Chapter 14 - The Small Repairs Before Three Thirty
The tailor on Lorain opened at eight. I was there at 7:55 with the bunny in a paper bag.
"Can you fix this before two?" I asked the woman at the counter. She was pinning a hem and didn't look up right away.
She took the bunny out and turned it over. Cream plush, long ears, brown eyes. One ear seam split about an inch.
"Stuffing's coming out," she said. "I can close it. Ten dollars."
"Please," I said. "And can you make it strong? Little girl holds it tight."
She nodded and put it behind the counter. "Pick up after one."
From there I drove to the children's shoe store by the school. Ella's Mary Janes from Saturday were scuffed at the toe. Helen had mentioned in passing she needed a half size bigger. I didn't want to overstep buying clothes, so I called Maris from the parking lot.
"Hey, it's Daniel," I said when she picked up. "I'm not trying to replace anything. But for the tea photos, does Ella need shoes? I saw hers were tight last time."
There was a pause and background noise of a clinic intercom. "She does," Maris said quietly. "But you don't have to—"
"I want to," I said. "What size?"
"Ten little kid, wide if they have it. Black or white, whatever they have. She likes the ones with the strap that clicks."
I went in and found them. White patent, size 10, strap with a little click. Sixty-four dollars. I carried the box out like it was something breakable.
At noon I stopped at the Hartley Hotel to drop off my sponsor badge. The event coordinator was breaking down the last of the gala centerpieces.
"You sure you don't want the photo for the newsletter?" she asked, holding up a proof. It was me kneeling at Ella's height in the ballroom, her bunny and white paper between us.
"I'm sure," I said. "That's not mine to use. That's hers."
She put it down. No argument.
I picked up the bunny at one-fifteen. The ear was closed, thread matched, seam tight. I tipped the woman twenty.
At two-thirty I parked a block from Elmwood Elementary so Ella wouldn't see my truck from the classroom window. I sat there with the booklet, the shoes, and the bunny in the bag and my hands were shaking. This wasn't a gala where I could stand in the back. This was a second-grade classroom with tiny chairs.
Helen called at 2:50. "She's been checking the hallway," she whispered. "Mrs. Alvarez said she's fine but she's holding the spare booklet she made for you in case you forgot yours."
"I have it," I said. "I'm outside."
"Maris just got here. We're in the back row."
"I'll come in at 3:25," I said.
I checked myself in the rearview. Black suit jacket, black button-up from that first night, clean shave. I wasn't trying to look like her dad in the old photo. I was trying to look like the man she'd asked for and could count on seeing again.
May you like
At 3:24 I got out, locked the truck, and walked toward the side entrance with the bag over my shoulder. The school smelled like floor wax and crayons. Kids' art lined the hallway. Halfway down, I saw a small drawing taped up: Ella's family coupon, copied for the hall display. *Sat May 11 — DADDY.*
I took a breath and pushed the classroom door.
