Troubled waters, p.16
Troubled Waters, page 16
“Ah.” He typed a few commands into his computer. “We can sure find that out for you now.”
“Thank you, Mr. Plato.”
As he typed he said, “I was so sorry to hear about Jess. He was such a nice man.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn said again, though this time with not as much pep.
Macey sighed and wished the man would just stick to the business at hand.
“Yes, you know, I’d known your father for nearly twenty years,” he said with a glimpse in Macey’s direction over his reading glasses.
Well, that’s three more years than I knew him, if at all. Good for you.
“Alrighty, it says here you’ve got one hundred and five dollars and seventeen cents in your checking account.” He looked up and grinned as if he’d just saved the world.
“I know how much she has in checking,” said Macey. “What about savings? Do they have a savings account?”
The man typed on his computer some more. “I thought I remembered that they do,” he said as though this would somehow impress Macey. She guessed small-town bankers relied heavily on the personal touch. A couple of more keystrokes were followed by Mr. Plato saying, “Yes, here it is.”
Macey breathed a sigh of relief. At least they had some savings. Though it had been foolish of her father to keep all his money in the bank, that didn’t matter now. She would get Chad on it as soon as she returned to Dallas and divide it up suitably. “Great,” Macey said, glancing at her mom with a smile. “How much?”
“Eight hundred and seventy dollars and a little change.” He thumped two pencils against the desk like a drum accenting a punch line.
Macey popped up from her chair, and Evelyn looked up at her with soft inquisitive eyes. “Dear, what’s the matter? Isn’t it good that your father put savings away?”
Macey’s hands found her face and she scrubbed at it. “Yes, yes, of course. But, Mother, don’t you see that eight hundred dollars isn’t even close to being enough?”
Her mother shifted her attention to Mr. Plato, whose jaw was hanging open. He obviously hadn’t seen such a display of emotion in a while. Macey shook her head, sat back down, and leaned into her chair, trying to come to terms with the dilemma before it got the best of her. Mr. Plato began chewing on the end of one of the pencils he had been so happily tapping just a few seconds earlier. He gave them a half smile, but his eyes showed his uneasiness.
“Mr. Plato, what about a safe-deposit box? Did my dad have one? Maybe he’s got bonds or something in there.”
Plato nodded, pecking at his keyboard again. “Why yes. Number 587.”
Macey turned to her mom. “Do you have the key?”
“The key? Oh, um . . .” Evelyn began searching in her purse, yet Macey knew immediately her mother wasn’t aware they’d even had a safe-deposit box.
A heavy sigh of frustration fled Macey’s lips in the form of what sounded like a growl, surprising not only Mr. Plato and her mother but also a nearby secretary who’d obviously taken great interest in their predicament in an eavesdropping sort of way.
Mr. Plato stood and said, “Listen, Evelyn, don’t you worry about it. In light of the current situation, being that your husband has passed away, we’ll unlock the box for you and at no cost.”
“Thank you,” Macey said dully and began following Plato to the room where they kept the safe-deposit boxes.
He disappeared for a moment to retrieve the proper keys, then emerged as if he’d found gold. “Okie-dokie, let’s see what we’ve got . . . I mean, you of course.” He led them inside the vault. “This is a private matter, and”—he unlocked the box and stepped aside—“I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.”
Evelyn watched Mr. Plato round the corner, but Macey was already digging into the box. She sifted through the papers, trying to figure out exactly what kind of dire straits her mom was in. After quickly reading over the last piece of paper, a letter about their mortgage insurance, Macey leaned hard against the wall and shuddered. Evelyn took the papers from her hand and looked at them. “What in the world is all this junk?”
Macey shook her head. “Just junk. Nothing of any value.” She watched her mom gently thumb through each piece and then put them back into the box. “This is a nightmare,” Macey added. The edge in her voice was intentional. Her mother must understand the seriousness of her circumstances.
But Evelyn only smiled and closed the door to the box. “Macey, this isn’t your problem.”
Macey glared at her. “Mother, you’re practically broke. What’s your problem is my problem.”
“It’s not my problem, either.”
Macey’s eyes rolled and she stared at the ceiling. Could her mom possibly be this ignorant about the situation? Maybe she was suffering from a bit of dementia. Her head throbbed at the thought of how massive this problem really was.
“It’s God’s problem.”
“It’s God’s problem? That’s all you can say? It’s God’s problem? Yeah, you’re right. It is God’s problem. It’s going to take a king-size miracle to get you out of this predicament.” The sarcasm dripped from her tone.
But Evelyn only held her pleasant smile as if she held some secret solution to everything, which she wasn’t yet ready to share with Macey. This infuriated Macey all the more, and she stomped past her mom, back to Mr. Plato’s desk.
“Is there anything else you know of, Mr. Plato?” Macey asked, her palms flat on his desk, her eyes ablaze with intensity. “Any assets? Anything at all?”
Plato seemed to hold his breath. “I’m sorry, but we don’t show anything else.” Macey was about to turn and leave when the banker added, “Miss Steigel, your parents have had a rough time the last few years.” Macey waited for him to continue. “The farming business has suffered badly, as I’m sure you’ve been reading about. Your father’s was hit pretty hard. He almost lost his home. As I’m sure you know, he had to sell most of the land.”
Macey’s breath became shallow.
“In fact, your father drove to Parsons three times a week to work at the local Wal-Mart. He did that for three years. Then he got sick.”
Macey swallowed back the unexpected surge of emotion. She glanced up to find her mother slowly making her way down the hall. She looked back at Plato. “He worked at Wal-Mart?”
Mr. Plato nodded. “As a greeter.”
Macey frowned and shook her head, frustration and anger building pressure in her chest. She looked the banker squarely in the eyes. “He’s left my mother in a horrible financial predicament, Mr. Plato.”
He folded his hands neatly on top of his desk. “Jess was a fine man. I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t have left something like this unresolved.”
“Well, you didn’t know him as well as you think. He left a lot of things unresolved before he died.”
———
Even though the fifteen-minute car trip back to the house was driven in silence, Macey’s head was filled with the clamoring of angry thoughts and retaliatory conversations. How could her father do something like this? How could he be so stupid? If only she could speak to him, oh the things she would say.
She was angry, but not at her mother. This wasn’t her mother’s fault. No, her mother was more a victim of time and culture, trained to be a lowly housewife, to not ask questions about matters only men should be handling. She was taught to take her place behind the ironing board and at the stove, bred to be obedient and submissive. Macey cringed as she thought of the implications of all this. Her mother was broke and had no way of doing anything about it. All because she did what she was told by a man who was supposed to provide for her.
Macey steered the car up to the side of the house and killed the engine. Seconds later she was helping her mother out of the compact’s front passenger seat. Evelyn clung to her arm as they slowly walked the old weed-grown sidewalk up to the front porch. Climbing the concrete steps, Evelyn mentioned that she was sure a nice cold glass of pink lemonade would “make everything better.” Macey pushed open the front door for her mom, and just as she was about to step inside, her cell phone rang. Evelyn turned to see what it was Macey fumbled in her purse to find.
She opened the line and said, “Macey Steigel.”
“Mitchell here.”
“Mitchell . . . um, now’s not really a good time. Can I call you back?”
“Macey, you’re coming home tonight, right?”
“Uh . . .” At the front door still, Macey watched her mom trying to locate her glass pitcher in the kitchen.
“We just broke news that Senator Brandt is having an affair.”
“You’re kidding! With whom?”
“Audrey Stevens.”
“The socialite?”
“Yep. And get this—her husband turned up missing yesterday. It’s an amazing story. The networks have been calling nonstop for more information. We need you here, Macey. We need you here now.”
Macey gulped as she stepped outside and closed the front door behind her. “Mitchell, some things have happened here. My mom is . . . is in some financial trouble.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” There was a pause, followed with, “So, you want me to let Alexis have this one? Probably the biggest political story of the year?”
Mitchell was playing dirty. Could she expect anything less? “I’m slated to fly to New York Thursday instead of next Tuesday. They called and wanted me to move the meeting up. It was Thornton. He sounded interested,” she lied. He hadn’t sounded interested; he had sounded cold, like a machine.
“Let me get this straight. What you’re saying is that you don’t need this?” Mitchell’s tone turned severe. “What if I need this, Macey? What if I need you here?” His voice lowered, and Macey could almost see him looking around as he drew nearer to his typical state of panic. “You know Alexis can’t handle this. She didn’t even know whether Brandt was a Republican or a Democrat. When she heard Audrey Stevens was involved, the first comment she made was about the woman’s hairstyle!”
Macey smiled a little. It sounded like something Alexis would say. “You hired her, Mitchell. Besides, just feed her through the IFC. Make her sound like she knows what she’s talking about. It’s what you do best.”
“It’s too risky,” he growled. “The network may even go live with the reports, I don’t know. It’s pure chaos here. I need you.”
Macey closed her eyes. She felt dizzy. How could all this be happening, and everything at once? She leaned against the front door and said, “I can’t guarantee anything. I can’t just leave my mom like this, with the way things are.”
“You haven’t seen your mom in twenty years!” he screamed into the phone. “I’ve been loyal to you since the day you came here. I practically sold you to the network! And here you are telling me you can’t guarantee anything!” Macey stared at the dusty porch as Mitchell continued to rant. “Yet I’m sure you’re all too willing to adjust your schedule for a Thursday flight to New York, aren’t you?”
“Mitchell,” Macey said in her most soothing voice, the one she used when interviewing a family who had lost a pet, or an elderly person just taken for a large amount of money. “I was prepared to come back today. You know that. I’m sorry for the delay. I really am sorry.”
There was a brief pause and then Mitchell said, “I’m turning around.”
Macey frowned. “You’re turning around?”
“Yeah. So you can take the knife out of my back.” With that the phone went dead. Macey’s head dropped.
The front door squeaked open, and Evelyn stood holding the now-filled glass pitcher, smiling. “Well, how ’bout some pink lemonade?”
———
It took two and a half more hours for Macey to confirm her worst fears: her mother had no assets other than her home and her car. She’d dug through every drawer and file that might contain even the smallest inkling of hope. Her eyes were swollen from her allergy to dust, and her nose itched uncontrollably. All the while she played scenario after scenario over and over in her head as to what might happen if she didn’t return to work by tomorrow. Why couldn’t she just leave? Never in her life had she been unloyal to her career. She’d once even dropped a relationship with an attractive attorney because he couldn’t cope with her hours.
She clomped downstairs to find her mother sitting at the dining room table, arranging a vase full of fresh flowers. Evelyn looked up and smiled. “Look at the petunias! Aren’t they beautiful? They practically grow wild down by the river.”
Macey stood over her mom, her foot tapping. Her mother might not eat next month and all she thought to do was arrange flowers? She pressed her fingers to her lips to keep from saying something she shouldn’t. But then an explosive sneeze escaped, followed by two more. Evelyn grabbed tissues from her pocket and handed them to Macey. “Dear, do you need an antihistamine?”
Macey shook her head. “No. They knock me out, and I definitely don’t need to be sleeping right now.”
Evelyn just stared at her like she didn’t know what else to say. Macey sneezed one more time and then said, “I think I need some fresh air. Mind if I drive around for a little while?”
“Of course not. I know how much trouble I’ve been. I’m sorry.”
Macey sat so she was eye level with her mom. “Mother, this isn’t your fault. Not at all. Please know that.”
But Evelyn’s expression didn’t seem any less heavy. Macey stood, found her keys, and faced the muggy outside air again. Walking to her car, she took in a deep breath. She’d already missed her flight. She knew she couldn’t return to Dallas. Not now. Not with her mother in this circumstance. She decided to go to the cemetery. After all, she hadn’t really gotten a chance to pay her last respects.
Fifteen
Some of it she’d said out loud. Some she dared not let escape her lips. One elderly woman placing flowers at a nearby headstone looked up once but thankfully didn’t stay long. It didn’t matter much to Macey who was around, though. She had a lot to get off her chest. Seventeen years’ worth. An outdoor thermometer hanging on a tree not far away read 105 degrees. As far as Macey was concerned, she might as well be in hell.
She was somewhat taken aback at what had shot up to the surface. There was a lot of anger, which of course wasn’t surprising. But there was some sentiment as well, and weak moments of regret and shame. There was even laughter, albeit brief and tainted with frustration. It ran the whole gamut.
Yet, after forty-five minutes, standing over the fresh dirt of her father’s grave, she felt no better than she had before. Her face was wet and streaked by tears. Her shoulders ached. She checked her watch—3:25. Squatting to the ground, she stared hard at his grave. It irritated her that she could go through all the emotional turmoil and not feel better. He met her now just as he had in life: with a cold, icy silence. His headstone, a dull gray, was the exact color of his eyes. She noticed the date of his death wasn’t etched in yet, and she wondered how long ago her parents had ordered their headstones. Her mother’s had been set beside his. What an odd thing it must be to order a headstone.
She shuddered, unsure as to why. It seemed a reaction to all the thoughts of the past. She shuddered again, touched her face, and realized she’d stopped sweating. Her eyes rolled back into her head for a moment as she tried to stand.
She was going to have to find water. She walked back over the dirt of her father’s grave in the direction of her car. Once inside the car, with the air-conditioner’s cold hitting her face, she leaned back and thought about how lucky he was that she had to go get herself some water. But in reality there was nothing more to say.
———
She drove around for an hour. She’d been afraid that if she drove back to her mother’s house, her bags would practically pack themselves and she would come up with some way to justify her leaving.
At 5:12 she found herself on the other side of the Neosho River, driving up the long road toward Noah’s house. She didn’t know why, but she was compelled to see him. As the car approached the house, she thought about turning around. What was she thinking? What good was this going to do? But before she could think twice about it, she saw him next to a nearby tree, with easel, canvas, and brush, waving and smiling.
She got out of her car and slowly walked up to him. “Hi.”
He finished a stroke and said, “Hi there. What a pleasant surprise.” He glanced at the car. “A little too long of a walk for you?”
She laughed. “I’ve been driving around. I found myself on this side of the Neosho so I thought . . .” She shrugged and looked away.
“I thought you’d be gone by now.”
“Me, too.” She walked to the other side of the canvas to see what he was painting. She gasped at the beauty of it: a field of wheat with a distant line of trees and beautifully colored sky. She looked up to see if he was painting an actual scene, and there it was, right in front of her, precisely represented on the canvas. She hadn’t seen the Kansas landscape like this before. The fields, the trees, the skies—they somehow all became extraordinary when brought to life by oil paints. “It’s wonderful,” she told him.
Noah resumed his painting. “You know, when I lived in New York, I thought I had to travel to all these remote, exotic locations to find something to paint. Don’t get me wrong. They were nice. But I must have fifty paintings just from standing outside my house here and looking out over the fields. And these—the ones I’ve done in Kansas—have sold the best.”
“Do you still travel?”
“Not too far. I’ve been to Texas and Colorado, but I haven’t been overseas since the girls were born. I make it to New York twice a year.” He glanced her way. “I’ll look you up on my next trip. I mean, if it turns out you move there and take a job with the network.”
