He Gave Me $18, So I Left Him with Nothing novel · Chapter 3 of 24
Chapter 3: A Bed by Dark
Katie and Poppy spend the night in an empty rental while Clark explains the letters, and Lydia's signature turns up on the receipt for the last one.
The apartment was above a shuttered hardware store on Fourth Street.
It had one bed, one lamp and a smell of fresh paint.
"My sister owns the building," Clark said, and set the key in my palm. "The last tenant moved out in September. Nobody's coming."
"How much is the rent?"
"Nothing, tonight."
"Put it on the napkin," I said.
He almost smiled.
"Rent, one night, to be determined. Done."
Poppy walked straight through the place with her yellow raincoat still on and opened every cupboard.
"There's no food," she announced.
"There's no food yet," Clark said.
He went down to the truck and came back with a paper sack of groceries I had not seen him buy.
Bread, peanut butter, a carton of milk, a box of cereal with a cartoon tiger on it and a bag of apples.
He put the cereal on the counter in front of my daughter.
"The tiger's name is Chester," Poppy said gravely.
"Then Chester and I are going to get along," Clark said.
She ate dry cereal out of the box on the floor of a stranger's kitchen.
I stood in the doorway and had to look at the ceiling.
In six years I had not been alone with my daughter in a room where nobody was keeping score.
Poppy was asleep by eight, curled on a folded quilt with her coat for a pillow.
She had a cereal tiger in her fist.
I came out into the front room and found Clark on the window ledge.
The lamp was off, and the streetlight lay across his face.
He had not asked me one question since the diner.
Not why I had stayed, not what the card was or how long it had gone on.
He had kept our napkin.
"You can ask me anything about my father," I said. "Rule three says I decide when."
"I know." He turned his keys over in his hands. "I'd just rather you did the asking."
"Why did you write to me?"
"Because Walt asked me to look in on you. Because your number was disconnected."
He paused.
"Because I didn't believe you'd stopped answering."
"What did the letters say?"
"The first was a note. I said I was sorry and I'd left town. I said call me if you needed anything."
His thumb moved over the keys.
"The second was the same. By the third I was asking if you were all right."
"And the fourth?"
"The fourth I sent registered mail, because I'd decided somebody was lying to me. Either you, or the post office."
I laughed, which surprised both of us.
Then my phone lit up on the sill beside him.
Lydia.
She was the only Gaffney who ever texted me first.
It had never once occurred to me to ask why.
Katie, please come home. Mom's in a state, and Dean hasn't eaten. He didn't mean it. I'll bring your mail by Tuesday like always, I always do.
I looked down at the message.
Every Tuesday for five years, Lydia had walked up my path with a small stack of envelopes and a smile.
She brought it in so I would not have to go out to the box.
I had thought it was a kindness.
I had thanked her at Christmas with a scarf.
"What is it?" Clark asked.
"My sister-in-law," I said. "She's offering to bring me my mail."
He went very still, and I watched him do the same arithmetic I had.
He stood up and took a worn leather wallet out of his jacket.
From behind a library card he unfolded a small green slip of paper.
It was soft along the creases from being carried.
"The fourth letter," he said. "Registered, return receipt. The post office sent this back to me in March."
He turned it into the lamplight.
At the bottom, in blue ballpoint, in a round and careful hand, someone had signed for it.
L. Gaffney.
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