The gas bill was eighty-four dollars higher than last month, and the ink on Hector’s water notice had run from a leak under my sink. I clicked my ballpoint pen twice to clear the spring.
Hector sat across from me at the kitchen table, holding his tea mug with both hands. He did not drink, letting the steam rise between us.
I pulled my gold watch strap tight against my wrist, letting the small metal clasp click into the third notch.
“The county raised the sewer assessment again,” I said. “It will stay at sixty-two dollars until May.”
Hector nodded, his eyes fixed on the yellow paper. He reached down and lifted a heavy blue folder from his canvas bag, placing it near the sugar bowl.
“I kept the papers from three years ago,” Hector said. “The ones you helped me file when we first came to Canton.”
“The blue folder is good,” I said, touching the plastic cover. “We keep everything in order.”
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a thick, grey envelope with a string tie.
“This grey envelope arrived yesterday, and the postman said it looked official,” Hector said.
“My work authorization runs through December,” Hector said, his voice dropping. “But the postman looked at me when he handed me this.”
I drove down to the garage at noon to drop off his lunch container.
The garage smelled of cold kerosene and wet iron. Frank, the owner, stood near the front bumper of a rusted Buick while Hector worked underneath the chassis.
Hector slid out on his creeper, his face dark with grease. He stood up and took a red rag from his back pocket, wiping his palms with slow, deliberate strokes.
“The transmission needs a new casing,” Frank said, pointing a grease-stained finger at the metal on the floor. “Twelve hundred dollars, and that is before I count the hours.”
I handed Hector his metal lunchbox.
“Have you looked at the letter again?” I asked.
Hector stopped wiping his hands, keeping the red rag tight between his fingers.
“I read it twice during my break,” Hector said. “I do not understand the new letter. The words are not like the ones on the blue folder.”
“They use different codes,” Frank said, reaching for a socket wrench. “But a legal permit is a permit, Elena. He has the seal.”
I was back home by two o’clock, scraping dry gravel with my shoes as I walked up the driveway.
Vance’s black sedan was parked near my garage door, its engine still idling. My nephew stepped out, his thumb moving rapidly across the screen of his smartphone.
“Elena,” Vance said, not looking up immediately. “I need you to look at the paperwork for the car wash. The bank needs a guarantor with local property.”
“My property taxes went up nine percent last month, Vance,” I said. “I am not co-signing a commercial loan.”
Vance slipped the phone into his coat pocket and leaned against his car door.
“The car wash is going to be state of the art, Elena,” Vance said. “With the new bypass coming through, we will double our traffic in six months.”
“I cannot do it,” I said.
My hand drifted to my gold watch strap, tightening it.
I looked through the open passenger window of his car. A white tri-fold flyer with blue lettering sat on the leather seat, bearing the name of Gregory Cole, Attorney at Law.
“Why do you have Gregory Cole’s brochure?” I asked.
“He handles the commercial zoning for the strip mall,” Vance said, checking his phone again. “He knows how to move things through the system.”
By four, the sky had turned the color of wet asphalt, and I was sitting in the suburban strip mall office with Hector’s daughter.
The waiting room smelled of lemon wax and old carpet. A single artificial fern sat in the corner, its plastic leaves covered in a thin layer of gray dust.
Sofia sat in the chair next to mine, her knees barely reaching the edge of the vinyl cushion. She twisted her silver charm bracelet around her wrist, the small metal links clinking against each other.
“My father is still at work,” Sofia said.
“He will meet us here when he finishes the Buick,” I said.
The receptionist’s desk was mahogany, polished so bright it reflected the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling.
Sofia looked down at her shoes. “Will we stay here for the summer?”
“We are just checking the papers, Sofia,” I said.
I held the grey envelope on my lap, the paper cold against my palms.
The receptionist looked up from her computer and cleared her throat.
“Elena Vance,” she said.
I stood up, holding the grey envelope by the corner.
I stared at the federal seal on the document, realizing the quiet years were over.
We sat in Gregory Cole’s private office the next morning, the smell of damp wool rising from our coats as the radiator hissed against the wall. Gregory sat behind his heavy mahogany desk, tapping his gold glasses against a yellow legal pad.
“The federal stay is a temporary shield, Elena,” Gregory said, looking over my shoulder at Hector. “The Department of Homeland Security is reviewing every file under the new guidelines. Legal matters require prompt administrative fees, especially when the federal government is moving this fast.”
Hector sat very still, his hands resting on his knees. He had a smudge of dark grease near his thumb, and he kept his eyes on the floor.
“How fast?” I asked.
“Fast enough to bypass the standard channels,” Gregory said. He set his glasses down with a sharp click. “To file the expedited response today, I need five hundred dollars cash. That covers the direct processing fee at the regional office.”
“Five hundred?” I said. “The federal registry lists the standard motion filing fee at one hundred and eighty.”
Gregory did not blink. “The registry does not account for courier service to Columbus, or the clerk who opens the mail. If we wait for the postal service, the file is as good as closed.”
He slid a blue folder across the desk, its paper cover crisp and unmarked.
By noon, the rain had turned to sleet, rattling against the plate glass window of the diner on Market Avenue. A cup of coffee cost two dollars and fifty cents, and the steam from our mugs smelled of burnt chicory. Hector sat opposite me in the vinyl booth, his fingers turning a small, plain paper envelope over and over.
