That weekend was, by Joe’s own quiet reckoning, one of the hardest stretches she had faced since her husband died. She was suspended from her job, banned from a gym she had never even wanted to join in the first place, and publicly, if quietly, branded around town as the waitress who had lost control and hurt someone during a self-defense class meant to help people feel safer.
She thought more than once that weekend about simply leaving Mil Haven altogether, packing up, finding work somewhere else, somewhere nobody knew her name or the story that had attached itself to it. She had done it before, after all. Moved to a town where nobody knew anything about her past, precisely so she could build a quiet life without the weight of it following her everywhere.
But something kept her from making that call. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was the coin still resting exactly where it always had. A reminder of promises made a long time ago about not running from things that found her. Maybe it was simply that she was tired, deeply tired of being the kind of person who disappeared every time life got difficult.
She sat on her back porch Saturday evening, watching the sun go down over a row of houses that all looked a little like her own, and let herself feel just for a while exactly how unfair the whole situation was. Then, the way she always eventually did, she straightened her shoulders, wiped her eyes, and went back inside to finish making dinner.
Earl Banister stopped by unannounced Sunday afternoon. An unusual thing for him since he rarely left his farm on weekends anymore with his knees the way they were. He stood on her porch holding a paper sack of tomatoes from his garden, looking a little unsure of himself. The way older men sometimes look when they want to say something kind and do not quite have the words ready.
“Heard some folks talking ugly about you in town,” he said, handing her the sack. “Didn’t sound like the woman who’s been pouring my coffee every morning for the past year. Figured you could use some tomatoes and someone telling you that.” Joe felt her eyes sting again for the second time that weekend. Though this time it was not sadness exactly. It was something closer to gratitude, the kind that catches you off guard because you were not expecting anyone to notice you needed it.
“Thank you, Earl,” she said. “That means more than you know.” “My sister used to say something,” Earl told her, turning to head back to his truck. “The folks who talk the loudest about someone else’s character usually haven’t spent much time looking hard at their own. Figured you might need reminding of that this week.” He drove off before she could respond, leaving her standing on the porch with a sack of tomatoes and a small, warm feeling that had not been there an hour earlier.