My husband Joe had spent fifteen years working the night shift at the Pines Motel with Bob. Bob was a quiet man who always looked like he had just finished washing his hands, constantly rubbing his palms against his denim thighs.
“Why is Bob calling you for yard work?” I asked, scrubbing a fork.
“He said he has some cash put aside,” Norma said, her voice rushing again. “He said he wanted to give the job to Joe’s girl.”
I wiped a plate and set it in the rack, my mind drifting back to the long nights Joe had worked. Bob and Joe had been partners in that drafty little office, sharing a thermos of black coffee and a small black-and-white television that only picked up two channels.
“How much did he say he would pay?” I asked.
“Sixty dollars,” Norma said. “He said it would take me about three hours if I used his hand clippers.”
The sink drain gurgled, a lonely, wet sound in the quiet kitchen.
“Bob’s sister has a professional lawn service,” I said. “I see their green truck park outside her house every Tuesday.”
Norma set the bowl on the counter with a sharp clink that echoed in the small room. “Maybe they don’t do hills.”
“Joe always said Bob worried too much,” I said, thinking of the way Bob used to call our house at odd hours just to check if Joe had made it home safe through the snow.
“He just wants to help, Mom,” Norma said.
“Or maybe Bob is just trying to be kind,” I said, though the thought felt heavy in my chest.
“I told him I would start tomorrow afternoon,” Norma said, her voice rising with that familiar, breathless hurry.
I wrung out the yellow sponge and wiped the chrome faucet until it shone, leaving small streaks of gray on the metal.
“Some people carry things we can’t see, honey,” I said, looking out at our small back yard.
Norma did not answer, she just took the next glass from the rack and rubbed it until the glass squeaked.
