The Envelope in the School Lot

“It’s fine, Aunt Mari,” he said. “I decided I don’t want to go. I don’t even like Florida. It’s hot and there’s alligators. I’d rather stay home and help Dad.”

“You’ve talked about that parade since you were in seventh grade,” I said. “You had a picture of the band marching down that street taped inside your locker. You showed it to me.”

He didn’t say anything.

“And quitting band?” I said. “Teague. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But you don’t have to carry it by yourself either.”

He was quiet so long the furnace kicked on and off again. Then he said, very low, “The can’s empty. It’s been empty since February. Dad said he put it in the bank so it’d be safe. He said he’d write the check to the boosters.”

“Did he?”

“No.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Don’t say anything to him. Please. He’s having a hard time. He sits in his truck in the driveway sometimes and doesn’t come in. I don’t want to make it worse.”

That is my nephew. Fifteen years old, robbed of his own summer, and the thing he was worried about was making it worse for the man who did it.

“I won’t say anything to him,” I said. “I promise you that.”

“And I’m quitting band because everybody’s going to ask why I’m not on the bus,” he said.

“Mr. Fadness is going to ask. The whole trombone section is going to ask. I’m not going to tell them my dad drank it. I’m just not.”

He said it plain, like it was a decision a grown man makes, and it about broke my heart in half.

“All right,” I said. “Drink your cocoa. Eat a cookie. Let me think.”

I did not need to think. I had known since I sat in my car at the dental office what I was going to do.

I only wanted to be sure of it before I said it out loud.

Friday on my lunch break I drove to my bank on Main Street. The young woman at the window asked if I wanted the eight hundred and sixty in hundreds and I said no, twenties, please.

It was my tire money. My car needed four new ones before winter came back around, and I had been putting a little in that savings account every payday since last fall. I did not think about the tires for one second.

She counted it out twice. I put it in a plain white envelope from the stack in my glove box, the kind I use for the offering plate on Sunday, and I licked it shut and wrote nothing on the front.

Then I called Mr. Fadness from the parking lot.

“I’ll have his balance in the lot tomorrow morning,” I said. “In cash. Is that all right? I know it’s late. I know the deadline was the first.”

He let out a long breath. “Ms. Lindqvist, that is more than all right. I’ll call the tour company today and tell them he’s still traveling. I never sent his name in as a drop. I couldn’t make myself.”

“Don’t tell him,” I said. “I want him to see it.”