On our last day in Broken Arrow, the truck came from the H.O.W. Foundation and took the things from Daddy's apartment that we could not take with us. We cleaned the apartment to the best of our ability, and with one final, sad look back at the place where my daddy had lived and died, I closed the door to the now empty apartment. I knew I needed to get back to Texas, but I could not quite make myself leave Broken Arrow that morning. I still had too many questions about Daddy's last days and hours and I was prepared to search for someone who could give me answers.
The day before, I had gone to the bank and closed Daddy's account. Fortunately, my name was on both his bank account and the car titles which made taking care of those things a bit easier. He didn't have much money in the account, just the remainder of his small Social Security check. I asked the young teller if I could get into his safety deposit box, as I also had a key to it. She told me that the bank no longer had safety deposit boxes and that Daddy had come in and closed his box about two months before. She laughed and said, "Your Daddy was quite the charmer. He insisted that I come into the vault with him so that he could show me all the cash he had in his box, then he asked me out on a date!" That was so typical of my white haired Daddy. I was surprised to hear that he had recently had a great amount of cash, because I found a total of $4.00 in his apartment. I asked for an up to date printout of all transactions for his bank account, which she provided. We were shocked to realize that there had been debit card purchases from a local convenience store, made after my daddy's death, a fact that was confirmed by the teller. And even more surprising, but then, not really, was the fact that every single other transaction was for $6.41 to two liquor stores down the street from the apartment.
Armed with the bank statement and determined to find out the truth, I drove to the first liquor store, just around the corner from Daddy's apartment. The transactions to that particular store had stopped two weeks prior to Daddy's death. When I walked into the dimly lit store, the lady working there, who was just a few years younger than me, looked me right in the eye and froze. Before I could say a word, she whispered, "Oh my God. You're Jerry's daughter, Whitney! I am so sorry to hear about his death. I loved him so much!" And then she came from behind the counter and hugged me tightly. I was so taken aback by the fact that she clearly knew who I was that I couldn't even say anything for a minute. If you know me, you know that I am never speechless. Ever. She went on to describe a relationship with my Daddy that warmed my heart because I could tell that she had truly loved him. She said that she had "adopted" him and he would come in and visit with her regularly. On the nights that she worked late, he would often cook her a steak and baked potato and deliver them to her at the liquor store. And while she ate, he told her stories about me and my little sister. She told me, with tears in her eyes, how proud my Daddy was of us and how much he loved us. She said that he brought in many pictures, including the ones of me getting my Master's Degree and Stormi getting her Bachelor's Degree. He was so thrilled that his girls had college educations. He told her about his grandsons; my two boys and Stormi's baby boy that he had never seen. She knew all of their names, our husband's names, where we lived, the jobs we all had. She knew us. And she also knew why we were not involved in his life at that point. He told her the truth, and for the first time ever, admitted that it was his fault. That one statement made me so proud of him, as he had never admitted guilt about anything. Everything was always someone else's fault. She shared with me that Daddy wanted to stop drinking so that he could see Stormi's baby, but that he just felt helpless to do so. It helped me so much to know that Daddy had a sweet friend who would listen to him talk and spend time with him. She is the one who took the last pictures of Daddy right there in the liquor store. Her words meant the world to me because I knew then that Daddy truly did love us, maybe even more than alcohol, even though most of the time it seemed that he did not.
I finally was able to ask her if anyone other than Daddy had ever used his debit card in the store. She told me that about two weeks prior, LaRoy had come into the store. He was driving Daddy's Camry, had his debit card and wanted to buy whiskey. He told her it was for my dad. She called Daddy and he didn't appear to know LaRoy had his debit card, although Daddy had seemed disoriented and she assumed he was drinking. She declined to sell the whiskey to LaRoy and told him he needed to take the card and the Camry back to Daddy. She never saw LaRoy or my daddy again. I hugged her tightly and thanked her for loving my Daddy. I shared my concerns about LaRoy. She told me that LaRoy frequently befriended older, addicted men and was known around the area for taking advantage of them. This information did not surprise me in the least. After one last hug, I left and went about a mile down the street to the liquor store where multiple charges had been made from Daddy's account.
As I walked into the second liquor store, there was no greeting or look of recognition. I approached the two older ladies behind the counter, showed them the last picture of my Daddy and asked if they knew him. Neither one had ever seen him before. I explained that someone had been using Daddy's debit card, sometimes multiple times a day, in that store for the past two weeks. They seemed shocked but said that they didn't recognize Daddy and the name Jerry Graham meant nothing to them. I then described LaRoy and they immediately knew who he was. One of the ladies told me that LaRoy had, indeed, come in daily and sometimes several times a day, beginning about two weeks prior. They had never seen him before that. He always purchased the same thing; one transaction at a time, but sometimes as many as 9 transactions in the same day. A single bottle of off-brand whiskey that totaled $6.41.
The exact kind of whiskey that had been in all those empty bottles that littered every surface of Daddy's apartment. The whiskey that my bloodied and beaten father was unable to get on his own. Bottle after bottle of cheap whiskey provided to an injured, sick old man who was not able to even get off the couch to go to the bathroom a mere six feet away, but was instead urinating in a bucket beside the couch. Whiskey served to him all day long, in glasses, in coffee mugs and straight from the bottle. No food, no medical interventions, no concerned calls to family, just more and more cheap whiskey, purchased with Daddy's own stolen debit card by a "friend" who had ulterior motives. Bottle after bottle of the whiskey that killed my Daddy.
The day before, I had gone to the bank and closed Daddy's account. Fortunately, my name was on both his bank account and the car titles which made taking care of those things a bit easier. He didn't have much money in the account, just the remainder of his small Social Security check. I asked the young teller if I could get into his safety deposit box, as I also had a key to it. She told me that the bank no longer had safety deposit boxes and that Daddy had come in and closed his box about two months before. She laughed and said, "Your Daddy was quite the charmer. He insisted that I come into the vault with him so that he could show me all the cash he had in his box, then he asked me out on a date!" That was so typical of my white haired Daddy. I was surprised to hear that he had recently had a great amount of cash, because I found a total of $4.00 in his apartment. I asked for an up to date printout of all transactions for his bank account, which she provided. We were shocked to realize that there had been debit card purchases from a local convenience store, made after my daddy's death, a fact that was confirmed by the teller. And even more surprising, but then, not really, was the fact that every single other transaction was for $6.41 to two liquor stores down the street from the apartment.
Armed with the bank statement and determined to find out the truth, I drove to the first liquor store, just around the corner from Daddy's apartment. The transactions to that particular store had stopped two weeks prior to Daddy's death. When I walked into the dimly lit store, the lady working there, who was just a few years younger than me, looked me right in the eye and froze. Before I could say a word, she whispered, "Oh my God. You're Jerry's daughter, Whitney! I am so sorry to hear about his death. I loved him so much!" And then she came from behind the counter and hugged me tightly. I was so taken aback by the fact that she clearly knew who I was that I couldn't even say anything for a minute. If you know me, you know that I am never speechless. Ever. She went on to describe a relationship with my Daddy that warmed my heart because I could tell that she had truly loved him. She said that she had "adopted" him and he would come in and visit with her regularly. On the nights that she worked late, he would often cook her a steak and baked potato and deliver them to her at the liquor store. And while she ate, he told her stories about me and my little sister. She told me, with tears in her eyes, how proud my Daddy was of us and how much he loved us. She said that he brought in many pictures, including the ones of me getting my Master's Degree and Stormi getting her Bachelor's Degree. He was so thrilled that his girls had college educations. He told her about his grandsons; my two boys and Stormi's baby boy that he had never seen. She knew all of their names, our husband's names, where we lived, the jobs we all had. She knew us. And she also knew why we were not involved in his life at that point. He told her the truth, and for the first time ever, admitted that it was his fault. That one statement made me so proud of him, as he had never admitted guilt about anything. Everything was always someone else's fault. She shared with me that Daddy wanted to stop drinking so that he could see Stormi's baby, but that he just felt helpless to do so. It helped me so much to know that Daddy had a sweet friend who would listen to him talk and spend time with him. She is the one who took the last pictures of Daddy right there in the liquor store. Her words meant the world to me because I knew then that Daddy truly did love us, maybe even more than alcohol, even though most of the time it seemed that he did not.
I finally was able to ask her if anyone other than Daddy had ever used his debit card in the store. She told me that about two weeks prior, LaRoy had come into the store. He was driving Daddy's Camry, had his debit card and wanted to buy whiskey. He told her it was for my dad. She called Daddy and he didn't appear to know LaRoy had his debit card, although Daddy had seemed disoriented and she assumed he was drinking. She declined to sell the whiskey to LaRoy and told him he needed to take the card and the Camry back to Daddy. She never saw LaRoy or my daddy again. I hugged her tightly and thanked her for loving my Daddy. I shared my concerns about LaRoy. She told me that LaRoy frequently befriended older, addicted men and was known around the area for taking advantage of them. This information did not surprise me in the least. After one last hug, I left and went about a mile down the street to the liquor store where multiple charges had been made from Daddy's account.
As I walked into the second liquor store, there was no greeting or look of recognition. I approached the two older ladies behind the counter, showed them the last picture of my Daddy and asked if they knew him. Neither one had ever seen him before. I explained that someone had been using Daddy's debit card, sometimes multiple times a day, in that store for the past two weeks. They seemed shocked but said that they didn't recognize Daddy and the name Jerry Graham meant nothing to them. I then described LaRoy and they immediately knew who he was. One of the ladies told me that LaRoy had, indeed, come in daily and sometimes several times a day, beginning about two weeks prior. They had never seen him before that. He always purchased the same thing; one transaction at a time, but sometimes as many as 9 transactions in the same day. A single bottle of off-brand whiskey that totaled $6.41.
The exact kind of whiskey that had been in all those empty bottles that littered every surface of Daddy's apartment. The whiskey that my bloodied and beaten father was unable to get on his own. Bottle after bottle of cheap whiskey provided to an injured, sick old man who was not able to even get off the couch to go to the bathroom a mere six feet away, but was instead urinating in a bucket beside the couch. Whiskey served to him all day long, in glasses, in coffee mugs and straight from the bottle. No food, no medical interventions, no concerned calls to family, just more and more cheap whiskey, purchased with Daddy's own stolen debit card by a "friend" who had ulterior motives. Bottle after bottle of the whiskey that killed my Daddy.