Chapter 11: The Tin

Frank was already in the kitchen at six, making coffee in the dark.

He wore the same flannel shirt as at the hospital, and he had not slept.

Caleb walked in with the coffee can in both hands and set it on the table in front of him.

The lid rattled.

"Tell me what this is," Caleb said.

Frank looked at the can for a long time.

Then he pulled out a chair and sat down heavily.

"Your mother kept that under the floor," he said.

"You wrote these."

"I wrote them."

"March 2015. April. May."

Caleb dealt the papers onto the oilcloth, one at a time.

"Four hundred dollars, nine times, and two hundred for the last. She paid back every dollar I took."

"She did."

"By 2018."

"By the spring of 2018," Frank said.

I stood by the stove with my arms folded, because if I touched anything I might throw it.

"Twelve years," Caleb said, in a voice so quiet I could hardly hear him. "You knew. You knew by the second month."

"Yes."

"You let the whole town say thief."

"Yes."

"You said it to my face on Monday night, in front of the whole family. Nineteen thousand dollars, you said."

"I did."

Caleb's hands closed into fists on the table.

"Why?"

Frank did not answer for a long moment.

The refrigerator hummed.

A plow went by outside and scraped the street.

"Your mother begged me to call you, the first week," Frank said finally.

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