For two weeks after Tomas's funeral, people brought casseroles and took away decisions. My sister canceled the cable. His cousin returned borrowed chairs. The church secretary folded sympathy cards into neat stacks on our trailer's kitchen counter. I let everyone help because refusing required explanations I could not assemble. At night, I listened for Tomas's boots on the metal steps and woke angry at the silence.
One thing remained missing: his gray toolbox. Tomas repaired delivery vans, farm pumps, and any appliance a neighbor rolled into our yard. The box usually sat beneath the carport bench, heavy with mismatched sockets and pencils sharpened at both ends. His employer said he had taken it home before entering the hospital. I searched the shed, his truck, and every cabinet twice.
On the fifteenth morning, a black town car stopped at our curb. It looked misplaced among pickup trucks and narrow lawns. A woman in a navy raincoat stepped out carrying the toolbox with both hands. She was about my age, with silver beginning at her temples. The driver stayed behind the wheel. I watched through the screen door until the woman reached the steps and said my husband's full name.
She introduced herself as Lena Morris, director of the North County Transit Cooperative. Tomas had never worked there. Lena said that was difficult to explain on the porch. I kept the chain latched and asked why she had his tools. She set the box down carefully, then removed a brass key from her pocket. A paper tag tied to it carried my phone number in Tomas's handwriting and an instruction I had never heard from him: give June the maintenance ledger before the board meeting. I kept one hand on the chain and one on the doorframe, suddenly aware that I was barefoot.