The butcher either threw the stuff away or had it out on display for cheap so her mother bought bags and bags from him and put them in the fridge. Then, he’d hand over a roll of newspaper to the child, who unfolded sheets on the floor, forming a square, and around that square they sat down to have dinner.įor dinner, it was cabbage and chitterlings. When he came home, first thing he always did was kick off his shoes. That smell, like lady nail polish, never left him, not even after he’d had a shower. Now he doesn’t paint anything like that, not since he started at the print shop, smelling like the paint thinner he was around all day. That brown bend was supposed to be a bridge, and the blots of red and orange brushed in around it were supposed to be trees. On the wall of the main room was a tiny painting with a brown bend at the centre. The family lived in a small apartment with two rooms. If the contents were important, a phone call would be made to the home. And like all the other notes that went home with the child, her mother removed the pin and threw it away. The note had been typed out, folded over two times.
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