My father wiped his grease-stained hands on his denim trousers before he sat down in the vinyl booth. His double shift at the machine parts factory had ended at seven, and the grey light of the Oakhaven morning made his skin look like paper. He had worked twelve hours straight, and his shoulders hung low under his faded flannel shirt.
The waitress set down a bowl of lukewarm potato soup in front of him. He did not touch the spoon, choosing instead to stare at the steam rising from the thick, grey broth. He had eaten his breakfast here every morning since my mother passed away, always sitting in the same corner where the heater hummed against the wall.
“I watched your husband at the hardware store yesterday,” my father said.
I shifted my weight in the booth, trying to find a comfortable position for my lower back. At five months along, my high-risk pregnancy made every wooden chair feel like a bench. The doctor had already warned me about high blood pressure, advising me to avoid unnecessary stress and to keep my feet elevated.
“Aaron was looking at the riding mowers,” I said.
My father shook his head. “He was asking the clerk about commercial-grade generators. He told the man he needed something that could pull enough power to run a heavy lathe.”
I twisted my silver wedding band around my finger, the metal cool against my skin. “He probably wants it for the garage.”
“Your husband does not own a lathe, Clara.” My father picked up his spoon, turned it over, and laid it back on the paper napkin. “But his father does.”
I looked out the window at the gravel parking lot, where a semi-truck was idling. The driver was sitting in the cab, his face hidden by the reflection of the grey Ohio sky. My father’s warning hung in the air, cold and heavy like the autumn mist outside.
“Is Gerald’s shop in trouble?” I asked.
My father wiped his mouth with his paper napkin, his movements slow and deliberate. “Gerald hasn’t paid his suppliers since July. Everyone in town knows it except you, apparently.”
