The Wedding Bill and the Receipts

“Marcia was in here Monday,” Bev said.

Kayla went still.

“She asked me to tell Pastor Stan that the Eberharts had paid for the whole supper. I said I’d have to look at my books.” Bev’s mouth went small and flat. “I told her I’d look. I never did say what I found.”

Orval Ivey at the Legion had the hall receipt, and he gave us more than we asked.

“Wayne’s check cleared on the fourth of June,” he said, “and I’ll make you a copy of that, too. Put it in with the rest. Give him his due.” He handed the copy over the counter. “Whatever else Wayne is, he’s a man who pays what he owes.”

“That’s what I told her,” I said.

Otis Pollard did not have to look anything up. “A girl her age, paying for her own pictures,” he said. “I remember. I told my wife about it at supper.” He wrote us a note on the back of his business card. Rita Jorgensen found her deposit slip. The bridal shop in Fort Dodge mailed a copy of Kayla’s receipt without being asked twice.

Then I thought of Wayne.

Wayne Eberhart farmed 480 acres his father had farmed, and he drove the east school bus route besides, 41 miles twice a day, in the dark at both ends. He had a heavy, slow way of talking and a trick of looking at the floor when somebody said something kind. Two bad crops and the price of fertilizer had put gray in his hair and a stoop in his back. And I thought, whatever Marcia has done, I do not believe Wayne ever read what she mailed.

That thought changed how we packed the binder.

Kayla put it together Wednesday night, at the same table, with a three-ring binder and a pack of colored tabs. She did not want her mother to write the letter. She tore up three drafts. The one she put in front of the first tab said this:

Dear Wayne and Marcia,

I received your statement and the card for Owen. I looked into every line. I have enclosed my records, and the records of the people who were there, so you can see for yourselves.

I gave you credit for every dollar you paid. Your gifts to us that day were real, and I was grateful then, and I am grateful now. By the rule in your own letter, that each side pays half, I believe the two sides are not even. I am not asking you for anything. I would only like the statement withdrawn, and I would like Owen to be able to come see you.

He asks about the combine.

Kayla

I read it over her shoulder. I said, “Take out the last line.” She said, “No.” I did not say it again.

The tabs went in order: Hall. Catering. Band. Photographer. Dress. Flowers. Cake. Dinner. Behind each tab sat a page, with the copy of the check or the receipt, and a line in Kayla’s neat print saying who had paid. On the Eberharts’ tabs she wrote “Paid by Wayne Eberhart, thank you.” On her own she wrote only the name and the date. No arrows. No exclamation marks.

Behind the last tab there was a ninth section, and this one was not in the list at all.