Double Trouble

by Deborah Cooke

  There was a whole suite of new credit cards, only in my sister’s name. Department store cards, the kind that the clerks will give you on the spot if you can produce any other major credit card. A wave of a platinum card obviously got my sister between $500 and $1000 shopping limit for the day and she used it all. Yee haw. They were all maxed out, probably chucked in the bottom of her purse once she was done with them.

  Some stores had been fool enough to give her two.

  It was interesting in a way, to see the hands of each of them. On each joint account, one card was used for gas. Just gas. Sunoco, Exxon, Shell. Twenty bucks here and twenty bucks there. Maybe once a month, there was a charge from a restaurant. Not a fancy place and not for a lot. Fifty bucks. Client lunch, no doubt about it. Expense form probably submitted that afternoon in duplicate. James was a detail kind of a guy.

  The other card was chock-a-block with charges. Shoe stores, department stores, chocolate shops, hairdressing salons and spas. At least three lunches a week and not cheap ones either. I looked at all those shopping charges and wondered whether my sister even knew what she had.

  Then I wondered what she did with it all. She never looked that good anymore. Maybe she bought stuff for her friends. (And yes, I did think that hell, she could have bought something for me once in a while if she was so determined to spend.) Maybe some of these charges were for the boys. I’d have to check out her closets, if I ever went back out there.

  Just to know, you know.

  Okay, I felt a bit of gleeful anticipation that the little hate mail message now appearing beside my name in banks everywhere would be showing up on a credit report of the Coxwells real soon now.

  Realizing that I was taking forever and that there had to be a clock ticking somewhere, I printed a summary of the sucker, then detail reports of a couple of the cards. What the hell, I wasn’t paying for this access again - in fact, I ground my teeth right then as I imagined the courier bill for the beer - so I printed every detail report they offered. The dinosaur’s print buffers must have been bulging but the printer dutifully began to chaw out the copies.

  Thank goodness there were no graphics.

  Then I couldn’t resist temptation. Sure, it could blow my cover to Dennis, but I rationalized that my tracks were covered well enough. I had to know. I searched on my own name and shouldn’t have been surprised to see that I was still in credit purgatory.

  It still pissed me off.

  I damned Neil to hell - again - logged off with a flick of the wrist and checked the pile of output from the printer. There were the cars - Marcia’s SUV was leased. Who knew? The big sedan was almost paid off.

  Here I thought that rich types paid cash for everything - clearly James financed the hell out of everything. I suddenly understood a bit better the concept of making your money work for you. He had borrowed this money when they didn’t need to borrow, when there was cash rolling from their fingertips, and now he had enough credit to weather out a fairly sizable storm.

  Seemed as if I could learn a few turns of phrase in the language of money from James.

  If this had been a short patch of trouble, they could have coasted through it with no one knowing the difference. I gave credit where it was due - haha - and noted that this financial strategy had kept the house of cards standing longer than it would have otherwise. Now though, it was doomed to collapse in an ill wind of my sister’s making.

  The house had been refinanced two months before to such a point that if it hadn’t increased in value - oh those desirable neighborhoods! - then they wouldn’t have had anything in it. And the money was gone gone gone. There were a couple of whopper payments to the cards, but the charges just kept on coming and the checking account was empty.

  Then I saw that thirty days ago, James had liquidated a bunch of 401(k)’s. Ouch. Mr. Longterm Security must have hated that.

  My sister had had some serious fun.

  I felt a weird sense of having something in common with James. We could write a book together - How Marriage Ruined My Credit Rating. Too strange. I actually felt sorry for him, finding himself unexpectedly in the same inhospitable place I had visited. No wonder he looked so glum.

  I had an even more weird urge to call him up, offer consolation and advice.

  Right. There I went, confusing my career with my life. No one at that house wanted to hear from Aunt Mary. I could just imagine James’ patrician tone as he told me to mind my own effing business.

  It wasn’t my business. And he could probably sort it out more easily than I could suggest, what with his connections and all.

  But there was one wrinkle.

  Two eruptions in the earth’s crust, actually. I leaned back in my chair, and worried about the boys. Not my department, you know, but I wondered whether James would blame our whole family for my sister’s foul deeds. Not for me - I don’t care. If I never saw any of them again, it would be too soon. I certainly didn’t intend to get any more involved than I had been already.

  But there was one problem with that. See, my dad adores his only grandchildren. They do the mutual dependency thing really well. Regular little Norman Rockwell scenario to see them together every second Sunday.

  Surely James wouldn’t take that away from my dad?

  I worried that he would, if it would serve his advantage. That’s what he did for a living, after all, he played the odds. He was a shark. He was cold. He manipulated people to get the results he wanted and he was good at it.

  And what other way did he have to coax my sister to come back, than denying her own father what he wanted most in all the world?

  Truth be told, I felt a bit sick.

  * * *

  Subject: re: this must be love!

  Dear Smitten -

  Call me a skeptic. Maybe it’s love, maybe it’s not. Face the fact that the net is a great place to live out fantasies of all kinds.

  Run a credit check on your newfound soul mate before committing, meeting or moving. The truth (or part of it, at least) is in the math.

  The rest may be in a criminal record.

  Good luck.

  Aunt Mary

  ***

  Uncertain? Confused? Ask Aunt Mary!

  Your one stop shop for netiquette and advice:

  http://www.ask-aunt-mary.com

  * * *

  When I typed that cynical little reply, I had another brainstorm. James played games for a living. What if this credit meltdown was all an elaborate game of manipulation?

  It was hard to believe - no, impossible to believe - that he wasn’t making as much money as he had been. I mean, he is good at what he does. I couldn’t imagine that any family turmoil at Coxwell & Coxwell could make either James or his father turn off the tap that kept the bucks rolling.

  I mean, you don’t get rich and stay rich by not understanding where money comes from. It had to be a joke to try to make James’ brother Matt into a shark.

  Which meant that maybe James wasn’t making less. Maybe it was a lie, God knew why. Maybe it was a way to make sure Marcia couldn’t get half of the bucks - by pretending there weren’t any.

  So where was the incoming moolah going?

  I spun in my chair. Nowhere legal, or it would have shown on that credit statement.

  Lawyers. The Caymans. Numbered bank accounts. Some of these things belong together. California? My ass - James had been dropping off cash, I bet, and had been doing it offshore. What business did a criminal defense lawyer called to the Massachusetts Bar have in California?

  James was an opportunistic rat and Marcia had run from him in a fit of sanity, losing everything in the process.

  This was even more scary. I had commonality with my sister of all people. Before I could get too comfortable with that concept, the phone rang.

  “I suppose you’ve forgotten again?” my father demanded, in that shrill tone he’d taken on lately.

  “How could I forget when you remind me twice a day? You’ll have to give me a chance to forget
to find out whether I do.”

  He snorted. “As if I’d risk that. It’s seven o’clock already. Where the hell are you?”

  “Obviously, I’m at home, since I just answered the phone here.” I noticed belatedly that it was getting lighter. Mingled shades of grey and blue made their way through the glass bricks. Where had the night gone? “Your appointment’s at eleven, Dad.”

  “Oh, so we’re going to rush in there at the last minute, like the last time.”

  He was in a mood and I was tempted to agree that I had forgotten, just to make him gleeful again. There was nothing my father loved better than recounting my failures and missed opportunities. It always cheered him up.

  But I was a bit cranky myself. “It wasn’t the last time,” I corrected with remarkable forbearance. “It was 1996. I was getting divorced at the time, if you recall, from the guy who you thought walked on water. Remember him? Neil something or other. Good looking bastard. Charming.”

  He chose to ignore this, typically. “If you weren’t too stubborn to admit you were wrong and find another man, then you wouldn’t be living in that hellhole, Mary Elizabeth, eating cat food for your dinner.”

  “I don’t eat cat food, Dad.” I paused, then gave him some bait. “Not any more, at least.”

  He didn’t take it. “If you married a decent man, you’d have a normal life, friends and a family. Instead you’re living in the dark alone, like you’re afraid of the world outside.”

  “Uh huh. And when was the last time you met with all your friends, Dad? Having formal dinner parties for twenty-four again, are we? And right after we sold the ten piece silver flatware table settings, too. It’s a damn shame.”

  “Don’t give me your cheek, Mary Elizabeth,” he huffed. He was more reclusive than me and we both knew it. “Do you have the time to take me to the doctor’s today or not?”

  “Of course I have the time. I told you I would do it.” I cleared my throat. “You did ask me to go with you, you know.”

  “You had best believe that I do know! It’s not as if I’m forgetting things, and you had best remember that.”

  Oh, this was going to be fun. “It’s seven in the morning, Dad. I’m still working.” A lie, but who was to know.

  “As if you knew the meaning of the word. At least your sister had the sense to marry well.”

  Oh, I bit my tongue hard hard hard. Want to see the scar? I think there’s a permanent notch left as a little souvenir. All the same, there was no question of me telling him about Marcia.

  Hey, let her do her own dirty work.

  “So, what is this? A breakfast invitation? I like my eggs over easy, you know that.”

  He harumphed, but I knew he was pleased. “If you take too long and it’s cold when you get here, I won’t hear any complaints.”

  “Deal.”

  “Well, hurry it up then.” He hung up the phone with a clatter loud enough to make me wince. I brushed my teeth and washed my face and headed out.

  I was going to need sustenance. This doctor’s appointment was not going to be fun. They never were.

  * * *

  Subject: butterball city

  Dear Aunt Mary -

  Ever since I moved in with my honeybun, my own buns have been spreading 4ever and 4 days. What should I do?

  Fat in Fresno

  –-

  Subject: re: butterball city

  Dear Fresno -

  Body Fat Index, thine enemy is contentment.

  Misery, in marked comparison, is a tested and true means of melting away those unwanted pounds…and maybe a few wanted ones. Think of that, the next time you look at those fashionable waifs. Wouldn’t you be miserable, living on half a grapefruit a day?

  OTOH, a layer of subcutaneous fat is a good way to minimize wrinkles.

  So, choose from the doors that lovely Carol Merrill is showing us:

  Door #1: dump him, B miserable and waste away to zip

  Door #2: join a gym and GO to it. Buy moisturizer.

  Door #3: get over it and buy bigger jeans

  The choice, my little dumpling, is all yours.

  Aunt Mary

  ***

  Uncertain? Confused? Ask Aunt Mary!

  Your one stop shop for netiquette and advice:

  http://www.ask-aunt-mary.com

  It took my father about two seconds to start scowling when he opened the door and found me on the step. “What in the heck are you doing here?”

  I pretended to swoon. “How could I resist such a greeting?”

  He would have shut the door in my face, but I’m faster than him now. I got my boot into the gap between the door and the frame. He glared at it, glared at me, then shuffled back into the house, leaving me there.

  No, you didn’t miss anything. This was the same man who had invited me for breakfast not three hours before. And no, he hadn’t forgotten. He was just in a mood. He’s become kind of a capricious, ornery leprechaun in his sunset years - well, since my mother died. He can be as funny as hell, but he’s changeable and unpredictable.

  I think it’s his way of dealing with being alone. It’s no secret that husbands usually go first, but my mom’s been gone more than fifteen years.

  I think it ticks him off, as if all those years of falling on his knees got him nothing. God pulled a fast one on Connor O’Reilly and he doesn’t appreciate the joke.

  Used to such receptions and his many moods, I shut the door behind myself and followed my dad into the kitchen. He was always particularly snarly about going to the doctor.

  I refused to pander to him. Rudeness got rudeness. I gave as good as I got, which usually ticked my father off enough to laugh.

  Eventually. First came the tirades.

  “Trouble is what you are, Mary Elizabeth, trouble is what you’ve always been.” He sat at the table and poured himself a cup of strong tea before giving me another look. “Your sister, now, there’s a girl who gave your mother and I no grief at all, none at all.”

  Ah, dear sainted Marcia. She who never took my father to the doctor, she who never called, she who seldom sullied her angelic reputation by actually showing her face at the ol’ homestead. Be amazed, oh gentle reader, for I gritted mine own teeth and said naught.

  It just about killed me. Look, Ma, I’m Hercules. Maybe Atlas is more like it, holding up the world and all its woes. Haha.

  My dad had tried to leave no hint that he was making breakfast, but the skillet was on the stove and I could smell bacon. I was not offered a cup, so got my own, then poured my own tea.

  I was late and I knew it, but I had had things to do.

  “Some kind of crappy service you’ve got in this restaurant, Mr. O’Reilly.” I took a healthy swig of very strong tea - four teabags per pot in this house, the expense be damned, it’s not made of gold and a man’s got to have some pleasures - and got a lightning bolt of caffeine.

  Oh, I needed that. I had to send off that beer this morning and the brewery shop hadn’t opened until nine.

  Besides, these family doings were going to screw up my routine if they kept up. I was getting a major rash, just from the demands. Call my delay a mental health break.

  “Always complaining, too.” My father waved his cup at me to punctuate his criticism. “That’s another thing different between you and your sister.”

  “Maybe you should hire some staff.” I pretended I hadn’t heard him. “A waitress, you know, to greet people with a smile, pour tea, that sort of thing. It would give this joint some much-needed ambiance. If she was cute, she’d lift your spirits too.”

  He glared at me, spoiling for a fight. He was more wizened every time I came here and seemed to get shorter by day, but age certainly hadn’t mellowed my dad. Nope, he looked like a gnome ready to go to the mat.

  It was probably what kept him going - and what kept my sister away. Oh, she of the faint heart. I kind of looked forward to sparring with the old guy.

  A habit, if you will.

  “Look at you!” he
said with scorn. “Nearly forty years old and you look as grubby as a penniless student! Has no one told you that you’ve grown up, Mary Elizabeth?”

  “It’s a lifestyle choice.”

  “So is washing your jeans.”

  I grinned, unrepentant. “Ah, but that’s why I buy black ones. They don’t need to be washed until I can write my name on them with my nail.”

  He snorted. “The smell would give you away in a crowd.”

  Don’t be getting the wrong idea here. I’m clean. It’s the choice of clothing that annoys my father. He’d prefer that I came à la Doris Day, with little gloves, spectator pumps, a perky hat and one of those dresses with the cinched waist and ballerina skirt. Polka dots, maybe. The man got lost in the fifties. Can’t blame him entirely - they had some awesome shoes.

  “Here we were, your mother and I, doing our best to raise our girls right, and look what happened. You look like a bit of trash left behind by a biker gang.”

  “Now, don’t be sweet-talking me.”

  Amazingly, he became even more belligerent. “You didn’t come over here for a cup of tea, I know that.”

  “Can’t a woman visit her doting father once in a while?”

  “Ha! You’ve got a scheme, or my name’s not…” He shook a finger at me in sudden outrage. “If you think you’re going to take me to the doctor, as though I’m no more fit than an old woman, then…”

  I feigned surprise. “You’ve got a doctor’s appointment today?”

  “As if you didn’t know it.” He sipped his tea, a man disappointed in the world.

  “I know it because you told me.”

  “You would have found out anyway and insisted upon coming along. I know how you are.”

  “Jeez, this is some kind of invitation you offer.”

  “You would have had to escort me, just as you always do,” he muttered unhappily. “As if you didn’t think I’m too feeble and too old to be going just two blocks to the doctor, that’s what you’re thinking.” He roared fit to rattle the dishes in the cupboards. “I’m not dead yet!”