Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
“You kept this place alive when I wasn’t looking,” Carter said, placing his large hand over Henry’s rough shoulder. “You did it with a good heart, and you did it honestly.”
“Martha’s letters,” Henry whispered, his voice cracking on his late wife’s name. “They kept coming every month.”
“They won’t come anymore,” Carter said. “The hospital received the electronic transfer this morning.”
“The old house,” Henry said, looking out the front window where the rain was beginning to stop. “I had to sell her mother’s dresser just to pay the interest in September.”
“You don’t owe them another dime,” Carter said.
“A man should pay his own way,” Henry said, his eyes still fixed on the bank draft.
“You paid it,” Carter said. “You paid it in sweat and dignity while those kids were laughing behind your back.”
Henry did not answer, his eyes staying on the neat black handwriting of the check.
The high-pitched hum of the old milk dispenser seemed to grow louder in the silence of the dining room.
“What are you going to do with that old Buick now?” Carter asked, trying to steer the old man’s mind to the future.
