Chương 4
I opened the transaction history.
Six hundred.
Six hundred.
Six hundred.
Six hundred.
The numbers marched down the screen.
“What is this transfer for?” I asked.
Clinton did not answer.
I looked at him.
“The six hundred dollars.”
“That’s your contribution.”
“To what?”
“The household.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He exhaled sharply.
“Mortgage, taxes, maintenance, whatever.”
“You told me the mortgage payment dropped after the refinance.”
“It did.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know off the top of my head.”
“You know what your mortgage payment is.”
“Not to the exact dollar.”
“I know what my pension is to the exact dollar.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No.”
I closed the app without canceling the six-hundred-dollar transfer.
Not yet.
Something about the way he avoided that particular payment bothered me.
He had become angry about the electricity.
Worried about the insurance.
Defensive about the six hundred.
Different reactions meant different pressures.
I slipped the phone into my purse.
Clinton seemed to relax.
“Okay.”
I watched him.
He gave a small nod as if we had reached an agreement.
That irritated me enough to change my mind.
I took the phone back out and canceled the transfer.
His face changed immediately.
“Margaret.”
“There.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I just did.”
“You agreed to contribute.”
“I agreed to a residence arrangement.”
“You live in the house.”
“I slept in the sewing room.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“My promised room is full of your golf equipment.”
“That’s temporary.”
“It has been temporary for two years.”
He walked out of the room.
A few seconds later, I heard a cabinet door slam in the kitchen.
Evelyn sat beside me on the bed.
The mattress dipped under her.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I turned toward her.
She shrugged.
“I’d be worried if you said yes.”
I looked down at my hands.
They had stopped shaking.
“I feel mean.”
“That will pass.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Then you’ll become interesting.”
I laughed.
This one sounded closer to normal.
Evelyn reached over and squeezed my wrist once.
“Pack a bag.”
I nodded.
I took two nightgowns, three blouses, underwear, my toothbrush, and the gray cardigan Donald hated because he said it made me look like a substitute librarian.
I packed it anyway.
At the bottom of the closet, behind an old vacuum attachment, I found a shoebox containing photographs Stephanie had told me were somewhere in the attic.
I opened it.
Donald on Tybee Island with his pants rolled to his knees.
Stephanie at nine years old holding a dead fish with an expression of disgust.
Mason as a baby asleep against my chest.
I almost left the box behind because carrying sentimental things felt theatrical.
Then I remembered that the house was no longer a place where I could assume my belongings would remain untouched.
I put the shoebox in the bag.
A car door slammed outside.
Stephanie entered the house less than a minute later.
We heard her before we saw her.
“Mom?”
Clinton answered from the kitchen.
Their voices dropped.
I could not make out the words.
Then Stephanie appeared in the doorway.
She looked tired rather than furious.
That surprised me.
Her hair had loosened around her face, and one pearl earring was missing.
For some reason, that missing earring made her look younger.
“Can we talk?”
“I’m packing.”
“I see that.”
She looked at Evelyn.
“Could we have privacy?”
Evelyn stood.
“I’ll be in the car.”
Stephanie waited until she was gone.
Then she closed the door.
“Clinton says you canceled everything.”
“I canceled payments from my account.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“No, I actually don’t.”
“You told me not to come home.”
“I was angry.”
“So was I.”
“You keep saying that like this is equal.”
I folded a pair of socks and put them into the bag.
“What would make it equal?”
“I don’t know, Mom, maybe not trying to wreck our finances because of one argument.”
“One argument didn’t create those bills.”
She crossed her arms.
“We take care of you.”
“How?”
Her expression hardened.
“Excuse me?”
“How do you take care of me?”
“You live here.”
“I paid toward the house.”
“We buy food.”
“I buy groceries every week.”
“We include you in the family.”
I stopped packing.
“That isn’t care.”
She looked at me as though I had slapped her.
I wished I could say I felt sorry immediately.
I did not.
“You know what?” she said.
“I cannot do this right now.”
“Then don’t.”
“Clinton has eight people coming in less than an hour.”
“You should probably get ready.”
Her eyes widened.
“You really don’t care.”
“I cared so much that none of you had to.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
She began pacing in the small room.
“You think because you made breakfast and paid some bills, we exploited you.”
“Some bills?”
“You chose to help.”
“So every choice stays permanent?”
“No.”
“Then why are you angry that I stopped?”
She pressed her lips together.
For the first time, she did not answer immediately.
I zipped the bag.
Her eyes dropped toward the accordion folder sticking from my purse.
“What’s that?”
“My paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“From when I sold my house.”
Her gaze stayed on the folder.
The pause was small.
Too small for most people to notice.
I noticed.
“What about it?”
“I’m looking for the residence agreement.”
Her arms slowly uncrossed.
“What residence agreement?”
“The one connected to my contribution.”
She gave a quick shake of her head.
“There wasn’t one.”
“Clinton said I agreed to contribute.”
“That’s just what we called it.”
“The attorney called it that too.”
Her face went still.
I pulled out the clipped page.
“Did you know about this?”
She barely looked at it.
“Mom, those were closing papers.”
“It mentions a residence agreement.”
“Lawyers write things weirdly.”
“Where is the agreement?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just said there wasn’t one.”
“I mean, I don’t remember one.”
There it was.
Not proof.
May you like
A contradiction.
Something cold moved through me.
