My Darling Husband(35)

“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.”

I wince. Great. A letter from my mother, published in Atlanta’s largest newspaper. Just what I need.

At the front of the line, the woman smacks her bag to the counter. The teller leans around her form and mouths, Sorry. I stare at the woman’s backside and try not to faint. Nineteen minutes and counting.

“Sweetie, did you hear me?”

“She actually used the word joyless?”

Then again, maybe that’s what I get for letting the reporter, a peppy twentysomething food critic, shadow me for a day. She tagged along as I trekked from kitchen to kitchen, where I was careful to put on my best, most agreeable face.

But I’ve caught enough flashes of my own sourpuss in the window, or shimmering in a pot of hot oil. I know how I look, which is why I can barely stand a mirror for more than a second or two. You don’t have to be a genius to see how miserable I am, how joyless my job has become.

Mom sighs, long and loud. “Oh, honey. A whole bunch of times.”

The woman in front of me stabs a stubby finger into the glass, gearing up for another argument, and my body goes electric. I tell Mom I love her but I have to go.

“Jesus Christ, lady, come on,” I say, clutching the phone in a fist. “Just pay the fee and move on, will you? You’re not the only person here with business to do.”

“Yeah,” the person behind me says. Another voice farther back, deep and male, grunts in approval.

The woman takes it from the top, punctuating her argument with a finger stabbing at the glass, but I am no longer listening. Her voice bleeds away with a slicing pain in my side. A heart attack? My lungs’ last gasp for air? I press the spot hard with the heel of my palm and fan the credit cards in my other hand, comforting myself with the math. Three Mastercards and one Visa for a total of $26,000 in cash advances, plus a platinum Amex with a $10,000 line. That’s just over $35,000 in advances I can walk out of here with today, assuming this woman gets the hell out of my way. I eye the way she’s sprawled against the countertop, the hot breath of her tirade fogging up the glass, and my heart punches a hard, frantic beat. This woman is going nowhere.

Stay and wait this out, or come up with a plan B? After all, the $35,000 is a drop in the ransom bucket. It’s not going to get me anywhere close to the $734,296 I need to save Jade and the kids. It won’t make even the tiniest dent.

Especially if Ed doesn’t pull through.

I scroll through my phone, checking the call log and emails inbox, swiping through my messages. Still no word. I pull up Ed’s contact card and fire off a text: Status?

I stare at the screen and wait for a response. Tiny letters under the blue bubble tag the text as delivered. But there are no dancing dots, nothing to indicate he’s even seen it.

I check the time—4:44—and try not to scream.

There’s movement in my periphery, and my head pops up to spot the second teller slinking back into view. He stops at the first window, nodding at what I’m guessing are marching orders, his squinty gaze pinned at the woman holding up the line. He sighs and checks his watch, and I roll my eyes.

Dude, we know.

Just please, for the love of all that is holy. Hurry it up already.

He sinks onto the stool at the second window, and I’m already there, spilling my cards into the stainless steel feeder before he’s removed the Next Window Please sign. “I need the max cash advance on these five cards.”

He picks up the cards and arranges them in a neat line on his side of the glass.

The rhinestoned lady shoots me a smirk, a serves-you-right curiosity burning in her eyes, and I clench my teeth and try not to slug her. She has no idea what kind of tragedy has brought me to this place, just like I don’t know what’s motivated her. People will do all sorts of things when they’re desperate for cash. Lie. Cheat. Steal hundred-dollar steaks from the freezer in order to feed their families. Max out every line of credit in order to survive.

So fuck me and fuck this lady.

I fish my license and another card from my wallet and drop both into the slot. “I need whatever’s on this account, too.” The Lasky account I use to pay bills and run payroll, the last twist to the noose around the Lasky windpipe. Another $10K, which means the payments I signed off on last night will be dead in the water. Emptying it out will be the death knell.

With a finger, the teller slides the card next to the others. “So you want me to close this account?”

I shrug. “Empty it, close it out, I don’t care. As long as you give me what’s in there.”

He sticks it in the reader by his monitor and recites an amount that churns in my gut. “That’s $13,514.83.”

“What about the payment to ADP, is there any way to stop it?” Taking back the money from payroll, that’s apparently the kind of asshole I am.

The teller shakes his head, gestures to the cards spread out before him. “Do these cards all have a pin?”

“Yes. Well, all but the Amex.”

“Sorry, sir, but I can’t do anything without a pin.” He drops it back in the slot with a metallic ding that echoes in my bones.