Chapter 7 - The Kitchen Accounting
On Monday morning, the temperature dropped to twenty-six degrees. The ground around Little Elm was frozen into iron ruts that rattled the steering wheel of my station wagon as I pulled into the staff lot at six-forty-five.
Inside the preschool’s industrial kitchen, Renee was standing over the commercial stainless-steel sink, checking the expiration dates on ninety small cartons of two-percent milk. She wore her gray apron over a red sweatshirt that said PHILADELPHIA MARATHON 2018, her reading glasses hanging from a beaded cord around her neck.
I set my canvas bag on the stainless-steel prep table, pulled out my checkbook, and began signing the payroll checks for the eleven staff members for the second half of November.
"Your sister called here," Renee said, without turning around from her crates.
My pen stopped on the signature line of the third check. "When?"
"Seven o'clock this morning. Left a message on the main office machine. Said she needed to know if the SUV on Kauai had three rows of seats or two, because Preston’s golf bags take up forty cubic feet in a cargo bay and she wanted to make sure they didn't have to put them on the roof rack."
I finished the signature with a sharp, downward stroke of blue ink. "She didn't mention Ren?"
"She mentioned the golf bags," Renee said, turning around with an empty plastic crate in each hand. She stacked them against the pantry wall with a loud, hollow CLACK. "You know what you bought, Darcy?"
"I bought a vacation for my family, Renee."
"No, you didn't," Renee said, walking to the prep table and leaning her knuckles against the steel. Her dark eyes were unblinking behind her bifocals, sharp with thirty years of watching women sacrifice their lives to keep mediocre men and vain mothers from having to experience the consequences of their own choices. "You bought a bribe. You’ve been buying them since you were twenty years old."
"I don't bribe people."
"Then what was the DJ for Kelsey’s sweet sixteen?" Renee asked, ticking her thumb out. "Your daddy said he didn't have the six hundred dollars because the transmission on his truck dropped out. You worked forty extra hours at the library to pay that boy to bring his speakers to the fire hall. And who did your mama thank on the microphone? She thanked Preston's cousin’s uncle who owned the sound company. She didn't even say your name."
I looked at the payroll check in front of me—Renee Jackson: $2,140.00.
"I wanted us to have something good," I whispered.
"They don't want good, Darcy," Renee said, her voice dropping into a rough, maternal tenderness that hurt worse than my father’s bark. "They want shiny. They want things they can show to Maryanne Hail so they don't have to feel like they’re two paychecks away from the trailer park. And they’re using your little girl as the footstool to reach the high shelf."
The phone in my pocket began to buzz.
I pulled it out. The caller ID showed Kelsey’s name.
I hit the speaker button and set the phone on the stainless steel between two stacks of napkins. "Hello, Kelsey."
"Darcy! Finally," Kelsey said, her voice entirely different from Saturday—bright, breathless, and rattling with the manic energy of a bride who had successfully navigated her ceremony and was now moving on to the acquisition phase of her new life. "Listen, are we still good for the flight out on the twentieth? Because Maryanne and Ted have this incredible tradition where they do a sunset catamaran cruise on Christmas Eve, and she found a charter company out of Princeville that does private tours with champagne and pupus."
I looked at Renee, who had picked up a dry rag and was wiping down an already clean counter with slow, deliberate circles.
"Why is Maryanne looking at charters in Princeville, Kelsey?" I asked.
A pause—brief, slippery, like a fish sliding through weed.
"Well," Kelsey said, her voice dropping half an octave into that cautious, diplomatic tone she used when she was trying to explain why she had returned a borrowed sweater with a coffee stain on the sleeve. "Mom told them that... well, since you and Ren skipped the wedding, everyone assumed you two were probably going to want some space for the holidays. You know, to cool off. And Mom mentioned that since the house has six suites and you’d already paid for the six first-class seats, it would be an absolute tragedy for thirty thousand dollars to just sit there empty."
The room seemed to shrink, the walls of the commercial kitchen pressing inward until the stainless steel reflected nothing but gray light.
"What did Mom tell them, Kelsey?"
"She told them Maryanne and Ted could have your seats," Kelsey blurted out, the truth finally tumbling out into the open air like rotten fruit from an overturned basket. "Ted has never been to the north shore, Darcy! His bad knee acts up in the cold weather, and Preston said it would be such an incredible gesture of goodwill between the families after... you know, after the tension at the rehearsal. We’d all be together! Preston and me, Mom and Dad, and Preston’s parents! It’s like... the ultimate family union!"
"My seats," I said. My voice was very quiet, very calm, the voice I used when a four-year-old was standing on the edge of the sandbox holding a plastic shovel above another child’s head. "The seats I paid for with my business account."
"Well, you weren't going to use them!" Kelsey cried, defensive now, her voice sharpening into an ugly whine. "You're not going to drag Ren all the way to Hawaii just to sit around being miserable and glaring at everyone over the fruit salad! Mom said you'd understand! She said you’ve always been generous about these things!"
"Airline tickets are non-transferable, Kelsey," I said. "They have names on them. Ren’s name. And my name."
"Maryanne has a friend in executive customer service at United!" Kelsey shouted into the receiver. "She said with a family hardship letter and an administrative re-ticketing fee, they can do a name change at the counter! Darcy, don't be like this! It’s Christmas! Why do you always have to hold onto everything with both hands like a toddler with a toy?"
I reached down and tapped the red disconnect button with the tip of my index finger.
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The kitchen was completely silent save for the hum of the three-door commercial refrigerator and the distant sound of the preschool’s heating pipes knocking in the ceiling joists.
Renee threw her dry rag into the gray plastic laundry bin. "Well," she said, without looking up. "Now you know what the seats cost."
