PART 3
He was going to call me.
For eleven years, whenever something went wrong with money, I was the person he called. When his gas card stopped working, I fixed it. When his mother’s pharmacy payment wouldn’t go through, I handled it. When he wanted to take his buddies out for dinner but his own account was empty, he had my card ready.
He had become so accustomed to my money that he had forgotten it belonged to someone.
My phone vibrated in the pocket of my apron.
Faron Mott.
I looked at the screen.
Then I turned it facedown on the counter.
The phone stopped.
A few seconds later, it started again.
Peg was standing beside the fryer, watching me.
“You gonna get that?” she asked.
“No.”
She looked toward the boat tent.
“Good. Those pierogies aren’t going to cook themselves.”
I picked up my spatula.
But I couldn’t help watching.
Faron was now standing with his back to his buddies, talking loudly into his phone.
I couldn’t hear every word, but I heard enough.
“Angela! What did you do?”
He paused.
Then he shouted again.
“You can’t just shut everything off!”
One of his friends turned around.
That was when I knew the real embarrassment had begun.
Not because his card had been declined.
But because, for the first time in eleven years, the people around him were starting to understand that the money he bragged about wasn’t his.
My phone vibrated again.
This time it was a text.
FARON: Pick up the damn phone.
I didn’t answer.
Another message appeared.
FARON: You are making me look like an idiot in front of everybody.
I almost laughed.
He had spent eleven years making me look like a fool, and now he was upset because a card machine had told the truth.
A minute later, I saw him walking toward the food stand.
His fishing buddies stayed near the boat.
He came straight to my table.
“Angela.”
I kept turning the pierogies.
“Afternoon, Faron.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t know what’s happening.”
I flipped another pierogi.
“Sounds like you’re having trouble with your card.”
His jaw tightened.
“You closed it.”
I finally looked up.
“Yes.”
“You had no right.”
I set the spatula down.
“Actually, I did.”
He leaned closer.
“That card has my name on it.”
“And my account number.”
He looked around to see whether anybody was listening.
A few customers were standing nearby. Peg was pretending to arrange napkins, but I knew she was listening to every word.
Faron lowered his voice.
“Listen, Ange. I need that money. I put a deposit on that boat.”
“Then you should probably use your own money.”
His face turned red.
“You know I don’t have that kind of money.”
I nodded.
“That’s why you shouldn’t have promised the salesman fifteen hundred dollars.”
He stared at me.
Then he said something I hadn’t expected.
“You’re doing this because of my mother.”
I blinked.
“My goodness, Faron. I didn’t know Earline was buying the boat.”
He stepped closer.
“Don’t bring my mother into this.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
“Faron, your mother has had a card in her purse for eleven years. Every Friday, she got her hair done. She bought groceries, clothes, perfume, and whatever else she wanted. I paid every bill. I never once asked her to thank me.”
“She needed help.”
“So did I.”
He looked away.
For a moment, I thought he might remember something.
Maybe the nights I came home from the diner with aching feet and counted tips at the kitchen table.
Maybe the winter I worked extra shifts because his mother’s card had gone over its limit.
Maybe the time I postponed replacing my own refrigerator because he wanted new fishing equipment.
But Faron didn’t remember those things.
Or perhaps he remembered and simply didn’t care.
“You’ve changed,” he finally said.
I picked up the spatula again.
“No, Faron. I just stopped paying for the privilege of being treated badly.”
He stood there, breathing hard.
Then he pointed a finger at me.
“You’re going to regret this.”
Peg appeared beside me.
“She might regret burning a batch of pierogies, Faron. But I don’t think she’ll regret closing a credit card.”
A couple of customers laughed.
Faron looked at Peg, then at me.
He turned and walked away.
I watched him cross the fairground toward the boat tent.
His buddies were waiting.
One of them said something.
Faron shook his head.
Then all four men walked away from the red bass boat.
I turned back to my work.
But my hands were shaking.
Not because I was afraid of him.
Because I had just realized something.
For eleven years, I had believed that saying no would destroy my marriage.
Now the marriage was gone.
And saying no was the first thing that had made me feel like myself again.
At around three o’clock, Peg brought me a bottle of water.
“You all right, honey?”
I nodded.
“Just tired.”
She leaned against the counter.
“You know, I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a long time.”
I looked at her.
“What’s that?”
“Every time you came in here looking exhausted, I’d ask if things were okay at home. And every time, you’d tell me Faron was having a rough month.”
I lowered my eyes.
“Well, he was.”
“Angela, that man had a rough eleven years.”
I laughed despite myself.
Peg shook her head.
“I’m serious. You worked overtime, brought food home for his mother, paid those cards, and still came in here every morning before daylight. You know what I always wondered?”
“What?”
“Who was taking care of you?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was, I didn’t know.
Peg squeezed my shoulder.
“Go home after we close. Don’t worry about the cleanup. I’ll handle it.”
“I can’t leave you with everything.”
“Angela.”
She waited until I looked at her.
“You’re allowed to let somebody help you.”
Those words stayed with me the rest of the afternoon.
I got home just after six.
The house was quiet.
Faron had moved out months earlier, but his fishing photographs were still hanging in the hallway. His old boots were still beside the back door. There was a faded jacket hanging on the hook he used to claim as his.
I had left everything exactly where it was because I hadn’t known what to do with it.
That evening, I finally took the photographs down.
One by one.
The first showed us at Lake Arthur, both of us smiling beside a little aluminum boat.
The second was from our tenth anniversary.
The third was from a Christmas party at Earline’s house.
I looked at that one for a long time.
Earline was wearing a red sweater and a gold necklace.
I remembered buying that necklace for her.
It had cost $340.
I remembered because I had skipped buying myself a winter coat that year.
I put the photographs into a cardboard box.
Then I found an envelope underneath them.
It was from the bank.
I almost threw it away without opening it.
But something made me stop.
The envelope contained an old statement from one of my credit cards.
I sat at the kitchen table and began looking through the transactions.
Gas station.
Grocery store.
Restaurant.
Pharmacy.
Hair salon.
Casino.
Fishing supply store.
Another hair salon.
I kept turning pages.
Then I saw a transaction that made me stop.
$2,850 — NORTH STAR JEWELERS.
I stared at it.
I remembered that purchase.
Earline had received a diamond bracelet for her sixty-fifth birthday.
Faron told me it was a family gift.
I had asked him how he paid for it.
He said he had saved money from repairing cars.
But the date on the statement was right there.
The bracelet had been charged to my account.
I kept searching.
Another $1,200 at a jewelry store.
A $760 payment at a hotel.
A $1,400 charge at a casino resort.
Then something even stranger.
There were several transactions I didn’t recognize.
All of them had happened during the last two years.
I reached for my calculator.
The original $80,000 estimate was suddenly looking very conservative.
I began adding everything.
$80,000.
Then another $6,200.
Then $3,800.
Then another $4,500.
By the time I finished, the number on my calculator was $96,417.
I leaned back in my chair.
Ninety-six thousand four hundred and seventeen dollars.
Almost a hundred thousand dollars.
I thought about all the things I could have done with that money.
I could have replaced the old roof.
I could have paid off more of the mortgage.
I could have taken a vacation.
I could have put some away for retirement.
Instead, I had paid for gas, casino trips, fishing equipment, restaurant meals, and a woman’s weekly hair appointments.
I closed my eyes.
Then I heard my phone ring.
Earline.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
But I answered.
“Hello?”
“Angela, what in the world is wrong with you?”
I put the statement down.
“Good evening to you too, Earline.”
“Don’t get smart with me. My card isn’t working.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? I was at the salon this afternoon. I had my appointment. They told me the payment was declined.”
I looked at the old statement.
“Maybe you should pay with your own card.”
There was silence.
Then she laughed.
It was the same laugh I had heard outside the courthouse.
“Angela, don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been using that card for years.”
“I know.”
“Faron said you were just upset about the divorce.”
“I’m not upset about the divorce, Earline.”
“Then what is this?”
I took a breath.
“This is me paying my own bills.”
She became quiet.
Then her voice changed.
“Listen, dear. I know you’ve been through a difficult time. Divorce is hard on women, especially women who have been married as long as you. But you don’t need to take your feelings out on the family.”
I almost smiled.
The family.
That word had always been used whenever they needed something.
When they needed money, I was family.
When they needed a ride, I was family.
When Earline wanted a new refrigerator, I was family.
But when I needed help, suddenly I was a woman who needed to understand her responsibilities.
“Your son and I are divorced,” I said.
“That doesn’t mean you stop caring.”
“I still care. I just don’t have to pay.”
She sighed dramatically.
“Well, I suppose we’ll see what happens when Faron tells everyone how you’ve behaved.”
I sat very still.
“Tell everyone what?”
“That you’ve left your family in trouble.”
I looked toward the cardboard box of photographs.
Then I answered quietly.
“Tell them whatever you want, Earline. But make sure you tell them who paid the bills for eleven years.”
She hung up.
I placed my phone on the table.
For the first time, I wasn’t afraid of what she might say.
The next morning, I went to the bank.
I wanted something in writing confirming that the authorized users had been removed and that the accounts were closed or restricted as I had requested.
The woman at the desk was named Melissa.
She had helped me several times over the years.
When she saw me, she smiled.
“Hi, Angela. How are you?”
“I’m doing okay. I need to check something about my accounts.”
She brought me into a small office.
I explained what had happened.
She typed for a while, then turned her screen slightly.
“Your primary account is in your name. The additional cards were issued to authorized users. You were responsible for the balance, and the bank has processed the removal requests.”
I nodded.
“Good.”
She continued.
“Would you like to review the recent transactions?”
“Yes, please.”
She printed a few pages.
I began reading.
Then Melissa stopped.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you recognize all these purchases?”
I looked at the page.
“No. Not all of them.”
She pointed to several transactions.
“These were made using the authorized-user cards.”
I studied the dates.
Some were from places I had never visited.
Some were charges from stores in neighboring counties.
One was from a hotel.
Another was from a sporting goods store.
Then Melissa pointed to a charge from a few months earlier.
“Did you authorize this?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
She didn’t look alarmed, but she became more careful.
“Then I recommend that you speak with our fraud department. We can help you dispute any transactions you believe were unauthorized. However, we would need to review the details before determining whether they qualify.”
I looked at the statement.
For the first time, I wondered whether Faron and Earline had been spending more than I knew.
“Can I get copies of everything?”
“Absolutely.”
She printed the records and placed them in a folder.
Before I left, she said something I hadn’t expected.
“Angela, I know this is personal, but please don’t ignore anything you don’t recognize. You worked hard for that money.”
I thanked her.
Then I drove home.
I placed the bank folder beside the old statements.
There was a lot to review.
But I wasn’t going to throw another napkin away.
Not this time.
That afternoon, I received a call from my lawyer.
“Angela, I got your message.”
I explained the situation with the declined card and the additional transactions.
He listened carefully.
“First, don’t discuss the accounts with Faron or his mother anymore. Keep everything in writing. Second, don’t make any accusations until the bank has completed its review.”
“I understand.”
“Also, I want to check something. Did Faron threaten to make allegations about you at work?”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes. He said he would tell Peg I’d been skimming the register.”
My lawyer became quiet.
“Did you report that to your employer?”
“I told Peg immediately.”
“Good. Keep a record of the conversation. If he makes any false allegations, you’ll have documentation showing that you raised the issue before he contacted anyone.”
I thanked him.
Then he asked:
“Angela, one more thing. Did the divorce agreement include any provision requiring you to maintain financial support for Faron or his mother?”
“No.”
“Then don’t let either of them convince you that you have an obligation that doesn’t exist.”
I wrote that down.
After the call, I sat at the kitchen table.
The house was quiet.
For eleven years, I had been afraid of upsetting people who were perfectly comfortable upsetting me.
I had thought being a good wife meant keeping everything together.
But perhaps I had confused love with responsibility.
And perhaps I had spent too many years paying for a relationship that only worked when my wallet was open.
Two days later, something happened that I hadn’t expected.
I was at the diner preparing the lunch special when Peg came through the kitchen door holding her phone.
“Angela, I think you need to see this.”
She showed me a Facebook post.
It was from Earline.
She had written a long message about how difficult it was when families fell apart.
She didn’t mention my name, but she didn’t need to.
She wrote that some women became bitter after divorce.
She wrote that older people deserved respect.
She wrote that she had always treated her daughter-in-law like her own child.
Then came the sentence that made my face grow hot.
“After eleven years of helping someone, you never expect them to abandon you when you need them most.”
There were comments underneath.
Some people were sympathetic.
Others were asking what had happened.
One woman wrote:
“Maybe there’s more to the story.”
Earline replied:
“Some people know exactly what they did.”
Peg looked at me.
“Do you want me to say something?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Angela, she’s making you look like the bad person.”
I put the phone down.
“Peg, I spent eleven years trying to make those people happy. I’m not going to spend another eleven explaining myself to strangers.”
Peg smiled.
“That’s my girl.”
But I wasn’t entirely calm.
Because that evening, something else arrived.
An envelope.
No return address.
My name was written across the front in Faron’s handwriting.
I opened it at the kitchen table.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
It said:
Angela,
You embarrassed me in front of my friends. You embarrassed my mother. I don’t know what you think you’re proving, but you’re making a mistake.
I want you to reopen the card for now. We can talk about everything else later.
You know I never wanted things to end this way.
Faron.
I read it twice.
Then I turned the paper over.
There was something written at the bottom in smaller handwriting.
Something that made my stomach tighten.
And before you start asking questions about the recent charges, remember that you were the one who gave us permission to use those accounts.
I stared at those words.
I hadn’t asked him about the recent charges.
I hadn’t even told him what I had discovered.
Yet somehow, he knew I had found something.
I slowly placed the letter on the table.
Then I looked at the bank folder.
For eleven years, I had believed that the worst thing Faron and Earline had done was spend my money without appreciating it.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
Because if Faron was already worried about the transactions I had discovered, there might be something much bigger hiding behind those statements.
And I was finally ready to find out.
But the next morning, when I opened my mailbox, I found a second envelope. This one wasn’t from Faron. It was from the bank’s fraud investigation department.
And the first line made my hands go cold.
Mrs. Angela Mott, we are contacting you regarding a series of transactions that may require additional information from you…
PART 4
I read the letter three times before I understood what I was looking at.
The bank had identified several transactions that required further investigation.
Some had been made using the authorized-user cards belonging to Faron and Earline. Others appeared to involve transactions that had been disputed by the merchants.
The bank wanted me to confirm whether I had personally approved them.
I sat down at the kitchen table.
There were twelve transactions listed.
Twelve.
I recognized some of the stores, but I didn’t recognize the purchases.
Then I reached the final page.
There was a charge for $8,750.
The merchant was a vehicle financing company.
I read it again.
Eight thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars.
I had never purchased a vehicle.
I had never applied for vehicle financing.
And I certainly hadn’t agreed to pay that kind of money for Faron.
I called the bank immediately.
The representative transferred me to the investigation department. After verifying my identity, I explained that I didn’t recognize the transaction.
“Mrs. Mott,” the representative said carefully, “this charge appears to have been processed as a payment toward an existing financing agreement.”
“Whose agreement?”
“I can’t disclose the other party’s personal information without additional verification. However, the payment was made using your credit account.”
I closed my eyes.
“Can you tell me when?”
She gave me the date.
It was six months earlier.
I remembered that week.
Faron had told me his truck needed repairs. He had asked whether I could put a few expenses on the card until he received money from a customer.
I had agreed to a small purchase.
Not $8,750.
“Please open a formal dispute,” I said.
“We can do that. We’ll need your cooperation during the investigation.”
“I’ll cooperate with everything.”
After I hung up, I sat there for a long time.
Then I took Faron’s letter out of the drawer.
I looked at the sentence he had written.
Remember that you were the one who gave us permission to use those accounts.
He was right about one thing.
I had given them permission to use the cards.
But I had never given them permission to do whatever they wanted with my name.
The following afternoon, I called my lawyer.
He listened as I explained the new discovery.
“Angela, bring me every document you have. The bank statements, the letters, and Faron’s note.”
“Do you think he used my information without permission?”
“I don’t want to jump to conclusions. The bank needs to establish what happened. But we should take this seriously.”
I agreed.
That evening, I organized everything into three folders.
The first contained the original credit card statements.
The second contained the unfamiliar transactions.
The third contained the letters from Faron and the bank.
For the first time in eleven years, I wasn’t hiding the financial truth from myself.
And the more I looked, the more I realized how little I had known about the man I married.
