Page 6 of The Incredible Kindness of Paper

Thelma

Thelma unlocked the apartment building’s front door. Her dog, Rufus, would have liked to enjoy the summer evening for much longer—he was a Biewer terrier after all, and the breed loved to hunt and follow all the interesting smells of New York—but Thelma couldn’t walk so well anymore.

If she’d had any spare savings, she would have spent them on a dog walker.

But the residents called her the Threadbare Countess for good reason.

Thelma’s social security checks didn’t even cover what she needed for food and rent.

She patched all her clothes herself, snipped coupons from the mailers that everyone else cavalierly threw away, and had trained Rufus to spot spare change on the sidewalk.

Even so, if Thelma could have afforded it, she would have spent her money on Rufus. But as it was, she tried to compensate by taking him out multiple times a day for shorter strolls. She felt terrible that she couldn’t give Rufus more fun.

As they entered the small lobby, Thelma turned toward unit 1A. But Rufus tugged his leash in the other direction, toward the mail room.

“No, Rufus. I already got my mail today, remember? We went on a walk after lunch and came back right as the postman was here, like we always do.”

But Rufus was insistent, and when a hunting dog wants something, he wants it. He practically dragged Thelma across the lobby, her orthopedic moccasins sliding on the tile.

“What is it, boy?” she asked, the exhaustion hanging off her voice like old laundry on a frayed line.

Rufus darted into the cardboard boxes. He disappeared from view, but Thelma could feel from the tension of his leash that he was diligently rooting for something. A buried stash of forgotten coins?

A minute later, he reappeared with something in his mouth. He trotted over and deposited it victoriously at Thelma’s feet, as if he had caught her a pheasant or rabbit.

Joints creaking, she bent down to pick up Rufus’s prize, a yellow paper rose with a gaudy smiley-face pattern.

It was the damn thing from the girl’s back pocket that Thelma had specifically warned her not to leave around as litter.

Kids these days!

And yet, it was surprisingly pretty. “Well crafted,” Thelma grumbled, as she examined the artful folds. Then she moved to toss it into the recycling bin.

Just as she was about to do so, though, she noticed that one of its careful folds was coming slightly loose. Thelma wanted to tug on it, to undo this frivolous piece of litter. It would serve that irresponsible girl right.

She unfolded the rose.

Inside, there was a surprise message: Chin up, buttercup.

Thelma gasped and started to cry. Because that’s exactly what her late husband used to say to her whenever she felt down. “?‘Chin up, buttercup. You are a strong and clever woman, and nothing can stand in your way if you keep your chin up and look that bastard problem in the eye.’?”

And she was feeling beaten down. Just this morning, the landlord had come by again for her rent and told her that if she couldn’t pay for this month, plus interest for everything else she owed, she’d be evicted from the place she’d called home for the last sixty-three years.

The apartment where she and Tyrell had built their lives, raised their children, and stayed together until his last breath.

Today had been a very bad day.

But tomorrow, well…

Maybe if she kept her chin up, she could face it. That’s what Tyrell would have wanted her to do, and obviously Rufus did, too. He’s the one who’d brought her this paper rose.

With shaking hands, Thelma clutched the origami flower to her chest. It was a small thing, but it was a lifeline of hope to hold on to nonetheless.

Tomorrow was another chance to fight.

A new day.