The basement radiator let out a wet, metallic rattle that shook the linoleum floorboards under the kitchen sink. On the table, the tuition bill from the state university lay flat between Richard’s hands, the figure of five thousand eight hundred dollars printed in small black ink.
I poured his coffee, watching the steam rise against the cold glass of the window. A gallon of milk sat beside the toaster, the blue label showing the price of three dollars and forty-nine cents.
Richard did not touch his mug. He used his thumb to crease the edge of the bill, folding the paper in half, then into quarters, until the numbers disappeared into the blue crease.
“He can take a year to work the local cooperative,” Richard said, his voice level and dry. “There is no reason for him to leave Oak Creek before he is twenty.”
I set the pot down on its cork mat, my fingers instantly finding the silver band on my left hand and turning it twice. “He spent three years keeping his grades up for this program, Richard. The agricultural department only accepts forty students a term.”
He did not look up, his thumb still pressing the folded paper. “The household budget is fixed for the winter, Martha. We do not have the surplus for boarding and books.”
“We have a bill due in November, Richard, and we cannot ignore it.”
“A family has one manager,” he said, finally looking up. His eyes were small, gray, and completely still. “When we start pulling from the reserve for things we do not need, the foundation cracks.”
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