The blue utility bill for August was thirty-eight dollars higher than the one from July, even though we had kept the air conditioner set at seventy-three degrees all summer. I smoothed the paper flat on the laminate counter, right next to the loaf of rye that was starting to give off the sour, stale smell of yeast from the old wooden breadbox.
Harold reached past my elbow, his thumb leaving a faint smudge of dark grease on the clean form.
“Just grabbing the sports, Clara,” he said, his voice booming in the small kitchen as he rattled the local paper. “Need to see if the high school boys finally won a game, or if they need me to go down there and show them how to hold a bat.”
He jiggled the loose quarters and dimes in his right trouser pocket, a fast, metallic rhythm that always meant he was ready to head out to the garage.
I wiped my hands on the linen dishcloth tucked into my apron string, keeping my eyes on the stack of envelopes.
Underneath the electric bill sat a long, thick envelope from Elmira Title and Escrow, postmarked three days ago.
“What is this one, Harold?” I asked, pointing to the blue emblem in the corner.
“Some junk mail, probably,” he said, not looking up from the box scores. “They want to sell us a warranty on the water heater. They send those out to everyone on the block.”
“It has a file number printed on the front,” I said, my thumb tracing the raised black ink. “Twelve fifty-six slash B.”
Harold laughed, a loud, bark of a sound that did not quite match the stillness of the room.
“They use those numbers to make you open them, Clara, it is an old contractor trick.”
He folded the sports page under his arm and walked toward the back door, the coins in his pocket clinking with every step.
By two in the afternoon, the sky had turned the color of wet asphalt, and I was standing inside the lobby of the First National Bank on Main Street.
My son, Gary, sat behind his low oak desk near the teller window, slowly turning over a tall stack of yellow loan applications.
“I have my Social Security deposit slip, Gary,” I said, sliding the paper across the polished wood.
Gary tapped his silver watch face twice with his index finger, his collar looking just a bit too tight for his throat.
“I can process that right here for you, Mom,” he said, his voice dropping into that formal tone he used whenever he was behind the desk. “We are actually running some system updates this week, so you might get a few odd notices in the mail.”
“Odd notices?” I asked.
“Just automated letters, standard system errors,” Gary said, keeping his eyes on his computer screen. “If anything from the bank or the county clerk shows up, you should just ignore it for now.”
“I received something from a title company this morning,” I said.
Gary stopped shuffling his papers, his hand freezing over a mortgage folder.
“Which company?” he asked.
“Elmira Title,” I said, wiping my palms on my coat pockets. “It was quite heavy.”
“Do not open it,” Gary said, looking up with a quick, tight smile. “It is just a marketing campaign for the new home equity lines. I will clear it up on our end.”
At six, the streetlights were just flickering on when I reached Martha’s apartment on Elm Street.
My sister, Martha, poured the Earl Grey into two chipped porcelain cups, her heavy glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose as she leaned forward.
“You have too much paper on those counters, Clara,” Martha said, adjusting her frames with one finger. “A kitchen should be for cooking, not for storing Harold’s late notices.”
“Harold says they are just advertisements,” I said, holding the warm mug between my hands.
