The butter knife scraped against the heel of the sourdough loaf, leaving a trail of pale crumbs on the yellow formica. Below our floorboards, the industrial ovens of the Wharf Street bakery were already sighing their warm, yeasty breath into the drafts of our narrow kitchen. It was six in the morning, and the radiator in the corner stayed cold, its iron pipes silent.
My mother, June, stood by the sink, carefully wrapping a red delicious apple in plastic wrap. Her fingers worked slowly, her knuckles swollen and stiff under the cuffs of her burgundy cardigan. She did not look up when I pulled the milk carton from the refrigerator.
“We have half a gallon left,” I said, checking the date on the plastic rim. “That is four dollars and nineteen cents we do not have to spend until Friday.”
“The boy needs his breakfast, Hannah,” June said, her voice blunt and quiet.
I rolled the silver wedding band on my right index finger, the metal cool against my skin. The monthly rent was nine hundred and fifty dollars, due in exactly five days. My tips from the double shift at the cafe yesterday had brought my cash reserve to seventy-two dollars, barely enough to cover a tank of regular gas at three dollars and forty-nine cents a gallon and a few groceries.
“He promised the check would be in the slot by this morning,” I said, setting the milk on the table.
“Grant does not make promises,” June said, without looking up from her wrapping. “He makes appointments.”
Eli sat at the small table, his legs swinging in that uneven, double-time rhythm against the rungs of his high stool. He was trying to balance a plastic spoon on the bridge of his nose, his brow furrowed in concentration. His blue shirt was thin at the elbows, the fabric showing white threads where the cotton had worn through.
“Did you know that Jupiter has eighty moons, Grandma?” Eli asked, his voice rising in an excited burst. “And some of them have oceans under the ice?”
“I did not know that, Eli,” June said. “Eat your toast.”
