Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
My father had made that mark years ago when he helped her carry a heavy cast-iron sewing machine up the back steps, the corner of the metal housing gouging into the pine.
“The roof repairman called from his truck,” Clara said, her voice dropping to a flat whisper.
She did not look at me, keeping her eyes fixed on the small yellow envelope sitting between her elbows.
“He wants three hundred dollars before he will even climb the ladder to put the tarp down.”
I sat opposite her, my finger tracing the silver signet ring on my right pinky.
“We do not have three hundred dollars,” I said.
Clara reached into her collar and unhooked the delicate silver chain that she had worn since my mother passed away.
At the end of the chain hung a small oval locket, the surface worn smooth from years of her thumb rubbing against the metal.
“Old Mr. Miller at the pawnshop on Fourth Street knows this piece,” she said, setting the locket onto the table with a tiny click.
“He offered me four hundred for it back when the boiler broke, but I told him no.”
