Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
I reached into my cardigan pocket and pulled out my checkbook. I had already written the check, using the black fountain pen my father had given me when I graduated from college. I handed the paper to him, the ink dry and clear.
“This is for your first week of real maintenance work,” I said. “One hundred and fifty dollars.”
Marcus took the check, his fingers rough and calloused against the paper. He looked at the amount, then folded it carefully and slid it into the small pocket of his flannel shirt.
“The class starts at seven on Tuesday,” Marcus said, looking down at his boots. “I got the math book from the library, but some of the chapters look pretty hard.”
“Bring the book with you on Thursday afternoon,” I said. “We will sit at the kitchen table and go through the equations together. Math is just another language, Marcus. Once you learn the vocabulary, the translation is simple.”
A small, hesitant smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I’ll get to work on those blueberry bushes before the light goes.”
