Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
The grey cardboard boxes that had held his shirts and trousers were gone.
The wool blankets, faded and thin from years of use, were no longer piled against the window.
The back seat was completely empty, showing only the worn blue velour and a small metal coin that had fallen between the cushions.
Henry reached down and picked up the coin, looking at it in the morning light.
A nickel, he said as Carter walked up beside him.
It must have been down there since my wife and I drove to the state fair three years ago, he said.
He slid the nickel into his pocket and closed the car door.
The latch made a loose, rattling sound, but it held.
Henry held the rusty key in his hand, the metal worn smooth near the top where his thumb had pressed it for sixteen years.
He inserted the key into the door lock and turned it, the mechanism clicking with a heavy, old-fashioned sound.
You aren’t keeping anything in there now? Carter asked.
Nothing, Henry said. It’s just a car again.
He looked through the clean window at the empty dashboard.
