Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I pulled three crumpled twenty-dollar bills and a ten from my pocket, my fingers cold against the paper.
The wind from the north shook the loose kitchen window pane while the tea kettle began its low whistle. My father sat in the wooden chair by the radiator, his shoulders curved forward as he held a blue cotton handkerchief to his mouth. A dry, scraping cough shook his chest, a sound like gravel sliding down a metal chute.
He folded the blue cloth quickly, tucking it into his palm before I could see it, but his hand kept shaking.
I set the heavy brown prescription bag on the oilcloth table, right between the salt shaker and the empty bread box.
“Sixty-eight dollars, Dad,” I said. “For thirty pills.”
He did not look at the bag, keeping his hand flat over the blue handkerchief in his lap. “The doctor wants me to try something new for the winter cold, Nicole. It is nothing to worry about.”
“A winter cold does not cost sixty-eight dollars,” I said, my voice rising slightly before I caught myself. “And people do not buy silk brocade patterns when they are short on coal.”
