Saturday, October 18, 11:00 AM, Rod Haskett took a number at Fenner's.
He got 41.
He waited his turn like anybody.
Four people stood in line behind him.
When I called 41, he stepped up to the glass in his red polo.
"Pound of oven turkey."
"Sliced thin."
I took the turkey out of the case and set it on the slicer.
"Drop the exception and I drop the complaint," he said.
He didn't lower his voice.
He wanted the line to hear it.
The woman behind him stopped scrolling.
I set the thickness dial.
"You'd have your badge back for the playoffs," he said.
"And you can run my trailer window."
"Fifteen an hour."
"That's fifteen more than you made at the stand."
I didn't answer.
The slicer hummed.
The slices fell onto the paper, one over the next.
"Or Monday the board hears about nine years of cash with no receipts."
A hundred and eight count sheets sat on the shelf over my bread box.
Each one had a pink bank receipt stapled behind it.
He'd never asked to see a single one.
I stacked the slices and set them on the scale.
OVEN TURKEY 1.00 LB $9.48
I wrapped it, taped it and stuck the label on top.
"That's nine forty-eight."
He didn't reach for it.
"Senior year," he said.
"Owen's got a playoff game coming."
"Be a shame to watch it from row 12."
"Owen kicks Friday either way."
"You think this is about Kendra's little Venmo," he said.
"I think it's about a lot of things."
"Venmo's private money, Tess."
"Between adults."
"It isn't the district's."
"Then you won't mind me saying so Monday."
His smile used his mouth and nothing else.
He tapped the glass twice with one finger.
He took a business card from his shirt pocket and laid it on the glass.
BIG ROD'S SMOKEHOUSE — Rod Haskett, Owner
His cell number was printed underneath.
"Think it over."
He walked out.
The bell over the door rang behind him.
The turkey stayed on the counter.
Four people had watched him leave it.
The woman behind him stepped up and watched the door close.
"Was that Rod Haskett?"
"What can I get you?"
"Was he threatening you?"
"He was buying turkey."
"He didn't buy it."
"No."
"My nephew plays," she said.
"Is it true about the money?"
"Which money?"
"Any of it."
"Colby's on special," I said.
She ordered a half pound of Colby.
I put Rod's card in my apron pocket.
I set the turkey under the counter.
Nobody had paid for it.
At 4:00 PM I was in my car in the Fenner's lot when Kendra texted.
Rod says if you push, I get charged.
Is that what you want for Jason?
A minute later, another.
Rod says you're done in this town.
I read them both twice.
Rod says.
She'd been saying it since August.
Rod said the fryer.
Rod said the big programs.
Now Rod said me.
I didn't answer either one.
Five minutes later Mom called.
I hadn't heard her voice in two Sundays.
"Theresa."
"Hi, Mom."
"Are you really doing this at Christmastime?"
That was the only thing she asked.
It was October 18.
"I'm doing it Monday, Mom."
She was quiet a long time.
Then she said she had to go.
She didn't say she loved me.
At home Owen was at the table with a bowl of cereal and his phone.
"Coach's wife says Rod Haskett offered you a job."
I didn't ask who told the coach's wife.
"He did."
"At his trailer?"
"Fifteen an hour."
He put his spoon down.
"Don't take his deal."
"Mom."
"Don't take his deal."
"I wasn't going to."
"If you do Monday, his kid's still my quarterback."
"I know."
"He holds for my kicks."
"I know, bud."
He picked the spoon back up.
"I'll still kick."
He ate the rest standing up and rinsed the bowl.
On Sunday the binder lay open on the kitchen table, next to the laptop.
My coffee went cold beside it.
I wrote one email to Ellen Voss and the board clerk.
As signer of record for Fund 300-9014, I request to present the reconciliation on my audit exception.
That was the whole email, plus my name.
I read it four times and sent it at 10:20.
The clerk answered at 3:15 PM.
The signer of record will be called under Item 7, Booster Audit Exceptions.
Ellen Voss replied a minute after.
Bring the binder.
I took Rod's card out of my apron pocket and laid it on the table.
I typed his cell number into my phone.
Then I typed one line.
Monday. Seven o'clock. Bring your packet.