“I understand,” I said.
“Brandon was sent here to implement it. He was told to cut costs, reduce staff, and prepare the branch for closure by fall.” He glanced at Brandon, who was sitting on the porch steps with his back to us. “He was told the customers here would be resistant. That they’d make it hard. He was told to be firm.”
“Was he told to treat them like criminals?”
Mr. Hale didn’t answer right away.
“No,” he said. “He wasn’t told that.”
On the porch steps, Brandon’s shoulders hunched.
“I want to show you something, Mr. Hale,” I said.
I went inside. I came back with a shoebox.
It was an old Florsheim shoebox. George’s. Held together at the corners with yellowed Scotch tape. I set it on the little table between our chairs and took the lid off.
Inside were letters.
Hundreds of them. Some on nice stationery. Most on notebook paper. Some on the backs of feed store receipts and seed catalogs. All different handwriting. Some in pencil. Some in pen. Some so shaky they were hard to read.
