drive up every Saturday, same as I used to mow his yard, and we sit, and he tells me again about my father and the fire, and I never get tired of hearing it.