Miss Edna, under the oak tree, put her hand over her mouth.
“And you went to Dorothy. And Margaret. And Irene. And you told them the city was going to fine them fifty dollars a day. Women who brought casseroles to this house for a month after your brother died.”
She held onto the railing with both hands now.
“I could stand you taking from me,” she said. “I’m your mother. That’s my business. But you went to them, Raymond.”
Ray didn’t say anything.
He stood at the bottom of those porch steps in his Bass Pro shirt with his head down. His big shoulders were curled in. He looked smaller than I’d ever seen him.
For a long time, nobody said anything.
Then Ray spoke. To the porch steps.
“I lost my job, Mama.”
Grandma went very still.
“In August,” Ray said. “At the plant. They closed the line I was on. Laid off forty of us.” He took a ragged breath. “I didn’t tell Sheila. I didn’t tell anybody. I’d get up every morning and put on my work boots and drive around all day, and come home at five.”
“Raymond.”
“I had the truck payment,” he said. “Eleven hundred a month. And the house. And Sheila’s car. And I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t.” His voice broke. “Danny would’ve known what to do. Danny always knew what to do. And I’m just… I’m the one who’s left.”
He finally looked up at his mother. His eyes were wet.
“So I came to you,” he said. “Because you always said yes. You always said yes to me.”
Chapter Nine: The County Collector
Nobody on Locust Street said anything after that.
Grandma came down the porch steps. Slowly. One at a time, holding onto the railing. Ray put out his hand to help her and she took it.
When she got to the bottom, she was standing in front of her son, who was a foot and a half taller than her. She reached up and put her hand on his face.
