“I don’t believe in Government grants,” I said.
“Why not?”
I told him what my father said. He sighed and looked heavenward.
“How much will it cost to fix the tooth?”
“Fourteen hundred,” I said. “I’ll find the money.”
“The church will pay,” he said quietly. “I have a discretionary fund.”
“That money is sacred.”
The bishop threw his hands in the air. We sat in silence, then he
opened his desk drawer and withdrew a checkbook. I looked at the
heading. It was for his personal account. He filled out a check, to me,
for fifteen hundred dollars.
“I will not allow you to leave school over this,” he said.
The check was in my hand. I was so tempted, the pain in my jaw so
savage, that I must have held it for ten seconds before passing it back.
—I HAD A JOB at the campus creamery, flipping burgers and scooping ice
cream. I got by between paydays by neglecting overdue bills and
borrowing money from Robin, so twice a month, when a few hundred
dollars went into my account, it was gone within hours. I was broke
when I turned nineteen at the end of September. I had given up on
fixing the tooth; I knew I would never have fourteen hundred dollars.
Besides, the pain had lessened: either the nerve had died or my brain
had adjusted to its shocks.
Still, I had other bills, so I decided to sell the only thing I had of any
value—my horse, Bud. I called Shawn and asked how much I could get.
Shawn said a mixed breed wasn’t worth much, but that I could send
him to auction like Grandpa’s dog-food horses. I imagined Bud in a
meat grinder, then said, “Try to find a buyer first.” A few weeks later
Shawn sent me a check for a few hundred dollars. When I called Shawn
and asked who he’d sold Bud to, he mumbled something vague about a
guy passing through from Tooele.
I was an incurious student that semester. Curiosity is a luxury
reserved for the financially secure: my mind was absorbed with more
immediate concerns, such as the exact balance of my bank account,