Chương 3
“The agreement about my money.”
His face did something small.
Not fear.
Recognition.
That was worse.
“What agreement?”
“The one connected to the money I put into this house.”
“You gave Stephanie money.”
“The refinancing attorney apparently called it a contribution.”
Clinton’s eyes moved toward the paper in my hand.
Then back to me.
“Margaret, today is not the day for this.”
For four years, that sentence had worked on me in one form or another.
Not today.
Not tonight.
Not while Mason is here.
Not while Stephanie is upset.
Not while Clinton has work.
There was always a reason my problem had to wait.
I put the papers into my purse.
“Actually,” I said, “I think today is exactly the day.”
My phone rang again.
This time it was not Stephanie.
The screen showed Savannah Coastal Electric.
I almost ignored it.
Then I remembered the automatic payment scheduled for that night.
The electric bill.
The bill I had been paying for thirty-one months because Stephanie once said they were short until Clinton’s bonus came through.
The bonus had come.
My payments had never stopped.
I answered.
The automated system asked me to verify my identity.
Clinton was still standing in the doorway when I pressed the number for billing.
I looked at him while I waited for a representative.
For the first time since Donald died, I was not wondering how angry my daughter would be if I changed something.
I was wondering how many things I had never changed because I was afraid she would be angry.
When the representative came on the line, I gave her my name.
“I need to remove my bank account from automatic payment,” I said.
Clinton straightened.
“What are you doing?”
I turned away from him.
The representative asked which account I meant.
“The electricity for this address.”
“Margaret,” Clinton said.
I heard the first edge of alarm in his voice.
I gave the representative the account information.
Then I opened my banking app.
Electricity was not the only recurring payment with Stephanie’s address attached to it.
Internet.
Water.
Homeowners insurance.
A monthly transfer labeled HOUSE that I had almost stopped noticing.
I stared at the list.
The groceries had been nine hundred and eighty dollars.
What I had been paying for their life was far more.
And sometime that night, before Stephanie came home, I intended to find out exactly how much.
The representative placed me on hold, and soft piano music filled my ear while Clinton stood in the doorway pretending he was not listening.
He lasted eleven seconds.
“You can’t just shut off our electricity.”
“I’m not shutting it off.”
“You just said you were.”
“I said I’m removing my bank account.”
“That’s the same thing if the payment is due.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He opened his mouth, then stopped.
The distinction mattered, and he knew it.
The account was theirs.
The bill was theirs.
My bank account had simply become the invisible bridge between the two.
The representative returned and explained that removing my payment method would not cancel service, but the balance would remain due on the account.
I thanked her.
She asked whether I wanted written confirmation by email.
“Yes, please.”
Clinton stepped farther into the room.
“Margaret, we can sort all this out tomorrow.”
“I’m busy tomorrow.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
That answer seemed to bother him more than anything else.
For years, he had known exactly what I would be doing the next day.
Breakfast at six-thirty.
Mason’s lunch packed by seven.
Laundry started before eight.
Dog walked before the heat got bad.
Groceries, cleaning, dinner.
My life had become so predictable that everyone else used it like furniture.
I ended the call.
Then I opened the automatic payments section of my banking app.
The water bill was next.
Clinton rubbed his forehead.
“Come on.”
I tapped the payment.
“What?”
“You’re angry at Stephanie.”
“Yes.”
“So take it up with Stephanie.”
“I am.”
“By screwing over the whole house?”
I looked at him.
“Whose name is on the water account?”
He hesitated.
“Mine.”
“Then I’m not screwing you over.”
His jaw tightened.
“You live here too.”
“Apparently not after this afternoon.”
“She was mad.”
“So was I.”
“You know she didn’t mean it.”
“I asked her whether she meant it.”
He looked away.
“She says things.”
“So do I.”
I canceled the recurring payment.
A confirmation window appeared.
I saved a screenshot.
That was something Donald would have laughed at.
He had resisted smartphones until nearly the end of his life and once called screenshots “photographs of nothing.”
I could hear him saying it in the tone he used when technology offended him personally.
For half a second, the room felt less empty.
Then Clinton noticed the insurance payment on my screen.
“Wait.”
I looked up.
“Don’t touch the homeowners insurance.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s different.”
“How?”
“Because we need coverage.”
“Yes.”
He shifted his weight.
“That payment can’t lapse.”
“Then pay it.”
“I’m not saying we won’t.”
“I didn’t say you wouldn’t.”
“You know how this sounds.”
“I’m beginning to.”
He swore under his breath.
Evelyn, still standing near the dresser, sighed.
“Clinton, I wouldn’t keep digging.”
He turned toward her.
“I don’t need commentary from the neighbor.”
“No, you need a checkbook.”
“Evelyn.”
She lifted both hands.
“I’m done.”
She was not done.
Her mouth had the tight little twitch it got when she was trying not to say something worse.
I went through the remaining payments one by one.
Water.
Internet.
Insurance.
A landscaping service I had forgotten I was paying because Clinton once said the yard had become too much for him during a busy quarter at work.
A pest-control plan.
The monthly transfer marked HOUSE.
That one was six hundred dollars.
I stared at the amount.
I had transferred six hundred dollars on the third of every month for almost three years.
Not every month.
May you like
There had been two skipped payments while I was hospitalized for pneumonia.
Other than that, the money had gone out with the regularity of a heartbeat.
