The Chili Supper at the Fire Hall

The Check

Nadine opened her purse and took out a long envelope. Not a plain white one this time. It was from the bank in the county seat, and she set it on the table and pushed it across to me with two fingers.

I opened it. It was a cashier’s check, made out to Missy and Clint Rowe, for eight thousand dollars.

“That’s every cent I have left of it,” Nadine said. “I went to the bank on Monday morning.”

I did the math in my head. Fourteen thousand. Three thousand to me in February. Eight thousand on the table. Three thousand to a collection agency.

“I’ll pay the rest,” Nadine said. “Two hundred and fifty a month, starting the first of April. I wrote it down.” She took a folded piece of paper out of her purse and put it beside the check. It was a little chart, twelve rows, with the dates and the amounts in her office handwriting.

I looked at the chart for a long time.

“Nadine,” I said. “Why didn’t you just tell me? About the bills? I would have helped you. You know I would have.”

She laughed, but it was not a laugh. “Because you’d just lost your house, honey. What was I going to do, ask you for money?” She shook her head. “And because I was ashamed. I was ashamed before I ever touched it. I’m fifty-nine years old and I couldn’t pay a hospital bill.”

“So you took it from my kids instead,” I said.

I did not say it to be cruel. I said it because it was true, and because I think she needed somebody to say it out loud.

Nadine flinched like I had slapped her. Then she nodded, slowly.

“Yes,” she said. “I did. I took it from Josie and Wade, and from Earl Lacey, and from your kitchen ladies who make twelve dollars an hour. I know exactly what I did.”

What I Said

I thought about Mom then. My mother and Nadine were five years apart, and they fought like cats when they were girls and then talked on the phone every single night of their grown lives.

I thought about Nadine signing my report cards when Mom worked nights at the nursing home. I thought about her standing at the funeral home with a folder of papers, handling everything so I would not have to.

And I thought about her standing at that serving line with the ladle shaking in her hand, saying, “It helped,” eighty times.

“I wanted you to have to look at them,” I said. “At the supper. I’m going to be honest with you, since you’re being honest with me. That was part of why I asked you to serve. I wanted you to have to hear it.”

Nadine nodded. “I know you did.”

“I’m not proud of that,” I said.

“I’m not proud of anything I did either,” she said. “But you didn’t do anything wrong, Missy. You fed them. You thanked them. You didn’t tell one person in this county what I did. And I know you could have.”

She pushed the chart a little closer to me.

“I’ll pay every dime,” she said. “And I’m going to go see Nola. I’m going to tell her the truth. She deserves to know where it went.”

I put my hand on top of hers on the table. Her hand was cold.

“You’ll come to supper tomorrow,” I said. “Sunday. After church. The kids will want to see you.”

Nadine started to cry then, for real, the way I had not let myself cry in all of those weeks. I got up and came around the table and held on to her.

“I’m so sorry,” she said into my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” I said. “I know you are.”