The Money Orders That Kept Mom Home

Three money orders

The credit union in town opens at nine. I was in the lot at ten till, and I sat there with the receipt book on the seat beside me and read it again.

I’ll tell you what I was thinking, because I’m not proud of it. I was thinking about the Easter eggs. About how I had looked my stepbrother in the face and said thank you for taking care of Mom’s rent, and he had said, oh, it’s nothing, it’s on my way.

At nine the teller unlocked the door. I drew $2,100 out of our savings account. That was most of what Odell and I had put back for a new roof, and I signed for it without blinking.

Then I drove two blocks to the post office. I’d already called the park office from the car to ask what they’d take, and once a notice is posted, it’s cash, cashier’s check or money order. No personal checks.

The lady at the post office counter told me what I already halfway knew. A postal money order tops out at $1,000. So I bought three of them. One for $1,000, one for $1,000, and one for $100.

She filled them out and took the fees and slid them over one at a time, and I tucked the little customer stubs into the back of Mom’s receipt book where they wouldn’t get lost.

“Rent?” she asked, kindly.

“My mother’s,” I said.

She nodded like she’d seen that before. I expect she had.

The office window

The park office is a little white building at the front of the lane, with a window and a slot for night drops and a bulletin board covered in notices for yard sales and lost cats.

Avis Kendrick has managed it for 19 years. She’s 66, with short gray hair and reading glasses on a chain, and she’s the kind of manager who knows every dog on the lane by name.

She saw me through the window and her face fell before I even reached it.

“Jolene,” she said. “Oh, honey. I saw the notice went up this morning. I am so sorry.”

I put the three money orders on the counter, side by side. “That’s June through September,” I said. “Twenty-one hundred. I’d like a receipt, please.”

Avis looked at the money orders a long time. Then she took off her glasses and looked at me.

“Clint told me in July she’d come up short,” she said quietly. “He came in here and leaned on this counter and said Dolores was having a hard time since his dad passed. He said he was covering it out of his own check and he’d have it all caught up by fall.”

“She has never come up short a day in her life,” I said. “She handed him the cash on the first of every month. She wrote it down and he initialed it.”

I opened the receipt book and turned it so she could see.

Avis put her glasses back on and read down the column. Gave Clint $525 for lot rent. C.F. Gave Clint $525 for lot rent. C.F. She turned the pages. She didn’t say anything for a while.