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.”
“Toby needs this,” I said.
He rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders tightening under his heavy flannel shirt. “We are not discussing this again. Put the bill in the drawer.”
He stood up, leaving his coffee untouched, and walked toward the hallway where his work boots stood by the door.
At eight o’clock, Richard was gone to the lumberyard, and the kitchen was quiet except for the scrape of Toby’s boots under the table. Toby was packing his canvas bag, sliding his biology textbook into the deep pocket alongside a half-eaten apple.
On the wood table lay the gold pocket watch that had belonged to my father. Toby held it by the chain, using a scrap of flannel to polish the back casing until his own reflection showed in the brass.
“Did he sign it?” Toby asked. He did not look up, his fingers moving in small, deliberate circles over the metal.
“He wants to review the accounts first,” I said, placing the milk back into the refrigerator.
Toby pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose, his hand lingering on the frame. “The registrar said the classes fill by the end of the month. If the deposit isn’t in, they give the spot to the next name on the list.”
“I will find a way to pay the bill, Toby.”
He stopped polishing, holding the watch still in his palm. “I have eighty dollars from the Miller yard. I can get more if I take the Saturday shifts at the orchard.”
“Keep your savings,” I said. “You will need it for books. I will handle the university.”
