The Bible I Bought Twice

I will tell you what I wanted to do. I wanted to drive to that brick house and stand in her kitchen and say every word I had held in for eleven years.

I will tell you why I did not.

Warren was on doubles that week, and he thought the Bible was handled. He thought his mama had it.

I could have called him at the plant, but he would have walked off the line and walked into his own kitchen angry, and Micah would have heard all of it.

And I could have called Heidi. I had her number. But the walls in that house are thin, and Micah’s bedroom sits right next to the kitchen.

A phone call would have turned into the whole baptism week, his mother and his grandmother going at each other through the drywall.

He was nine. He did not need to carry that into the water. A boy ought to walk down into that tank with his heart quiet.

So I did the other thing. I went to the store.

On Friday morning I drove to Haleyville and parked in front of the bookstore and sat in the truck for a while.

Then I went in, and Kelsey looked up from the register and her whole face changed.

Kelsey is nineteen. She is Pam’s niece, and she had been working the counter about four months. She came around the counter before I said a word.

“Miss Maxine,” she said, “I need to tell you something and I do not know how.”

“You gave the Bible back,” I said. “Heidi brought it in, and you gave her the ninety dollars.”

Her ears went red.

“Tuesday. She had the receipt. She said the name was spelled wrong and she needed her money back so she could order a corrected one. Engraved ones are not supposed to go back. I know that. But she was so sure, and so nice about it, and I was nervous, and I looked at the name and I did not see anything wrong.”

“There was nothing wrong,” I said.

“I know.” She held the edge of the counter.

“I checked the order copy in the drawer after she left. It was spelled perfectly. I called her to say so, and nobody picked up, and I was too scared to tell Aunt Pam.”

Pam had come out of the back by then. She is a heavy, quiet woman with reading glasses on a chain, and she did not say anything for what felt like a long time.

“The Bible is back on the shelf,” she said finally. “I can’t sell it to anybody else. It’s got your grandson’s name on it.”

“I know.”

“Kelsey made a mistake, and I’ll make it right on my end. But I can’t hand you the ninety dollars Heidi Lathem walked out of here with. I don’t have it to give.”

“I’m not asking you for it,” I said. “I’m asking whether I can buy that Bible. The same one. Today.”