On Monday morning, Rick took a week of vacation.
He’d been saving those days for deer season.
He and Tyler started tearing out the 1978 kitchen cabinets themselves. Rick said there was no reason on earth to pay a contractor to swing a pry bar when he had two good arms and a son.
The contractor said fine. He’d knock a thousand dollars off the quote for demolition.
They carried the old brown cabinets out to the driveway and stacked them right where the boat used to sit.
Duane came over with his flatbed trailer to haul them to the county dump. Lyle brought a cooler of pop. Marlys brought her lawn chair.
On Tuesday afternoon, Tyler took down the very last upper cabinet. The one above the refrigerator. Nobody ever opened that one, because you needed a step stool to reach it.
He handed me what was inside.
It was my coffee can.
My kitchen can.
A big red Folgers can with a slot I’d cut into the plastic lid with a paring knife six years ago. The same week I set up the transfer at the bank.
I’d started it for the little things. Loose change. The odd dollar bill. Money for new canisters, or a rug for in front of the sink, once the kitchen was finally done.
I’d drop coins through the slot and never open it. Because I wanted it to be a surprise for myself someday.
It was a lot heavier than I remembered.
I sat right down on the floor of my gutted kitchen with my back against the bare wall. And I pulled the lid off.
Under a layer of quarters and dimes, that can was packed tight with twenty-dollar bills.
Folded in half. Then in half again. Small enough to fit through the slot.
Hundreds of them.
I started counting. Because I count money for a living. And that’s what my hands know how to do.
Tyler sat down on the floor next to me and helped me stack them.
Three hundred and twelve twenty-dollar bills.
Six thousand, two hundred and forty dollars.
Rick was standing in the kitchen doorway with a pry bar in his hand.
He didn’t come in.
“Every Friday,” he said quietly. “Since the week you cut that slot. I’d stop in here on the way out to the truck in the morning.”
“For six years?”
“Storm pay, mostly. A little out of my lunch money.”
He looked down at the floor.
“I never said anything because I didn’t know how to. You’d have told me we couldn’t afford it.”
“We couldn’t,” I said.
“I know.”
He finally looked up at me.
“I just figured someday you’d open it. And it’d be a good day.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
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