The blue ballpoint ink on my son’s check was still damp enough to smudge when he slid it across the kitchen table. It was written for eight hundred dollars, which was fifty dollars less than the monthly repayment we had agreed upon on the kitchen calendar.
Marcus sat on the high stool by the island, his fingers tapping against the edge of his paper cup. He had not taken off his heavy wool coat, even though the radiator in the corner was hissing.
I set the blue ceramic mug with the chipped handle on a coaster in front of him.
“I will take this down to the Oak Ridge Savings Bank tomorrow,” I said, putting the check next to the breadbox.
“The interest rate on my car loan went up,” Marcus said, his voice rising slightly at the end as if he expected me to argue. “I had to adjust the payment for this month.”
“We did not discuss an adjustment, Marcus.”
I reached into the utility drawer, sliding my fingers past the loose rubber bands and the stack of twenty-dollar bills we kept for the milkman, and pulled out our blue bank passbook. The fabric of the cover was worn at the corners, showing the gray thread underneath.
Marcus checked his wristwatch, the metal band clicking against his cuff. He looked toward the hallway where the coats hung, then back at his cup.
“It is only fifty dollars, Mom,” he said. “I will make it up on the first of December.”
“You need to be precise with these things,” I said.
I set the blue passbook on the counter next to the microwave. It was a habit from thirty years of bookkeeping, both at the library and here at home, to keep every ledger matching down to the penny.
“Honestly,” he said, then stopped himself and took a slow sip of his tea. “I have a conference call at four-thirty.”
“Then you should go,” I said.
I watched him stand and pull his collar up around his neck. He did not look at the check on the table as he turned to leave, his boots heavy on the linoleum.
