Chapter 7: Navy Dress, Forty Dollars

My mother opened the door in her apron with a wooden spoon in her hand.

"You look terrible," she said. "Come in. I made too much soup."

She always made too much soup. It was her way of saying hello.

Her kitchen in Parma smelled like onions and the radiator.

A navy dress with the tags still on hung from the pantry door.

I looked at it.

"That's for Halloween," Mom said. "For the party. Carson told me to dress nice because something big is coming."

"Mom."

"Forty dollars on clearance, with sleeves. Don't look at me like that, I'm allowed to be hopeful."

"Mom, sit down."

She sat.

I put my bandaged hand on the table so she would see it, and then I told her.

It took about twenty minutes, and she didn't interrupt once.

She watched my face the whole time, and her spoon stayed in her fist.

When I finished, the soup had gone cold between us.

"Say the part about the bank again," she said.

"He took twenty-two thousand dollars."

"And the napkins."

"They agreed my answer before every dinner for four years. I paid for all of it."

My mother got up and took off her apron.

She folded it very carefully and laid it on the counter.

"I'm going to call that boy," she said.

"Mom, no."

"I'm going to call his mother."

"Please don't."

"Vicki Anne." She turned around, and her eyes were wet and furious. "I cooked that boy dinner every Easter. I put his name on the card."

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