“You don’t hide twenty years of savings in a cupboard, Clara,” he said, pointing the rusted shovel toward the frozen vegetable garden.
I took the rusted shovel from David’s hand and set it against the gray wood of the porch railing. He did not say another word, but he turned and walked toward his truck, his heavy boots leaving dark prints in the slush. I went back inside the house, the latch clicking behind me in the quiet kitchen.
By nine the next morning, the house was silent except for the low hum of the old yellow refrigerator. I stood in Grandmother Margaret’s pantry, surrounded by rows of dust-covered jars and shelves lined with faded shelf paper. The air in the back of the house was always five degrees colder than the rest of the rooms, smelling of dried dill and cellar earth.
I reached past a jar of pickled green tomatoes to find a blue plastic coupon organizer, its accordion pockets swollen and held together by a thick yellow rubber band. I snapped the dry rubber band off, and it broke in my fingers, leaving a powdery residue on my palm. I pulled out a handful of papers from the first pocket.
