I brushed it off, ironed the shirt twice, and decided it would have to do.
The rings were harder.
The jewelry store downtown wanted two weeks to size anything. Two weeks was a luxury we did not have. So on Saturday morning I drove out to the swap meet at the Tamsett County fairgrounds, where old men sell fishing lures and old women sell salt shakers shaped like chickens.
There was one table with jewelry. One. Run by a woman in a sun visor who sold mostly belt buckles.
She had a plain gold band in a man’s size. That was easy. But for June, there was almost nothing. A ring with a cracked turquoise stone. A mood ring stuck on black. And a slim silver band with a tiny enamel heart on top, painted a bright, unapologetic pink.
“That one’s eight dollars,” the woman said. “Seven, if you’re nice.”
