Six Left Behind Daughters and One Returned White Box Fifteen Years Later

I touched the blue ink of the numbers, remembering the cold kitchen and the sound of the wind rattling the back door. There was a list of dentist appointments on the next page, three of the girls needing fillings in the same month, and the two hundred dollars I had to borrow from the credit union to cover the deductible. I had paid it back in ten-dollar bills over the course of two years.

The library door opened three inches, and Jerome looked through the gap with his hand on the brass latch. He had his suit jacket on, the gray wool clean and pressed, but his tie was slightly crooked.

“Are you still in here, Robert?” Jerome asked.

“I’m here,” I said, closing the notebook.

“The minister is looking for the marriage certificate,” Jerome said. “He wanted to make sure we didn’t leave it on the kitchen table with the car keys.”

“It’s in my breast pocket,” I said, touching the stiff paper through my wool coat. “I signed the license before we left the house.”

Jerome did not leave the doorway. He looked at the cracked notebook in my hand, then at the wobbly oak chair.

“Adele is waiting by the vestry,” he said. “She looks beautiful, Robert.”

“She always does,” I said.

“Maya is already in the third pew on the right,” Jerome said, his voice dropping. “She brought three people from Chicago I’ve never seen before, and they’re taking up the whole row.”

“Let them have the row,” I said.

I stood up and slid the leather-bound notebook into my inside pocket next to the certificate. The weight of it against my ribs felt solid, like an extra layer of wool. I had spent years worrying that the girls would look at me and see only the things we could not afford.

“Where is the white box?” Jerome asked.

“In the corridor,” I said. “I’m going down to get it now.”

I walked past him into the narrow hallway where the light was yellow and dim.