He entered his apartment at ten forty-five and stared at his phone. Without a second thought, he punched number four and waited. “Luke? I’ve got a problem.”
With a thud, Chad dropped a stack of papers, catalogs, magazines, and newspapers on her coffee table. “Welcome to American Consumerism 101.”
“What is all of this?”
“Well, these,” Chad held up a stack of papers, “are examples of household budgets. They represent every demographic—from those at poverty level to those making six and seven figures. Aggie knew where to look and even found ones that show how much people spend on specific things like shoes, eating in restaurants, and haircuts.”
As she flipped through a few of the papers, Willow felt instantly overwhelmed. “And the newspapers?”
“They show what’s happening in the economy.”
“Catalogs?”
“To give you a sense of the difference in prices of things. There are some ads in the papers too. You can compare the price of a pair of running shoes from Wal-Mart vs. the catalogs and then look at the budget summaries.”
Her eyes blinked. “Why would I do that?”
“Well, from that you could learn what kind of quality different people could afford.” Chad could see she didn’t understand him. “For instance, a man making twenty-five thousand dollars a year can’t afford to spend one hundred dollars for a pair of leather athletic shoes from a store in the mall. He’s more likely to go to Wal-Mart and buy a cheap pair for twenty dollars.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” she protested.
“Why not? He can’t afford to spend five times the money on a pair of shoes.”
“He can’t afford not to.”
“I don’t think you understand. Let me try—”
Annoyed, Willow slapped the papers against her thighs. “No, you don’t understand. I assume the leather shoes are better made?”
“Well yes,”
“And will last much longer?” she continued.
“Yes, but—”
“And they’re probably better for his feet too. More comfortable maybe, and have good support?”
Chad threw up his hands in surrender. “Yes, all of that, but—”
“That’s exactly why he can’t afford the twenty dollar pair. A person, who doesn’t have money to spare, can’t afford to waste what he does spend on disposable products. He needs to get the best value for his money. The inferior shoe will wear out sooner and probably damage his socks, is less likely to be repairable, and more likely to protect his feet.”
“But when you don’t have the money—”
Speaking very slowly, as though explaining something very difficult to a child, Willow interrupted. “The wise thing to do is wear the old shoes as long as possible. Tape them with duct tape or eat less expensive food, whatever you can do to save those extra dollars until you can afford that first pair of better shoes. Then, you start saving for the next pair the minute you buy them so you’re ready next time, but throwing money away on inferior shoes is the rich man’s way of spending.”
“Rich man’s!”
“Of course,” she insisted. “only the rich can afford to buy cheap things and replace them often. The poor must buy quality, or they’ll spend all their money replacing the junk they bought in the first place.”
“That’s an interesting philosophy.”
She shrugged and flipped through advertisements. “It’s common sense.”
“Uncommon sense. I don’t know anyone who would expect me to buy more expensive shoes than say, Alexa Hartfield.”
“Is she rich?”
His laughter made her look up sharply. “Why was that funny?”
“Alexa Hartfield has to have millions. Every one of her books has been on the bestseller lists for weeks and weeks. They’ve made movies from her books. She has to be loaded.”
Willow waited for him to finish but Chad started to show her something in one of the reports he had. “You didn’t finish.”
“Finish what?” Confusion seemed to be the mask du jour.
“Your sentence. You said, ‘She has to be loaded’ but you didn’t say with what.”
An indulgent smile replaced the questioning twist to his lips. “Money. She must be very wealthy.”
“And you think she spends more money on her shoes than you do on yours.”
“Well, I spend more on mine than a married guy with a kid or two would at my salary.”
“It’s just so foolish, though.”
They debated her rich man/poor man philosophy in between his examples of spending, but his explanation fell flat. Chad had come ready to teach her like a class project, but Willow wasn’t accustomed to a lecturing style of education. After half an hour, he knew he’d lost her.
“Why don’t we put these away for now and next time I’m here, we can do some more. If I try to push you too much, you’ll end up with a massive brain freeze.”
Willow stared at the pile of papers and glanced up at Chad. After another glance at the individualized reference library provided for her, Willow shook her head. “I’m sorry. You went to a lot of work, and I feel ungrateful, but I don’t want to do this. I just realized something.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t have to understand it all. I just have to make sure the numbers work the same as they have been. As long as rates of increase are comparable, and as long as reports arrive on time and everything, then it doesn’t matter if I know why we earn seven percent instead of seventy. I don’t need to know why I can spend ten thousand, twenty thousand, or five hundred thousand dollars a year. What I need to know is how much I can spend and how to budget. If I know how much everything is, that shouldn’t be too hard.”
He’d pushed too hard. Chad sensed it. He’d pushed her away from something she wanted to learn. The thought bothered him for many reasons. Little was beyond her; he’d just cemented one of those little things. As he examined himself, he realized that part of the pang he felt was because for once, he had something relevant to teach her and it wasn’t going to happen.
“Well, we can talk about it later. How about Chinese Checkers?”
Willow glanced at the sky. “It’s almost time for me to make dinner. Why don’t you set it up in the kitchen and I’ll play while I cook.”
The game started slowly. With hands covered in beef she pulverized into a flat thin piece of meat, she directed him which one of her pieces to move, often taking several tries for him to grab the right marble. He almost accused her of doing it deliberately but her mind went too fast at the beginning of the game for him to have that luxury.
“What are you doing with that meat anyway? There won’t be anything left of it if you keep that up.”
“Green at the left tip one to the right—I’m making pizza.”
“Pizza!”
“Yeah. I think it’s going to be good. Blue middle row one left next.”
Chad didn’t have the heart to tell her that beef wasn’t a substitute for pepperoni. He watched as she simmered the beef in her skillet—the wood cook stove sending radiating warmth through the room. Willow checked the oven temperature and smiled.
Amazed, and amused, Chad watched as she spread slices of bread with butter, arranged them on a cookie sheet, laid the beef on top of each one, smothered them in sauce and cheese, and slid the whole sheet in the oven. “That looks good.”
“I added beef to them to make them more substantial. The other pizza tasted wonderful but I need more protein.”
“Most people use dough for the crust.”
“I thought about it, but I have bread and it seems silly to make dough when I already have something that’ll work. Red jump green on the right.”
As she mixed a salad and called out moves, pausing between leaves of lettuce to calculate the consequences of different choices, the scent of toasting pizzaishness sent his senses reeling. “That smells wonderful.”
“Should be done in a minute.”
“How do you know it’s not burning? There’s no glass to see—”
She looked confused. “Do you check stuff in your oven all the time?”
“Well no, but the box says how long and what temperature…”
“Well, I say how long and keep it at the right temperature, so I don’t see why I need a window into my oven. White jump green, black, and yellow.”
“How do you do that?” he said frustrated as he dropped marbles in the drawer tray of the checkerboard.
“Do what?”
“Talk about ovens, temperatures, and manage to take out two of mine and only one of yours, while still making it into your home space.”
“I may not know how much about the market value of marbles, but I know how to move them.”
Chapter Forty-Three
April 15 2004-
Another year, another tax return signed, sealed, and postmarked. Bill is kind to indulge me by mailing it to me, so I can mail it in with that postmark hand stamped by Fran Kraus herself. I wonder if she knows that I know her name. She sees me a handful of times a year. I quit going in the Post Office in December. The first few years she asked about my Christmas cards. Then she quit asking and just looked pityingly at me. I chose to forgo it all.
I’ve been feeling guilty about Willow’s lack of education in the finance department. If I was a better mother, I would help her learn it, but she has such a good head on her shoulders. Her logic regarding how she values things is sound, and the monetary value she places on things has to do with their worth to her as an individual rather than their worth to society. She’ll never be a slave to consumerism. Why mess with that?
In my defense, I have tried to whet her interest. When I order, I have her check my math so she is at least familiar with what I pay for things, although, I really don’t think she notices or cares. The not-so-little-anymore twerp sure finds my math errors, though. She can do such complex mathematical calculations in her head! It had been so long since I used a calculator that mine was dead when Bill Franklin needed it.
We’ve crossed the two million mark. This is good. This is very good. I think she’ll be well provided for now. I don’t know why, but I can never picture myself old here. I still feel like the twenty-year-old that I was when I came. Too old for my body and too young to know what I was doing. I think part of me died that October. That’s a lie. Most of me died. Part of me lived.
Libby Sullivan’s eyes filled with sympathetic tears. “How very alone she was.”
“Willow is like that now. Not in the same way, of course; she isn’t suffering from a festering wound that refuses to heal—”
“You’re talking like Kari now.”
“I know. She influences my thoughts, my actions,” he ducked his head, “and even my dreams.”
Libby listened for some time and then spoke. “Chad, I don’t know exactly how important Willow is to you personally, but there is something you should know.”
His mind still focused on the journal entry, Chad nodded absently. “Mmm hmm.”
“Chad!”
His head sapped up sharply. “What?”
“Did you hear me?”
“What?”
Nudging his foot with hers, Libby Sullivan tried again. The slow, distinct way she formed her words reminded him of Luke. “I said, I don’t know how important Willow is to you right now but here is something you ought to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Willow doesn’t need the complications of romantic entanglements in her life right now. She needs time to adjust to basic friendships first. She’s never had that.”
“Aunt Libby, I’m not in—I mean I don’t care about—well, no that’s—”
“Chad,” she interrupted laughing. “Take a deep breath. I’m not going to dance around you at Thanksgiving and taunt ‘Chaddie’s got a gurl-friend’ like Cheri did that year when you were what, twelve?”
“Well, I was just taken aback. Do you think I’ve given her the wrong impression?”
“Well honestly, I don’t know her well enough to be sure,” she began. “But Willow doesn’t seem like someone desperate for romance. She’s not likely to assume any more than you specifically state. You’ve made her sound very literal.”
Swallowed hard, relieved. He was slowly growing to enjoy his new friendship but the idea of sending an inaccurate message bothered him. He’d done that once in high school; he’d never make that mistake again if he could help it.
“Chaddie-my-Laddie?”
“Yes Aunt Libby, Libby, Libby-on-the-Label.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t mock me my boy.” She reached across the couch and grabbed Chad’s hand just as she had when he’d poured out his heart after speaking disrespectfully to his mother, after lying to his basketball coach, and when Linnea Burrell accused him of trifling with her affections. “Willow isn’t Linnea. You’ve been gun-shy of anyone with hair below the ears ever since. Relax and enjoy your friendship.”
Chad took the journals, stood, and thanked his Aunt Libby. “I can’t wait for Luke any longer, but tell him I stopped by.”
“Chad?”
“Yeah?”
Libby walked to the door, her arm in her nephew’s and hugging him fiercely before he stepped outside. “Go talk to your father. He’s a wise man. He can help you. Luke is a good man. He’s my son, and I love him. But Chad, your father can give you something Luke can’t—experience. Go talk to him.”
“Dad still feels rejected because I chose college and the academy. I can’t seem to talk to him anymore.”
Libby let the screen close behind Chad before she suggested, “Go to his store. Ask if you can talk to him in his office—on his turf. Let him see you seek him out. He’ll listen and he’ll help you.”
“Mr. Tesdall, please come to register seven. Mr. Tesdall, to register seven. Thank you.”
Christopher Tesdall glanced down at the monitor for register seven and bolted from his chair at the sight of Chad standing there. For his son to arrive at his store for any reason—well, only one thing could cause that. Emergency. It took until he reached the flaps that separated the store from the stockroom, to talk himself down. If it was a real emergency, someone would have called—surely. Still, panic left an acrid taste in his mouth by the time he reached his son’s side.
Chad stiffened at his awkward hug. “Hey, good to see you. Is something wrong?”
“Can we talk in your office?”
“Why?” Christopher’s eyes were constantly roaming the store checking for slacking baggers, overly full lines, and any hint of untidiness. He ran the cleanest store in the Rockland metro area, and he was proud of that.
“Dad, I really need your help.”
“Come on then,” Christopher agreed, adding defensively, “You’d think with the money I spent on your education, I’d be the one coming to you.”
He led Chad through the store. The awkwardness between them grew, deepening the chasm that had formed in their late teen years. All his hard work, saving every penny he could, the hours searching for every grant or scholarship available to his children—it all flooded his mind. The loans—Chad’s grades hadn’t been what Cheri and Chris’ had been. They’d taken a second mortgage on the house to cover what their savings failed to do. He glanced over his shoulder. Chad’s head was down, looking defeated. He’d never known; they hadn’t told him. A new thought hit him. It wasn’t that, was it? He’d discovered that they hid the source of his college tuition?
The idea was ludicrous. Still, maybe it would have bridged the horrible crevasse that divided him from his son. If he succeeded there, perhaps the others… Memories of debates over psychology shamed him. He never understood what they were talking about, and their ready acceptance of what seemed like indoctrination, destroying everything he and Marianne had tried to instill in them—it hurt. He felt ignorant, even backward at times.
An employee stopped him, asking a question, the respect and deference shown almost like a salve to a festeri
ng wound. In his store, his employees and bosses alike respected him. He knew his job, and he did it well. He predicted food trends months in advance, the rise and fall of prices, and if a particular brand-trial would succeed or flop. He managed nearly three hundred employees and their schedules. Yet with all of these skills, he felt awkward around his children.
“So,” he began as he opened his office door, “what brings you to my store.” He winced inwardly at the unnecessary emphasis on “my.” Way to alienate your son further, you idiot.
Chad sank into the closest chair, trying to stuff his hands in his pockets, but of course, he couldn’t. “Oh, Pop…”
Chad’s instinctive use of the old pet name “Pop” cut him. His son needed him. “What’s up?”
“Did mom tell you about Willow?”
“The girl that lost her mother a while back?” Christopher prayed his son hadn’t lost his senses and gotten a young woman pregnant. Marianne thought Chad had finally found a nice girl, but then Marianne thought that about every girl he ever spoke to or about these days.
“Yeah. She’s—well she’s different.”
Marianne was right. He had gotten soft on this one. Christopher just hoped she wasn’t from some snooty family. Maybe she could build a bridge where he’d failed. “Your mother thought you were becoming… attracted to her.”
Christopher knew he was on the wrong track the second Chad slid down in his seat, his fists shoved into his pockets. Even seated in a chair, the old habit held fast. “Her too?”
“I take it your mom’s mistaken again.”
“That’s an understatement. Willow is not looking for, and nor does she need, any romantic entanglements.”
“That’s a strange way to put it—romantic entanglements. More of that degree talking, I suspect.”
“Just something Au—I heard recently.”
“So why are you here?”
“Oh, Pop, I don’t know what to do with her. She’s amazing. Really, you should meet her. I think you’d like her. She runs that little farm of theirs like it was breathing.”
Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 2 Page 5