PART4

He pulled out his wallet slowly, with his buddies watching. Then he handed over the other card, the one with his name on it. My card.

His friends slapped him on the back.

“Look at Mr. Moneybags,” one of them said.

The salesman walked to the little card machine on the folding table. He swiped the card, frowned, and swiped it again. Faron was still grinning and telling the guys where he planned to fish first.

I put down my spatula.

The salesman came back across the tent with the card held between two fingers.

“Sir, it came back declined,” he said, loud enough for all three buddies to hear. “Both times.”

Faron’s grin slid off his face. He turned around to find somebody to blame, and the first person he saw was me, standing at the pierogi table with my spatula in my hand.

“That card is mine,” I said. “I closed the account Tuesday.”

He stared at me. The salesman still held the card between his fingers, and Faron’s buddies stopped smiling.

“You can’t close my card,” Faron said.

“I can close my account,” I said. “It was always in my name.”

He glanced at his friends, then back at me. “You knew I was coming here?”

“I didn’t know you were buying a boat.”

His mouth tightened. The salesman lowered the card toward the table but didn’t set it down.

“Do you want me to try another payment?” he asked.

Faron looked at his wallet. He had another card in there, but it was one of the ones I’d closed. He didn’t hand it over.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “You’re doing this in front of everybody.”

“You threatened to tell Peg I stole from her in front of everybody,” I said. “I’m only telling the truth.”

One of his buddies looked from Faron to me. “You said you were paying for the boat yourself.”

Faron looked at him. “I am.”

“With a card on her account?” I asked.

“Don’t start,” he said.

The salesman still had the card. He needed an answer about whether Faron was paying the deposit, and Faron kept looking at me as if I could make the machine change its mind.

I took my phone out of my apron pocket. I’d kept the bank app open since I closed the accounts, partly because I wanted to see the status for myself.

I brought up the account page and held it out where Faron and his friends could see.

My name was at the top. The card Faron had handed over was listed as an authorized-user card, and the account showed closed.

Faron’s eyes went to the screen, then to the salesman.

“I thought you said you’d keep paying,” he said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You said, ‘Of course.’”

“After your mother said I’d keep paying for her hair.” My voice shook a little. I hated that it did. “Then I asked you for the cards back.”

His face reddened, and he looked away from the people around him. I could see the salesman watching him now, waiting to hear whether he could pay.

“It’s not like I was asking for the whole fifteen hundred,” Faron said. “I would’ve paid you back.”

I had heard that promise before. It came in pieces, usually after I’d paid the bill. I wanted to say every ugly thing I’d stored up since 2015, but the one that came out was the one I regretted.

“You couldn’t even pay your own mother’s hair bill.”

One of his buddies let out a breath and looked down at the floor. Faron’s jaw moved, but for a second he didn’t answer.

“That’s low,” he said.

“So was threatening my job because I asked for my own cards.”

“I was mad.”

“You were trying to scare me.”

He turned toward the friends again, like he wanted them to settle it for him. One of them shook his head.

“You told us the shop was doing fine,” he said.

“It was fine,” Faron said.

“Your shop closed years ago,” I said. “I paid the cards. You know I did.”

Faron looked back at me, and for the first time he didn’t have a quick answer. The people at the stand behind me had heard enough to know what was going on. I could feel them watching, but nobody stepped in. Peg was inside the food tent, and I knew she’d heard the raised voices.

The salesman placed the card on the table. “I can’t hold the boat without the deposit,” he said.

Faron reached for the card, but one of his buddies caught his arm.

“Leave it,” the man said. “You don’t need to make this worse.”

Faron pulled away. “I’ll sort it out.”

“You’ve had eleven years to sort it out,” I said.

He looked at me hard. I felt the old reflex, the one that made me want to smooth things over so nobody else had to feel uncomfortable. I could have apologized for embarrassing him. I could have offered to call the bank and ask if there was some way to get the card working again.

Instead, I picked up my spatula.

Faron nodded toward my phone. “Call them. Tell them you made a mistake.”

I looked down at the account page, then at him. I thought about the $600 a month, the bills that came to my house, the Friday appointments for Earline’s hair.

I thought about the house payment he’d left me and the threat he’d made when I asked for the cards back.

Maybe they were right about me. Maybe I was the sort of person who let people keep taking because it was easier than being called difficult. But I was tired of being afraid of what Faron might say.

“No,” I said. “I’m not calling them.”

He took a step closer to the table. “You’re really going to do this over a card?”

“I did it because I’m done paying for you.”

The words came out plain. I didn’t raise my voice. Faron looked at the guys beside him, but none of them backed him up. One had his hands in his pockets. Another kept looking at the boat.

The salesman picked the card up and held it out. “You should take this back,” he said.

Faron took it from him. Then he held it toward me.

I didn’t reach for it.

“That one’s yours to destroy,” I said. “The account is closed.”

He shoved it into his wallet. Nobody said anything for a few seconds. The salesman turned back toward the boat, and Faron’s friends started walking. He followed them without looking at me.

The boat stayed where it was. Faron didn’t put down the deposit, and the salesman didn’t hold it for him.

I turned back to the pierogi table because the next order was waiting. My hands were shaking again, but I picked up the spatula and kept cooking.

When my shift ended, I wiped the counter and put the spatula beside Mama’s recipe box.

THE END!