As I smoothed the quilted bedspread, I noticed the bottom drawer of Arthur’s mahogany dresser was not quite closed.
A strip of dull grey fabric peeked through the gap like a trapped tongue.
I pulled the heavy drawer open, the old wood resisting with a small groan.
Beneath his neatly folded winter socks lay a plastic package containing a brand-new set of grey pajamas.
I took them out of the wrapper and ran the fabric between my thumb and forefinger.
The label read one hundred percent polyester.
It was made in a factory overseas, packaged in cheap cardboard with a red clearance sticker on the back.
It felt slippery and cheap, the kind of synthetic knit that traps body heat and sweat against the skin instead of letting it breathe.
Arthur had worn nothing but breathable blue cotton sleepwear for forty years, always complaining about cheap materials.
I laid the stiff grey set back in the drawer and pushed it closed.
My mind kept spinning back to the sound of the washing machine running at midnight.
At ten o’clock, his truck rumbled in the driveway, and I walked out to the porch.
Arthur was tossing a small canvas duffel bag into the passenger seat of his pickup.
“Where are you going with a suitcase?” I asked, walking down the gravel path.
He did not look at me, keeping his back turned as he adjusted the side mirror of the truck.
“A short consulting gig in Grand Rapids,” he said, his voice clipped and dry.
“Grand Rapids is two hours away, Arthur,” I said, crossing my arms against the autumn wind.
“You retired from the engineering firm five years ago.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers pressing into the graying hair at his collar.
“They needed someone with my licensing to look over some old blueprint specs,” he said.
“Are they paying you for this?” I asked.
“It is a private consultation,” he said, his short answer offering no room for another question.
“I will be back on Thursday evening.”
“Who called you?” I asked.
“An old contact,” he said, climbing into the cab and pulling the heavy truck door shut.
He did not roll down the dusty window to say goodbye before he backed out onto the county road.
At eleven-thirty, I drove to the local hardware store on Main Street to pick up a box of furnace filters before the true Michigan winter arrived.
