Chương 3
She answered.
“Mom?”
His voice was strained.
Margaret gripped the phone.
“Samuel.”
“Are you at my apartment?”
Walter closed his eyes.
Margaret looked at the duplicate key she had left on the dresser.
“How do you know?”
“Chloe got an alert from the door sensor.”
Margaret’s face warmed.
Of course there was a sensor.
Of course Chloe knew someone had entered.
All those months Margaret had believed herself clever because she returned everything to its proper place.
“Mom, please tell me you’re not inside my apartment.”
Margaret looked at Walter.
“I am.”
Samuel swore softly.
“Why?”
“I came because I thought Chloe was having an affair.”
Silence.
Then Samuel said, “What?”
“I saw her yesterday with a man.”
“That was her brother.”
Margaret closed her eyes.
“Her brother?”
“Ethan flew in from Denver.”
She leaned against the counter.
A laugh almost escaped her, but there was nothing funny in it.
She had been so certain.
So righteous.
So prepared to destroy someone else’s marriage.
“Mom, what did you do?”
“Nothing to Chloe.”
“What does that mean?”
Walter shook his head at her.
Margaret watched him.
Then she said, “Your father is here.”
The silence on the line changed.
Not confusion.
Not surprise.
Fear.
“Mom,” Samuel said quietly, “leave the apartment.”
Margaret straightened.
“Why?”
“Just leave.”
“Samuel, what happened nine months ago?”
Walter reached for the phone.
Margaret stepped away.
“Mom, don’t.”
“Your father says there was eighty-six thousand dollars.”
Samuel did not answer.
“What happened?”
“Please go home.”
“Whose money was it?”
Walter whispered, “Margaret, stop.”
She ignored him.
“Samuel?”
Her son breathed into the phone for several seconds.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely recognizable.
“It was yours.”
Margaret stared at the phone until the dark reflection in the kitchen window seemed to belong to another woman.
“Mine?”
Walter moved toward her again.
“Give me the phone.”
She raised one hand without looking at him.
Samuel spoke quickly.
“Mom, please don’t do anything until I get there.”
“What does eighty-six thousand dollars of mine mean?”
“It means I screwed up.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I know.”
“Then give me one.”
Samuel exhaled hard.
“I’m leaving work now.”
“No, you’re going to tell me why your father says you had access to eighty-six thousand dollars that belonged to me.”
Walter stepped into the hallway and began fastening his shirt.
“This conversation is getting out of control.”
Margaret turned on him.
“You brought champagne to your son’s bedroom and somehow I’m the part that got out of control?”
Samuel heard her.
“What champagne?”
Walter stopped moving.
Margaret looked at him.
There was a small satisfaction in watching him understand that one of his secrets had just collided with another.
“Your father wasn’t here checking the plumbing.”
“Mom.”
“He was in your bed with a woman named Jenna.”
Nothing came through the phone except the faint rush of Samuel’s car door opening.
Then Samuel said, “Dad?”
Walter rubbed his forehead.
“Samuel, we’ll talk when you get here.”
“You brought somebody into my apartment?”
“Don’t start.”
“My apartment?”
“It was a mistake.”
“A mistake is forgetting my birthday.”
Samuel’s voice rose.
“You had sex with somebody in my bed?”
Margaret looked away.
The humiliation in her son’s voice made her own anger briefly smaller.
Walter reached for his jacket.
“I’m leaving.”
Margaret blocked the front door.
“No.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to imprison me.”
“And you don’t get to walk away every time the next sentence becomes inconvenient.”
Walter’s face tightened.
For thirty-two years, most of their arguments had ended because Margaret hated prolonged conflict more than Walter did.
He could sit in silence through dinner, through television, through bedtime, while she became desperate enough for normalcy to apologize for things she had not started.
She saw the old machinery beginning again now.
Except something inside her had stopped cooperating with it.
Samuel spoke through the phone.
“Mom, I need you to listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“The money wasn’t exactly taken from you.”
Walter muttered, “For God’s sake.”
Margaret turned her back on him.
“What does exactly mean?”
“It came from the home equity line.”
She gripped the counter.
Their house in Edina had been nearly paid off.
Margaret had spent years making extra principal payments whenever she could, sometimes fifty dollars, sometimes two hundred, because debt made her anxious in a way she could never explain without remembering her father hiding collection notices beneath a stack of grocery coupons.
“We don’t have a home equity line.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“I would know.”
Samuel was silent.
Margaret looked at Walter.
His eyes did not meet hers.
Her knees suddenly felt unreliable.
“You opened one?”
Walter said nothing.
“In both our names?”
“It was supposed to be temporary.”
Margaret lowered the phone.
The refrigerator hummed behind her.
Someone in the apartment above dragged a chair across the floor.
She heard Samuel saying her name and brought the phone back to her ear.
“How?”
“Dad handled the paperwork.”
Samuel sounded sick.
“I didn’t know at first that you hadn’t agreed to it.”
Margaret looked at Walter.
“He told you I agreed?”
Samuel did not answer immediately.
“Yes.”
Walter snapped, “That isn’t what I said.”
Samuel heard him.
“You said Mom knew.”
“I said your mother didn’t need to be bothered with the details.”
“That’s not the same thing?”
“No, Samuel, it isn’t.”
Margaret almost admired the distinction.
Walter had spent his career selling commercial insurance, and he could make dishonesty sound like a disagreement over punctuation.
“How much is owed now?” she asked.
Samuel hesitated.
“Mom.”
“How much?”
“A little over a hundred and twelve.”
Margaret’s mouth went dry.
“You said eighty-six.”
“That was what we used.”
“We?”
Samuel made a sound that was almost a groan.
“Dad and me.”
“For what?”
“I can explain when I get there.”
“You’ve had nine months.”
“I know.”
“So explain now.”
Traffic noise rose behind Samuel’s voice.
“Chloe invested in a studio.”
Margaret frowned.
“A yoga studio?”
May you like
“Not exactly.”
Walter sat heavily on the arm of the sofa.
