“You did that,” I say, pointing a long finger at her face. “You made your mama cry. That’s on you.”
Her angry scowl bleeds away.
Baxter wriggles in his chair. “Mister, I really gotta—”
“Zip it.” I hold up a hand in his direction. “This conversation is between me and your sister. You’re going to have to wait your turn.”
“But it’s important.”
A cramp. He’s cold. A dancing chipmunk on the windowsill. A cloud that looks like a question mark. Baxter believes that they’re all worth everyone’s attention.
“Kid, you really need to learn the definition of important, you know that? Now pipe down. I’ll deal with you in a minute.” I turn back to his sister, working to soften my tone. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about you and I start over? Let’s just wipe this messy slate clean and begin again, how does that sound? You promise to be good, and I’ll promise not to hurt you or your br—”
I stop. Sniff the air, at the exact same time Baxter empties his lungs. “The poop is coming!”
C A M
4:38 p.m.
I stare at the broad backside of the fussy fortysomething lady blocking the teller’s window and will her to hurry the hell up. Twenty-two minutes and counting until the security guard locks the big glass door behind me and flips the sign to Closed, and this woman is standing here like she has all day.
She leans against the counter, oblivious to the line six people deep behind her, and shouts into the bulletproof glass, “I really need that money today.”
Yeah, welcome to the club, lady.
I can’t see the teller from where I’m standing, but a tinny voice spurts from the speaker at the edge of the glass. “I understand that, ma’am, but the bank typically needs twenty-four hours’ notice for a cashier’s check. Did you place the order online?”
The lady shakes her head, but her brown bowl cut doesn’t budge. From her shoulder, a wrinkly canvas bag says “Abs are cool but have you tried doughnuts?” in pink and purple rhinestones. “That’s what I’m here for, to place the order and get the check. That’s why I got in my car and drove all the way over here, because I need it today.”
I shift to my other foot and sigh, loud and obvious, and I’m not the only one. Hushed curses and heaved sighs swirl from the folks behind me, all clutching their wallets and checking their watches. Another teller ambles by behind the window with a stack of twenties, looking everywhere but in the direction of the glass. A Next Window Please sign stands propped at the other three teller windows, the blue canvas stools behind them empty.
I look around for a manager, another bank employee, anyone I can ask to light a fire under this transaction, but if they’re here, they’re hiding. Even the security guard is gone, vanished behind the thick locked doors.
“I can put a rush on your order, ma’am,” the teller is saying, “but there is an added fee, and we’ll still need time to pull the check together. And considering we close in…twenty minutes, I’m afraid the check won’t be ready until tomorrow.”
Twenty minutes. The words hit me square in the chest, seizing my heart into a concrete ball, and I battle to catch a breath. My ribs feel like they’re packed in cement, the muscles locked up tight. The air can’t make it to the bottom of my lungs.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call, and I yank it from my pocket, my chest deflating when I see the screen.
Not Jade.
Not Ed.
I swipe and press it to my ear. “Hey, Mom.”
“Well, don’t sound so disappointed. I was just calling to see how you’re doing.”
No way in hell I’m telling her about Jade and the kids. Mom is a worrier. She’ll spiral and call me every two seconds. I love her, but I wish I hadn’t picked up.
“I’m okay, but I can’t really talk right now.”
“Aw, sweetie. Don’t take it so hard. I know the article was not the most flattering, but you can recover. Maybe you can get that PR person of yours to work some magic and have some of the worst parts retracted.”
“What worst parts?”
Mom keeps talking, her words tumbling over mine. “And maybe while you’re at it, you could talk to your attorney. I mean, I’m not saying you should sue, but they might be able to twist an arm or two.”
“Mom. What are you talking about? What article?”
“The one in the AJC. ‘The Joylessness of Cooking,’ that’s what that reporter titled the piece of trash. And don’t you worry, I’ve already written a letter to the editor complaining about journalistic bias.”