"The demolition payout and the replacement housing," I continued. "Mom and Dad said they'd split everything evenly. They want to know if we'd rather have a unit or take the cash."
He sat up straighter. The drunkenness seemed to drain right out of him.
"Here's what I think," he said. "We both earn decent salaries. We're perfectly capable of supporting ourselves. There's no reason to go after Mom and Dad's demolition money."
I stared at him. This was completely unlike anything Clement Chavez had ever said.
And the conviction in his voice. He sounded downright noble.
I started to wonder if I'd heard him wrong.
Normally, he inserted himself into every last thing involving my family. Last year, when my father pulled strings to get him a job, Clement had no trouble accepting every gift that came with it. The year before that, when my brother Derek brought back specialty goods from out of town, Clement cherry-picked the best of the lot. He'd even insisted on taking live chickens from my parents' farm so he could have them freshly slaughtered as gifts for his boss.
And now, suddenly, he was turning down money? Had hell frozen over?
When I didn't respond, he kept going.