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I can’t see the teller from where I’m standing, but a tinny voice spurts from the speaker at the edge of the glass. “I understand that, ma’am, but the bank typically needs twenty-four hours’ notice for a cashier’s check. Did you place the order online?”
The lady shakes her head, but her brown bowl cut doesn’t budge. From her shoulder, a wrinkly canvas bag says “Abs are cool but have you tried doughnuts?” in pink and purple rhinestones. “That’s what I’m here for, to place the order and get the check. That’s why I got in my car and drove all the way over here, because I need it today.”
I shift to my other foot and sigh, loud and obvious, and I’m not the only one. Hushed curses and heaved sighs swirl from the folks behind me, all clutching their wallets and checking their watches. Another teller ambles by behind the window with a stack of twenties, looking everywhere but in the direction of the glass. A Next Window Please sign stands propped at the other three teller windows, the blue canvas stools behind them empty.
I look around for a manager, another bank employee, anyone I can ask to light a fire under this transaction, but if they’re here, they’re hiding. Even the security guard is gone, vanished behind the thick locked doors.
“I can put a rush on your order, ma’am,” the teller is saying, “but there is an added fee, and we’ll still need time to pull the check together. And considering we close in...twenty minutes, I’m afraid the check won’t be ready until tomorrow.”
Twenty minutes. The words hit me square in the chest, seizing my heart into a concrete ball, and I battle to catch a breath. My ribs feel like they’re packed in cement, the muscles locked up tight. The air can’t make it to the bottom of my lungs.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call, and I yank it from my pocket, my chest deflating when I see the screen.
Not Jade.
Not Ed.
I swipe and press it to my ear. “Hey, Mom.”
“Well, don’t sound so disappointed. I was just calling to see how you’re doing.”
No way in hell I’m telling her about Jade and the kids. Mom is a worrier. She’ll spiral and call me every two seconds. I love her, but I wish I hadn’t picked up.
“I’m okay, but I can’t really talk right now.”
“Aw, sweetie. Don’t take it so hard. I know the article was not the most flattering, but you can recover. Maybe you can get that PR person of yours to work some magic and have some of the worst parts retracted.”
“What worst parts?”
Mom keeps talking, her words tumbling over mine. “And maybe while you’re at it, you could talk to your attorney. I mean, I’m not saying you should sue, but they might be able to twist an arm or two.”
“Mom. What are you talking about? What article?”
“The one in theAJC. ‘The Joylessness of Cooking,’ that’s what that reporter titled the piece of trash. And don’t you worry, I’ve already written a letter to the editor complaining about journalistic bias.”
I wince. Great. A letter from my mother, published in Atlanta’s largest newspaper. Just what I need.
At the front of the line, the woman smacks her bag to the counter. The teller leans around her form and mouths,Sorry. I stare at the woman’s backside and try not to faint. Nineteen minutes and counting.
“Sweetie, did you hear me?”
“She actually used the wordjoyless?”
Then again, maybe that’s what I get for letting the reporter, a peppy twentysomething food critic, shadow me for a day. She tagged along as I trekked from kitchen to kitchen, where I was careful to put on my best, most agreeable face.
But I’ve caught enough flashes of my own sourpuss in the window, or shimmering in a pot of hot oil. I know how I look, which is why I can barely stand a mirror for more than a second or two. You don’t have to be a genius to see how miserable I am, how joyless my job has become.
Mom sighs, long and loud. “Oh, honey. A whole bunch of times.”
The woman in front of me stabs a stubby finger into the glass, gearing up for another argument, and my body goes electric. I tell Mom I love her but I have to go.
“Jesus Christ, lady, comeon,” I say, clutching the phone in a fist. “Just pay the fee and move on, will you? You’re not the only person here with business to do.”
“Yeah,” the person behind me says. Another voice farther back, deep and male, grunts in approval.
The woman takes it from the top, punctuating her argument with a finger stabbing at the glass, but I am no longer listening. Her voice bleeds away with a slicing pain in my side. A heart attack? My lungs’ last gasp for air? I press the spot hard with the heel of my palm and fan the credit cards in my other hand, comforting myself with the math. Three Mastercards and one Visa for a total of $26,000 in cash advances, plus a platinum Amex with a $10,000 line. That’s just over $35,000 in advances I can walk out of here with today, assuming this woman gets the hell out of my way. I eye the way she’s sprawled against the countertop, the hot breath of her tirade fogging up the glass, and my heart punches a hard, frantic beat. This woman is going nowhere.
Stay and wait this out, or come up with a plan B? After all, the $35,000 is a drop in the ransom bucket. It’s not going to get me anywhere close to the $734,296 I need to save Jade and the kids. It won’t make even the tiniest dent.