“She told me,” Andre said. “Mama Loretta. Out by the side door. She told me all that. She made me swear I’d never tell you.” He shook his head slowly. “I used to look at you at Thanksgiving. Passing the yams. Twenty-some years sober. And I’d think, he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know what she did.”
“Now I do.”
“Are you angry? At her?”
Leon thought about it honestly, because he believed the man across from him deserved an honest answer and because he had been asking himself the same question for twelve days.
“I was,” he said. “For about a day. Then I read the cards again.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out the small bronze coin with the Roman numeral I and set it on the metal table between them. Andre went very still. “She kept this for you,” Leon said. “Since 2018. I’m going to keep it now. When you get your next one, I’ll give you both. Not before.”
Andre reached out one finger and touched the coin, and drew his hand back.