The Empty Lot Had Better Records Than The Man Who Fired Me

At seven the next morning, I called the number printed on the old Pine Rest sign in my picture.

A woman answered on the fourth ring.

“If you’re asking about a room, we closed last September.”

“My name is June Hale. Somebody says I stayed there in February and March.”

She stopped speaking.

Then she said, “Bring whatever they gave you.”

Her name was Alma Vale. She met me at the library because she did not invite strangers to her house. I liked that about her.

Della kept Mara while I went. I left a list of medicine times on the counter, though Della knew them by heart.

Alma arrived with a green folder and a small date book.

“Sold the land in October,” she said. “The buyer cleared it before Thanksgiving. My sister took pictures because I couldn’t stand to watch.”

She laid a copy of her final utility bill beside my vouchers.

“No power after September thirtieth. No water. No guests.”

“Could someone have rented a room through another business using that name?”

“Not through me.”

She put on her glasses and leaned over the first page.

“That’s my old invoice form.”

My stomach dropped.

“So you did make it?”

“The blank form. Not this bill.”

She pointed to a thin black mark under the address.

“Our copier made that line for three years. I gave the shuttle office a stack when they started bringing clinic families to us.”

“Ellis?”

“His dispatcher picked them up. Could’ve been anybody in that office after that.”

I wrote down her exact words. I did not want to turn a useful fact into a claim I could not prove.

Alma read the room charge.

“One hundred eighty a night? We charged sixty-two.”

She agreed to give the fund a signed statement and copies of her closing records. She wanted the originals back, and she wanted a receipt for everything she handed over.

“Keep your papers,” she told me. “People get bold when they think you won’t.”

After the library, I went to the shuttle office for my final pay.

The white vans sat in their usual row. A new driver was drinking from my chipped orange mug.

Ruth Price, the dispatcher, looked up when I opened the door.

“June.”

She stood so quickly that her chair rolled into a cabinet.

“Is he here?” I asked.

“In the garage.”

“I just need my check.”

She handed me an envelope. Three hundred six dollars for eighteen hours. There was no note.

“I heard about supper,” she said.

I stared at the envelope.

“Then you heard what he said.”

“I heard you asked for the receipts.”

The garage door banged. Ruth glanced toward it, then back at me.

“Did you keep a copy of your aid application?”

“I filled it out here. You scanned it.”

“I gave you the paper back.”

I remembered folding it around a parking receipt. It was probably in the kitchen drawer with our clinic papers.

Ellis walked in before I could say more.

“Your check is correct,” he said.

“Pine Rest closed in September.”

He did not look at the vouchers in my hand.

“That’s a matter for the fund.”

“You made it a matter for everyone at supper.”

He held the front door open.

“I suggest you stop making accusations until you understand the records.”

I left because I had my check, and because staying would give him another room to throw me out of.

At home, Mara sat on the rug with Della, sorting buttons by color.

“Did you get your job back?” she asked.

“No, sweetheart.”

“Did you find the mistake?”

“I found part of it.”

She pushed a blue button into a small circle of green ones.

“This one was hiding.”

I kissed the top of her head and went to the kitchen drawer.

The application was there, under two clinic maps and an unpaid electric bill for eighty-nine dollars.

I had asked for one hundred eighty dollars a week for twelve weeks. Two thousand one hundred sixty dollars total. Gas, parking, and some of the wages I lost on treatment days.

Beside Overnight Lodging Needed, I had checked No.

I sent a picture to Etta, along with Alma’s number.

She called within minutes.

“Please bring that original tomorrow. Our outside accountant is coming in.”

“Do you believe me now?”

“I believe we have serious questions. I want the answers in writing.”

I appreciated that more than a quick promise.

After supper, Ruth called from her own phone.

“I remembered something else,” she said. “Ellis had me scan that application twice.”

“Why twice?”

“The second time, he only wanted the bottom of the page.”

I looked down at the paper on my table.

The only thing at the bottom was my signature.