“Sylvie kept the card in a butter-cookie tin above the stove.”
She had put it there the day Walter left, tucking it in with the same hands that had cooked fifty years of meals in that kitchen, and she had not touched it since. Not when the furnace started making its grinding noise in February. Not when the gutters needed cleaning and she climbed up herself because she was not calling her son to come out on a Saturday for something she could handle. Not when the grocery prices climbed and she started buying the store brand of everything and telling herself she actually preferred it.
Not once, for five years, did she take that card out of the tin.
She knew what was in it. Walter had told her. “Two thousand dollars, Sylvie,” he had said, setting it beside her chipped blue teacup on the kitchen table with the careful placement of a man who had rehearsed this gesture. “For emergencies.
She had looked at the card.
Then she had looked at his suitcases — two of them, leather, standing by the front door like he was leaving for a business trip.
Then she had looked at the window, where Marcy’s red car idled in the driveway.
Marcy was from the book club Walter had started attending every Thursday, which Sylvie had thought was a perfectly healthy sign in a retired man, right up until it wasn’t.
“Fifty years together,” Sylvie said, “and I get emergency money.”
His jaw tightened in the way it had always tightened when he felt criticized by something true. “Don’t make this ugly, Sylvie.”
“I didn’t make it anything, Walter.”
He picked up his coat. He checked his pockets twice, the way he always did when he was nervous about forgetting something. She watched him do it.
“Your blood pressure pills,” she said. “They’re on the counter.”
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