picture.
Just before closing, Mike came over to count my cash drawer.
“Lori says you bought something for a customer,” he remarked.
“Only a few dollars.”
He grunted.
“You know employees aren’t supposed to do that.”
“I know.”
He continued counting.
Then he snapped a rubber band around a stack of bills.
“Go home, Hale. You look exhausted.”
By the time I left, my banana had turned almost black.
I threw it away.
When I arrived home, Mom was waiting at the kitchen table with chamomile tea and a crossword puzzle.
She always waited up, regardless of how often I told her not to.
“There’s potato soup on the stove,” she said.
“Thanks, Mom.”
I filled a bowl and sat across from her.
After a few spoonfuls, I realized I was starving.
“Long day?” she asked.
“Very.”
She studied me.
“Something happened.”
“How do you always know?”
“Because I’m your mother. Tell me.”
So I told her.
About the woman.
The twins.
The declined payment.
The eight dollars and forty-two cents.
I didn’t mention my bank balance, but my mother knew enough about our finances to understand what those dollars meant.
When I finished, she remained quiet.
Then she smiled sadly.
“Your father used to do things like that constantly.”
“I know.”
“No, sweetheart. I mean constantly.”
She leaned back.
“We’d be worried about the mortgage, and he’d come home telling me he’d bought gasoline for someone stranded at a truck stop.”
She shook her head.
“One December, he gave away his winter coat to a young hitchhiker outside Pittsburgh.”
