The Bouquet My Sister Took

The Question

“Aunt Marge,” Trina said now, into the DJ’s microphone, a hundred and forty people watching, “at the Harvest Supper last October, how much money did you say we raised for my van?”

My sister’s smile finally slipped.

“Trina, honey.” She laughed, and the laugh came out thin. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

“You can just tell me the number,” Trina said. “You said it on the stage. Everybody heard.”

Somebody near the front said, “It was fourteen thousand.” It was a woman from the feed store, and I do not think she meant to say it aloud. A few people nodded. A man at the back said, “Two hundred,” and then, to the table next to him, “fourteen thousand two hundred, I put in fifty myself.”

“Fourteen thousand two hundred dollars,” Trina agreed. She reached into the pocket on the side of her chair and took out the green notebook. I had not known she had brought it. She had slipped it into the chair pocket that morning with her ribbon and her tissues, and I had never looked. “I wrote it down. Mr. Arlo counted it with me, twice. He initialed it. It’s right here.”

She held up the notebook. It shook a little in her small hand, and it was the only thing in that hall that moved.

“Then I heard Mom tell Dad how much money was in the van account, and it was three thousand one hundred dollars.” Trina turned her head to look right at my sister. “Aunt Marge, where is the other eleven thousand one hundred?”

I saw the whole room do the arithmetic.

It was very quiet for a moment, and then, from table seven, a chair scraped back.