Seven Checks Left Untouched in a Cedar Desk Drawer

Editoron

The yellow grease on the roasting pan would not dissolve, no matter how much boiling water I poured over the metal. My mother stood right behind me, her fingers sliding a heavy, glossy piece of paper under a stack of old home catalogs on the counter.

I kept my fingers in the hot foam, twisting the silver band on my right index finger round and round until the skin went red.

“Is that the electric bill?” I asked.

My mother smoothed the front of her dark wool skirt with both hands before she spoke. It was a habit she had whenever the kitchen got too quiet, a dry rustling sound of palms against fabric.

“Just some circulars from the county seat,” she said, her voice dropping into that clipped, polite tone she used for strangers at the door. “Nothing to worry your head about.”

She pushed the pile of catalogs an inch to the left, completely covering the glossy corner of the paper she had just tucked away. I saw the edge of a colored photograph, a neat brick building with tall, narrow windows, before it disappeared.

“You should use the green sponge for the corners of that pan, Cathy,” she added, already reaching for her gardening gloves on the windowsill. “Your father likes the copper clean.”

She was out the back door before I could dry my hands on the tea towel, leaving the pile of mail sitting on the edge of the oilcloth table.

I turned off the tap and stood in the quiet kitchen, listening to the slow drip of the faucet. The corner of the magazine she had moved was still slightly raised, casting a small, crooked shadow onto the wood.

I reached out my hand toward the stack, but the screen door rattled against its frame, and I pulled my fingers back.

The shadow of the elm tree stretched all the way across the front yard by five o’clock, turning the grass a dark, cold green.

Ben was sitting on the wooden porch swing, his boots flat on the floorboards to keep the chains from creaking. He held a small leather notebook open in his lap, his thumb marking a page near the middle.

 

  • “You have been coming by almost every afternoon this week,” I said, leaning closer to see the neat, slanted lines of numbers in his book. “Is Arthur keeping you busy with the estate files?”

    Ben closed the notebook with a soft click of leather and slid it deep into his brown canvas coat pocket. He pressed his palms flat against his thighs, his fingers spreading wide across the coarse denim.

    “Just some small details we had to iron out,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Nothing that concerns the office.”

    “You used to tell me about the small details,” I said, watching his hand stay flat against his leg.

    “Some things are different now, Cathy,” he said.

    He stood up before the swing could start to drift, his eyes fixed on the gravel driveway where my father’s sedan was usually parked.

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