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“Why don’t we compromise,” he said. “You continue to shop for the food, but let me pay.”
I shook my head and pulled back. “But that’s the whole point,” I argued. “I want to contribute.”
He gave me a patronizing smile and said, “Don’t make it about the money; make it about the act. Taking on a chore that’s a huge hassle for me matters more than who ends up paying for it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, and I had to work hard to keep my face neutral as he handed me the ATM card. “You’re now in charge of all things house related. Groceries, hardware store, all of it. It’s a big responsibility,” he lectured. “I’m going to need you to be reliable. When I tell you something needs doing, you need to do it.”
I took the card and traced my finger across his name embossed on the surface. “Will they let me use a card that doesn’t belong to me?” I asked.
“The PIN is 5427. And Cory could be a woman’s name. I don’t think you’ll have any problems.”
I shook my head and handed it back. “I’d feel better if you’d call the bank to authorize me,” I said. “One time, when I was a kid, my mother gave me her credit card to buy new shoes, and the store clerk called security on me. I had to wait in this tiny, windowless room while they tracked her down so she could confirm I had her permission. Apparently, she should have written me a note or something.”
“How about I do both,” he said. “I’ll call the bank tomorrow, put your name down as an authorized user, and I’ll write you a note.”
I hooked my finger through his belt loop and gave it a playful tug. “Are you teasing me?”
“You make it so easy.”
I took the card back and tucked it into my pocket, feeling the thrill that came along with a plan well executed.
***
I let another two weeks pass—filled with high-quality produce, grass-fed meat, organic everything—before pushing forward again. This year, Cory’s high school was hosting the county’s annual robotics tournament, and in the weeks leading up to it, there had been many late nights and weekends spent preparing. I waited until the day of the tournament to act, knowing Cory would be distracted, knowing he would be grateful for my help.
“The card won’t work,” I said when I called him, just past lunchtime. I’d spent the morning at Home Depot, buying several hundred dollars’ worth of potted plants for the backyard, which now sat in the driveway.
In the background I could hear announcements over the loudspeaker and the dull roar of voices. “Hold on,” he said. “Let me go somewhere a little quieter.” The sounds receded a little bit. “Okay, what did you say?”
“The bank card,” I repeated. “It won’t work.”
Irritation flooded his voice. “Can you wait to use it?”
“I had a cart full of groceries and an angry line of people behind me while the checker voided my entire order.” I lowered my voice, concerned. “If something is going on with your account, you don’t want to ignore it. A lot of damage can be done in a few hours. This happened to me one time and it turned out a guy in Florida had my account information and he was buying sex toys off the internet with it. It was a nightmare to unravel.”
“Jesus. I can’t deal with this right now.”
“I came home and tried calling the bank myself, but they won’t let me do anything without a password.”
“Okay,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s Shazaam. Capital S. Two A’s.”
“It’ll be sorted by the time you get home.”
I went into Cory’s office and sat at his desk, the bank’s website already pulled up on the computer. In thirty seconds, I was in.
I spent a few minutes looking around. The mortgage posted yesterday, with a few more automatic payments to the utility company and cable. I navigated over to Daily Cash Withdrawal Limit and saw it set at $500. I clicked on the field and entered the maximum, $2,500.
Later that night, after he’d finished telling me about the success of the tournament, we circled back to the bank issue. “What was the problem?” he asked.
“Too many charges posted on the same day,” I told him. I handed him a piece of paper with notes I’d created. “After I got the plants for the backyard, I was too close to the daily limit to cover the groceries. I spoke to someone named Amanda and wrote down her employee number so you can speak to her yourself if you want. She said you needed to increase your limit to avoid this happening in the future, which we did.” I shook my head. “I spent about an hour on hold waiting to speak to someone. The problem itself only took ten minutes to actually fix.”
“I saw the email. Thanks for taking care of it.”
“If you had a smartphone, you could have done it yourself in about five minutes.”
“That would have been five minutes I didn’t have to spare. Besides,” he said, “I don’t want to be tied to my email twenty-four hours a day.”
I poured more wine into his nearly empty glass and smiled at him. “Amen to that.”
***
On a Saturday morning a few weeks later, while Cory was out for his morning run, I returned to the Chase website and finished up. I logged in quickly, toggled over to the notifications page, and changed his notifications from email to text. Then I entered my cell number. I saved the changes and logged out.
Cory’s email pinged with an email alerting him of the changes to his account. I moved it to the trash and then deleted it from there, removing all traces of it. The entire process took less than a minute.
I went into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee, and stared out the window. Dew still covered the grass in a silvery layer, the sun just beginning to peek over the top of the houses across the street. One of my mother’s rules popped into my head: Two women working together are a force to be reckoned with.
I wasn’t exactly working with Kristen, but I was certainly here because of her, finishing what she started. Making sure the end of her story with Cory was a good one.
