The Money Orders That Kept Mom Home

“I believed him,” she said finally. “He stood right there and looked so tired, and I believed him. I should have walked down to her porch and asked her myself.”

“You didn’t do this, Avis.”

“No,” she said. “But I didn’t stop it either.” She shook her head. “The owners send a man out on the first to post anything over ninety days. I couldn’t hold him back any longer. I hated it. I want you to know I hated it.”

“I know you did.”

She wrote the receipt slow, pressing hard with her pen so the copy would come through. Lot number, Dolores Fitch, June, July, August, September. Two thousand one hundred dollars. Paid in full. Her initials and the date.

Then she stamped it, tore it out and handed it to me with both hands, like it was something that mattered. I guess it was.

“Is Clint coming by her place?” she asked.

“After work. He told her he’d help her figure out where to go.”

Avis was quiet a second. Then she said, “What time does he get off?”

“Four, usually. He’s always there by four thirty.”

“Then I’ll be there at four,” she said. “I close the window at four on weekdays anyway. I think somebody from this office ought to be standing on that porch.”

Lunch at Mom’s table

I got back to Mom’s a little after ten thirty. She was dressed by then, in her gray slacks and the coral blouse I’d given her for her birthday, and she’d combed her hair. I think she’d done it so I wouldn’t worry.

The two boxes were still by the door. She hadn’t opened them. She hadn’t packed any more either.

I sat down and held out the receipt.

She didn’t take it. She looked at it in my hand.

“Is it paid?” she said.

“Every dime. You’re paid through September. October’s not due till the fifth.”

“I’ll want to see it,” she said. “But not yet. Let’s eat something first. My stomach’s been in a knot since six.”

So I made us grilled cheese sandwiches in her black skillet and opened a can of tomato soup, the way she used to do for me on Saturdays when I was little. She sat at the table and watched me cook in her kitchen.

While I was flipping the sandwiches, she started humming. It took me a minute to place it. Great Is Thy Faithfulness. She used to hum it at the switchboard, the girls told me once, between calls.

I didn’t say anything. I just let her hum.

We ate. She ate the whole sandwich, which she hardly ever does anymore. Then she dried the two bowls and set them in the cabinet and turned around and wiped her hands on the towel.

“All right,” she said. “Now I want to see it.”