I opened the ledger and laid it across my lap, the pages white against my dark wool trousers.
“We have ninety-two students on the North route,” I said. “If they cut the third bus, those kids will be on the road for forty-five minutes before they reach the high school.”
“The parents will complain,” Vera said. “They did last year when we changed the stop at the county line.”
“I will make sure the board sees the mileage figures,” I said. “The cost per mile is actually lower if we run three smaller routes.”
“Write that down,” she said. “The board members like numbers they can explain to their neighbors.”
“I can call the state office on Monday to confirm the aid allocation,” I said.
Vera set her cup down on the box between us. “Wait until after the morning rush when they have had their coffee.”
We began unfolding the tissue paper from the box of cups I had packed three weeks ago. Each glass was wrapped in three sheets of newsprint, the black ink leaving smudge marks on my thumbs and wrists.
“These were my grandmother’s,” I said, lifting a small, green glass tumbler to the light of the window. “She kept them in a cabinet with a leaded glass door that always smelled of vanilla.”
“They are heavy,” Vera said, taking one from me and sliding her finger along the smooth rim. “Good glass doesn’t crack easily.”
We lined them up along the clean shelf in the pantry, their bottoms clicking against the fresh white paint.
“We need to get these empty cartons down to the alley before the recycling truck comes,” Vera said, looking at the pile of flattened cardboard by the door.
“I can carry three of them,” I said, reaching for the stack.
“Keep your back straight,” she said. “The doctor said no heavy lifting for another month, and those ribs need to set right.”
I picked up two of the flat boxes and held them against my side. The dull ache in my ribs was still there, but it was a quiet thing now, a small tightness that only appeared when I reached too high or turned too fast.
We walked out to the landing together. The black iron railing was cold under my hand, but I did not grip it. I let my fingers brush the rough plaster of the wall instead as we started down the stairs.
“The stairs are just stairs now,” I said, looking down at the wooden steps.
Vera stopped on the landing below me and looked back up. She did not smile, but her eyes were steady and calm.
“They go up and they go down,” she said.
We carried the cardboard out the back door and into the narrow alley behind the building. The air smelled of wet asphalt, fallen leaves, and the first touch of frost from the lake. We slid the flat cartons into the blue recycling bin, and the heavy plastic lid banged shut with a hollow sound.
We stood in the cold air for a minute, our breath rising in small, grey clouds.
“The frost will kill the marigolds by the library tonight,” Vera said, looking down the street.
“They had a good run this year,” I said. “They lasted almost through October.”
“The town usually plants mums next,” she said.
We turned back to the door, the heavy oak frame shutting out the wind as we entered the foyer.
We climbed the steps slowly, our boots clicking on the concrete. I did not look down at my feet or think about the hand that had pushed me. I looked at the yellow light bulb burning at the top of the stairwell, its light reaching down to meet us.
Inside the kitchen, Vera stood by the sink and rinsed our paper cups, setting them upside down on the drainboard.
“I should get back to the office,” she said, drying her hands on a clean tea towel she had brought from her house. “The superintendent wanted to review the payroll files before three.”
“Thank you for the plant, Vera,” I said, leaning against the counter.
“I will call you after work,” she said, pulling her gloves back on.
The knock on the front door came at exactly two o’clock, three short raps that sounded thin through the wood.
I opened it to find Paul standing on the landing. He was holding a small cardboard box with my name written across the top in thick black marker.
“I found these in the pantry at the old house,” Paul said, his voice low and hesitant as he looked at the floorboards. “Your blue baking dish and the copper measuring cups.”
He did not step inside the apartment. He stood with his shoulders rounded, his fingers rubbing his chin as he looked at the bare floor of my living room.
“It has the chip on the handle,” Paul said, shifting the box to his other arm. “But it is still solid. I didn’t want the movers to pack it with the rest of the basement stuff.”
“I used that dish for the sweet potato casserole,” I said.
“I remember,” he said, looking at the wall. “That was two years ago. It was a good dinner.”
We both knew why he mentioned it, but neither of us said the name of the house or the family.
“I have the copper cups too,” he added. “The ones you kept by the stove.”
“Thank you for looking for them,” I said, taking the box from him. “I thought those were still in the basement.”
“Judith has her first court-ordered counseling session on Monday,” Paul said, his voice dropping even lower. “The lawyer said it was part of the probation agreement, along with the restitution for the medical bills.”
“I know,” I said.
“The family is very shaken up, Nora,” he said. He pressed his hands into his coat pockets. “It would help everyone if you could write a small note to the prosecutor or the family. Just something to say we are all moving past this. To clear the air.”
I set the box of kitchen items on the wooden chair by the door.
“I will not be doing that, Paul,” I said.
He did not look surprised. He rubbed his chin again, his fingers making a raspy sound against his grey stubble.
“I understand,” he said. “I told them I would ask, but I knew what you would say.”
“I know,” I said.
“Take care of yourself, Nora,” he said, turning back toward the stairs.
I watched him walk down the hall, his hand heavy on the iron railing as he descended to the street.
I closed the door and turned the brass lock.
The apartment was completely quiet now. The sun had cleared the clouds, throwing a bright, cold light across the kitchen floor.
I remained in my second-floor apartment and focused on my accounting work. I chose to let my marriage end because I could not live with a man who required my silence for his peace. Judith completed her court-ordered counseling and stayed in her home under probation. I refused to send a letter of forgiveness to the family when Paul asked me to clear the air. I stood at my kitchen window and watched the autumn leaves fall onto the quiet street below. The air was cold, and my ribs did not hurt when I breathed.
