“Forty-two dollars, Eleanor,” she said, not looking up.
I slid two twenty-dollar bills and a two-dollar bill across the Formica counter. She pulled the ledger for the south-side properties and turned to the page for lot fourteen.
“You are three days early this month,” Brenda said, stamping the yellow receipt with a heavy thud. “Most people do not pay the lot rent on an empty trailer with such enthusiasm.”
“It is my sister Ruth’s place,” I said. “I like to keep the account current.”
“Ruth has been resting in the Methodist cemetery for two years now,” Brenda said, sliding the receipt toward me. “The single-wide is just sitting there gathering damp. You could stop the payments tomorrow and the county would just reclaim the dirt.”
“It is just out of habit,” I said, tucking the yellow slip into my coin purse.
The truth was harder to explain to Brenda, who had lived in Oakhaven long enough to know everyone’s business. The little trailer was the only place where the air still smelled of my sister’s lavender soap, and letting it go felt like locking her out of her own home.
