The Envelopes in My Father’s Bible

The tenth Sunday

The tenth Sunday was the first Sunday in December. Deep winter. The sun was bright on the snow outside the big windows, and everybody stamped their boots on the mat.

I wore my navy peacoat, the one I’d bought on sale in Rochester the year before the divorce.

I had my dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail because I hadn’t had time to do anything else with it that morning.

Dad was in his chair at the table, white hair cut short, fresh from the barber on Saturday, red and black plaid flannel on.

Orv, Leon and Pete were in their places with their caps on and their coffee mugs in front of them.

I sat down and took the envelope out of my coat pocket. Number ten. Five thousand dollars, once it crossed the table. I slid it toward my father the way I always did.

He reached for it, the way he always did, his hand coming across the table to meet mine.

Orv set his mug down. It made a small sound on the table, and for some reason everybody heard it, even over the noise of the counter.

“Nicole,” he said. “I’m going to ask, and you can tell me to mind my own business.”

“Go ahead, Orv,” I said. My hand was still on the envelope.

“What’s that for?” he asked. He said it plainly, without any edge on it at all.

The whole table went quiet. Even Pete. Deb was coming over with the coffee pot, and she stopped halfway and stood there holding it.

I could have said it was nothing. I could have said it was for groceries, or that Dad was holding some money for me.

People say things like that all the time to keep the peace.

But I’ve never been much of a liar, and I was tired of carrying it by myself, ten months on my own back.

“It’s Scott’s tractor,” I said. “The used one with the cab. Dad lent him the money. In the divorce it landed on me. I’m just the one paying for it.”

Leon looked at Dad. Dad looked at his coffee and didn’t say a single word.

Orv nodded slowly, the way a man nods when he’s adding up a column of numbers in his head. “How much has gone across this table?” he asked.

“That’s ten envelopes,” I said. “Five thousand dollars, with this one.”

“Ten months of Sundays,” Orv said. “Five hundred every one of them.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and let go of the envelope.

He picked his mug back up and finished his coffee. He didn’t say another word the rest of the hour.

But when he left, he put his hand on my shoulder for a second on his way past, and squeezed.

Pete, for once in his life, didn’t tell anybody. I know because nobody asked me about it all week, and if Pete had told, the whole county would have asked.