“Fifty dollars is more than I have in my purse right now,” I said. “He only gives me cash for the weekly groceries, and he keeps the receipts.”
Caroline tapped her keys twice against the table.
“What about grandmother’s silver spoons in the attic?” she asked. “They are yours, not his. He doesn’t even know they exist.”
I thought of the heavy mahogany box, and whether the silver key was still hidden behind the grandfather clock.
“They must be worth something,” I whispered.
“Take them,” Caroline said, leaning closer. “Bring them to my house this afternoon, along with anything else of value you can carry out of here without him noticing.”
“I can’t just steal my own things, Caroline.”
“It isn’t stealing if it was left to you,” Caroline said, her voice rising before she caught herself. “You are stronger than you think, Mary, but you have to start moving.”
I looked at the legal pad, where she had written a single number: one thousand two hundred.
“I will keep them safe in my guest room closet,” she said, sliding the pad into her leather bag.
“And the account?” I asked.
“I will drive you to Clinton tomorrow morning,” Caroline said. “But you have to find that silver.”
She stood up and walked toward the back door, her car keys jingling in her hand.
“What if he counts them?” I asked.
Caroline did not turn back as she opened the door.
“He hasn’t looked in that attic since we moved in, Mary.”
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the quiet kitchen.
Every tick of the yellow kitchen clock seemed to remind me of the forty-two dollar cake Richard had complained about.
He would be at the office until six, but the fear of him coming home early kept my eyes on the driveway.
At twelve forty-five, I finally walked into the hallway and looked up at the ceiling hatch that led to the attic.
The attic stairs creaked under my weight at one o’clock that afternoon, and I stopped on the third step to listen for any sound from the driveway.
The air up there was thick with the smell of old wool, the dry heat of September trapped under the rafters.
I found the mahogany box behind a stack of old winter coats, its brass latch cold under my fingers.
Inside, twelve silver spoons lay nestled in faded blue velvet, untouched since our wedding day.
They felt heavy and cold in my hands, each one engraved with my grandmother’s initials.
I wrapped the velvet cloth around them and slipped the bundle into my canvas tote bag.
As I pulled my hand back, my fingers brushed against a cardboard shoe box that had Richard’s name written on the lid in black marker.
I lifted the lid, ready to drop it if I heard the kitchen door open downstairs.
A loose stack of color photographs slid onto the dusty floorboards.
I picked up the top one, my eyes freezing on the familiar blue pattern of Richard’s favorite summer shirt.
He was standing in a sunny park beneath a willow tree, laughing as he held a pink plastic rattle toward a baby stroller.
In the corner of the frame, the shadow of a woman holding a small child stretched toward him.
I turned the photo over, reading the date written in Richard’s precise print: September tenth, twelve years ago.
On that day, Richard had called from Chicago to say his flight was grounded, but this park had buckeye trees that only grew in Ohio.
I turned the photo over again, my thumb rubbing the glossy corner where the paper had been creased.
There were no names written on the back, only a phone number with a local Elmwood exchange.
I slipped the photograph into my pocket, my heart thudding against my ribs as the floorboards creaked downstairs.
I waited, holding my breath, but it was only the house settling in the afternoon heat.
I carried the heavy tote bag down the narrow stairs, holding the handrail with both hands.
I drove to the antique shop on Main Street first, my fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white.
Mr. Miller, the shop owner, spent ten minutes examining three of the silver spoons under a magnifying glass while I watched the clock on his wall.
“I can give you forty dollars for these three, Mary,” he said, not looking up. “The market for sterling is soft right now.”
I took the two twenty-dollar bills and slipped them into my pocket, leaving the remaining nine spoons in my tote bag for Caroline.
The bell above the door of the Elmwood Bookstore chimed at three o’clock when I stepped into the smell of old paper and peppermint tea.
Mrs. Gable, a woman with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses, looked up from her desk and slid a ledger into a drawer.
“Mary, what a pleasant surprise,” she said. “We do not see you on weekdays very often.”
“I was hoping to speak with you about the help-wanted sign in the window,” I said, keeping my hands behind my back so she would not see them shaking.
Mrs. Gable leaned her forearms on the counter, her eyes shifting to the empty street outside.
“I need someone for twenty hours a week,” she said. “Mostly afternoons and Saturday mornings.”
“I can do those hours,” I said. “I can start immediately.”
“It is eleven dollars an hour, Mary, and the work is mostly restocking and answering the phone.”
Eleven dollars an hour meant two hundred and twenty dollars a week before taxes.
“That would be perfect,” I said.
“Richard won’t mind you working?” she asked, her voice dropping as she looked toward the front window.
“He is very busy with his clients lately,” I said, looking down at my shoes. “He won’t even notice.”
Mrs. Gable reached across the counter and tapped a calendar page.
“We start training next Tuesday at noon,” she said. “I will have the paperwork ready for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gable,” I said, already calculating how many hours I would need to hide from Richard.
“See you Tuesday, Mary.”
I walked out into the street, the canvas bag heavy with the remaining nine silver spoons.
I drove to Caroline’s house to drop off the nine silver spoons, leaving them on her guest room bed as promised.
She was not home, but her spare key was in the flowerpot by the porch.
I sat in my sedan at five o’clock, parked three blocks away from Maple Street where Richard could not see the car.
I opened my spare purse, the small black leather one I kept hidden beneath the driver’s seat.
Inside was the cash I had managed to pull together over the last twenty-four hours.
Forty dollars from my grocery budget, and forty dollars from selling three of the grandmother’s silver spoons to the antique dealer on Main Street.
Eighty dollars total.
I stared at the green bills resting on my lap, counting them for the third time.
The rent on the small apartment on Oak Lane, the one Caroline had pointed out last week, was one thousand two hundred dollars a month.
Eighty dollars would not even buy the groceries for a week, let alone the deposit on the Oak Lane apartment.
The thought of returning to the kitchen on Maple Street, of sitting across from Richard while he checked his gold watch and questioned every penny, made me clutch the steering wheel.
How many months would it take to save enough at eleven dollars an hour?
I knew I had to go back tonight and pretend nothing had changed, but my pocket felt heavy with the weight of the photograph from the attic.
The local phone number on the back was still burned into my mind.
I tucked the eighty dollars into my spare purse.
I slid the closet door shut and walked down the stairs, trying to quiet the rapid beat in my chest.
My fingers felt stiff from counting the bills, and the eighty dollars in my spare purse felt like a very small shield against the coldness of our house.
The kitchen clock chimed six times, its brass pendulum swinging steadily behind the glass pane.
Richard walked through the front door holding a dozen long-stemmed red roses, their heavy scent immediately filling the narrow hallway.
“These are for you,” he said, handing the bundle to me before he even took off his wool coat.
His voice was unusually gentle, lacking the sharp edge that had defined our dinners for the last six months.
“Thank you, Richard,” I said, holding the cold stems against my palm.
He reached out and touched my shoulder, his fingers lingering near my collarbone.
“I was thinking we could get away for a few days, just the two of us, at that historic hotel in Columbus,” he said.
I looked down at the bright red petals, wondering how much a trip like that would cost our dwindling savings.
“What about your meetings?” I asked.
“I have a brief consultation on Saturday afternoon, but the rest of the weekend is ours,” he said, checking his gold watch.
“I wanted to do something nice for you, Mary, to show I care.”
The words felt soft, but my fingers instantly found my gold wedding band, twisting it around my knuckle.
“We can leave on Friday morning,” he added, turning toward the dining room table where the silver coffee pot sat cold and polished.
I nodded, unable to find a reason to refuse without sounding suspicious.
“I will pack my green suitcase tonight,” I said.
By Saturday afternoon, the grand lobby of the Jefferson Hotel was crowded with travelers and the smell of expensive coffee.
The carpet was a deep crimson, and the crystal chandeliers cast long, amber shadows across the marble floor.
Richard stood near the brass elevators, adjusting the collar of his charcoal suit jacket.
“The client is meeting me in the lounge across the street,” he said, glancing at his watch for the third time in ten minutes.
“How long do you think you will be?” I asked, leaning against a velvet armchair.
“Two hours, perhaps three if the contract negotiations drag on,” he said.
He leaned down and kissed my cheek, his breath warm against my skin.
“Get yourself a tea, Mary, and do not worry about the price,” he said.
I watched him walk through the heavy glass doors of the lobby, his stride long and purposeful.
Instead of crossing toward the restaurant lounge, he turned left toward the public parking garage.
My feet moved before my mind could stop them, carrying me toward the tall front windows.
I stood behind a large potted palm, my forehead nearly touching the cool glass.
Richard emerged from the shadow of the garage, walking past the public sidewalk.
He stopped beside a sleek silver sedan parked near the corner of the block.
The passenger side door was already swinging open.
I pushed through the heavy revolving doors of the hotel lobby, the autumn wind biting through my wool coat.
The silver sedan was pulling away from the curb, its tires rolling slowly over the wet asphalt.
I walked toward the corner, keeping my distance, but the city traffic was congested enough to keep the car within my sight.
They stopped three blocks down, near the entrance of a quiet public park with overgrown hedges.
I stepped into the shadow of a brick library building, my boots crunching on the fallen leaves.
The silver car was parked under a large oak tree, its engine idling with a low, rhythmic hum.
Through the rear window of the sedan, I saw a small head move.
A little child, a young girl with blonde pigtails, was kneeling on the back seat, her hands pressed against the glass.
Richard opened his door and stepped out, carrying a large cardboard box wrapped in bright yellow paper.
