Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
My father kept walking down the corridor, his boots dragging slightly on the concrete.
“Is Albert doing alright at home?” Mr. Bradley asked, looking down at a stack of maintenance schedules on his desk. “I can assign the gym floor to the night crew if he needs a lighter load.”
My fingers tightened around my signet ring, spinning it fast against my knuckle.
“He is perfectly strong,” I said. “He doesn’t need anyone taking his shifts.”
Mr. Bradley did not look up from his papers. “We want him here for a long time, Nicole.”
“He will be here,” I said, turning toward the door.
The walk home was six blocks through the damp Indiana dusk. My father walked half a step behind me, his breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs that rose like steam in the cold air.
The kitchen table at home was small enough that our knees touched when we sat down. A bowl of simple potato soup sat between us, the steam rising in thin gray curls under the yellow light of the ceiling fixture.
My father reached for the salt shaker, and his fingers trembled so hard the glass clicked against the ceramic pepper pot.
I watched the soup spill over the edge of his spoon, back into the bowl. I did not look at his face.
“The school board approved the weekend overtime shifts,” he said, his Midwestern drawl sounding thicker in the quiet room.
“You don’t need to work Saturdays,” I said. “We have enough.”
“We have what we need for today,” he said, setting the spoon down with a small clink. “But tomorrow costs more.”
“Then sell the watch,” I said, pointing to the empty pocket of his denim vest. “You don’t even have the chain anymore.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bare silver watch, placing it gently on the oilcloth table.
