The Day My Boss Put Our Private Trouble On A Screen

MY BOSS MADE ME READ MY SON'S HOSPITAL BILL ALOUD. THEN THE MAN EVERYONE FEARED ASKED TO SEE THE RECEIPTS.

"Read the amount, Nora. Let everyone hear what your little emergency costs."

Wade Mercer held the microphone under my chin. Behind him, my son's name filled the screen above the folding tables.

Eli Bell. Age seven. Balance due: $740.

We were supposed to be eating lunch at Riverbend Linen's family day in Louisville, Kentucky. The dryers had stopped. Eighty workers had been paid to stay for a talk about the plant's future.

Instead, they were looking at a bill I had given my boss in a sealed envelope.

I was thirty-one, with brown curls pinned above my collar, tired green eyes, and a blue work shirt that never quite lost its smell of soap.

Wade Mercer wore a silver suit, narrow black glasses, and a gold watch that slipped over his pale wrist.

He tapped the screen.

"You asked our relief fund for help. Now the fund is empty. Interesting timing."

"I applied yesterday. I didn't take anything."

"You're the payroll clerk. Your password was used."

People put down their forks.

For six months, each of us had given eight dollars from every other Friday's check. A donor had promised to match it. We were told the fund would help when rent, illness, or plain bad luck hit a worker's home.

My son needed regular treatment for a kidney illness. Insurance covered much of it. The rest came in white envelopes that I stacked beside the toaster.

The hospital had already offered a payment plan. I could have managed it if missing work for appointments had not cut my pay.

I had asked for help. That was all.

"Say you're sorry," Wade told me. "Then we can discuss whether I call the police."

Across the room, Lottie Price stood up. She had run the folding line for twenty-three years.

"Show us what she stole."

"Sit down, Lottie."

"Show us."

Wade turned the microphone toward me again.

Through the open side door, I saw Eli sitting with Lottie's sister at the children's craft table. He was making a paper boat. He had heard his name.

That was the part I could not bear.

"Take my son's bill off the screen."

"Then explain the missing money."

A chair scraped near the back.

The man who rose had arrived ten minutes earlier with a woman carrying a leather folder. Wade had hurried to shake his hand. No one else had gone near him.

I knew his face. Most people in our part of Louisville did.

Adrian Vale owned warehouses and a supply company. People also said he ran an illegal betting business and decided who could borrow money on whole blocks of the city.

He had once been called a mafia boss on the evening news. He had not sued anybody over it.

"Turn it off," he said.

Wade gave a small laugh.

"An internal matter, Adrian. We're handling it."

"That's a child's medical bill. Turn it off."

The woman beside him reached the laptop first. The screen went blue.

My knees felt strange. I kept them straight.

Adrian stopped an arm's length from me.

"Do you want the microphone?"

It was the first question anyone had asked me.

I took it.

"I did not steal your money," I told the room. "I want a copy of every record with my name on it. And I want my son's bill back."

Wade reached for my elbow. I stepped away before he touched me.

"You're suspended," he said.

"With pay," the woman beside Adrian said. "Until the owners receive a full report. I'm June Doss, the accountant reviewing this plant for a possible sale. I'll be requesting that in writing."

Wade looked at Adrian.

"You brought an auditor to lunch?"

"You asked my company to buy your shares."

Adrian took a folded bank receipt from his coat.

"My supply company matched thirteen rounds of worker gifts. Eight thousand three hundred twenty dollars. Where is it?"

"In grants. Nora processed them."

"Then bring the grant file."

"This isn't the place."

Lottie folded her arms.

"It was the place a minute ago."

Wade went to his office. June followed him, leaving the door open.

I found Eli beside the craft table.

"Did you do something wrong?" he whispered.

"No, sweetheart."

"Then why did he want you to say sorry?"

I had no answer fit for seven.

When June returned, she handed me a copy of the first grant form. Adrian stayed several feet away while I read it.

It listed a payment of $4,800. My employee number appeared under APPROVED BY.

Below that was the name of the person who claimed to have received it.

Thomas Bell.

My husband's name.

The signature was dated March 18 of that year.

My husband had been dead for two years.