Chapter 12: The Side Door

The desk was in the back office, behind a door with a cracked glass panel.

It was a heavy oak desk, scarred with cigar burns, and the bottom drawer had a small brass lock.

Gina had told me on her way downstairs.

Back office. Bottom drawer.

I stood there with the key in my hand for almost a minute.

Through the wall, I could hear her out on the floor, putting away folding chairs one at a time.

She was giving me the room, and she was being very quiet about it.

I turned the key.

Inside there was a manila folder, thick with paper, and on top of it a single sheet in a plastic sleeve.

I recognized the handwriting before I read a word.

It was blue ink, slanted hard to the right, with a loop on every g.

It was the same hand that had written my lunch notes for twelve years, and the same hand that had signed every permission slip I ever brought home.

My mother's.

I sat down on the floor in front of the desk because my legs stopped working.

To whoever has the Marchetti gym now,

My husband was twelve years old when his father walked out.

For three years, The man who ran that gym let him in the side door of that building every afternoon and never once took a dime.

He boxed there until he was fifteen.

He told me about that gym until the day he died.

We never paid that man back.

My husband always said he would, and then it was too late.

I can't pay him now, so I am paying the building.

This is the balance on the mortgage, which I found at the county office.

Please keep the lights on.

Teach some kid who can't afford it.

That is all I want.

Don't look for me. I would be embarrassed.

M. Whitfield

I read it three times.

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