"Thirty-one years," Hector said when he was done. "She didn't cash any of it."
"No."
"How do you feel about that?"
"Don't do that to me."
"You did it to me for nine years. How do you feel?"
Bonner looked out the window at the hospital. The second-floor windows were starting to go gold in the late sun. He did not know which one was hers. He had been trying to guess.
"Like it was for nothing," he said. "Like I've been throwing it down a well."
"Was it for nothing?"
"The girl's mother had to quit college, Hector. They lived in a back room. That money was supposed to be for that. That was the whole point of it. And it sat in a closet."
"That's not what I asked. I asked if it was for nothing. You told me once that the money wasn't the point. You told me the point was you had to go to the post office every month and look at your own name next to his. You told me that was the thing that kept you sober, not the money. Was that for nothing?"
Bonner did not answer.
"The money was hers to spend or not spend," Hector said. "The going to the post office was yours. Seems to me you both did what you had to do. Maybe hers was dumber than yours. Maybe it wasn't. You don't know yet."
"Her daughter's angry."