Father Bruno, eighty-nine, said, Lorraine, I remember that Christmas in 1998 like it was last week. Sal stood up in front of the whole family. You ask Vincent if he remembers what your husband actually said.
I told him Vincent was coming Saturday with a lawyer, claiming Sal promised him the coin album at that very Christmas.
What Sal said, Father Bruno told me, was that the collection would go to you, Lorraine, and after you, to the grandchildren, so they could always find the year they were born. Vincent asked for it that night, out loud, and Sal told him no, in front of everyone, and I was standing right there. Sal asked me to remember it. And he put it in writing.
The notarized paper behind the last page of that blue album said exactly that, dated Christmas week 1998, witnessed, leaving the coins to me and the grandkids and to no one else.
He called it a bunch of old quarters, and every one of them was a Saturday my husband set aside for thirty-six years, for the children, never for Vincent.
Vincent came Saturday with his lawyer. I had Father Brunos statement and the notarized page waiting on the coffee table. The lawyer read both, said a few quiet words to Vincent, and the two of them left without the album. There was no court. There was nothing to take to court.
The blue coin album is still on my coffee table. The grandkids still open it to the year they were born, a quarter or a dime or a nickel from one of their grandfathers Saturdays. Sal never missed a week in his life, and he did not miss this one either.