The porch was very quiet.
A bee buzzed around the Peace roses. A truck drove by on Elm Street. Somewhere down the block, a lawnmower started up.
I reached over and put my hand on his knee. Just like George used to put his hand on mine under the table.
“Brandon,” I said. “Your grandmother told you the wrong thing.”
He lowered his hands.
“She meant well,” I said. “She loved you. She wanted to protect you. But she taught you that the clothes make the person. That if you dress right, you belong. And if you dress wrong, you don’t.”
“Isn’t that true, though?” he said. “Isn’t that how the world works?”
“It’s how bad banks work,” I said. “It’s not how good ones work.”
I pointed at the shoebox.
“George never looked at a single person’s clothes,” I said. “Not once in fifty years. He looked at their hands. And he didn’t look at their hands to see if they were clean. He looked to see if they were working hands. Because working hands pay back their loans.”
