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“See, this is what I was talking about. You’re not present. Liza is here and she’s committed. Look at her darling ‘Welcome to the Bridesmaid Jungle’ email.”
“What email? Wait, why is she sending emails about dress sizes?”
“Honestly, Faye Ellen. You know that she’s acting as your sister’s surrogate maid of honor. She’s doing all the work that a maid of honor is supposed to do. I know you’ve been busy but can’t you think to look for these things?”
There are too many things to unpack, so I just let out a deep breath.
“I’ll send her my dress size.”
“Let’s hope it’s not too late. The dresses need a six-month lead time for the Italian lace, and if they need any special sizing…” she says with pointed emphasis that cuts straight to my heart, no matter how much I wish it wouldn’t. “It might cost extra. Money which it sounds like you now don’t have. Although perhaps your new financial situation will be a blessing in disguise. Less money for ice cream and beer.”
Her words are sharp and cut deep.
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” I say through gritted teeth, blinking fiercely around hot eyes. “And if not, I’m sure the hippies or the anarchists will take me in.”
“Faye Ellen—”
I end the call and place my phone face down on my desk.
Cut off.
I’ve been cut off from my trust fund. And it was instantaneous. I submitted that paperwork yesterday and it was already sent to my trustee, not twenty-four hours later.
I open my bank app, thumbing in my PIN and waiting for my accounts to load. I can see the full amount of my trust in my app, though only my trustee has access to it for disbursement. My trustee deposits a reasonable living stipend from my trust into my checking account every month. Well, it’s probably more than reasonable, now that I think about it. I’ve never had a reason to budget or worry about paying bills. But when the screen loads, I blink.
I can’t even view the trust fund anymore. All I see is my checking account. And the meager $1586.45 in it.
Rent comes due in a couple weeks, which will cut into more than half. And between now and then I’ll need groceries and other things to survive.
There’s a gentle knock at the door. Caro pokes her head in.
“Everything okay?”
I let out a deep sigh. “I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you know any hippies or anarchists?”
Just then there’s a thud at the window as a massive blue jay scares away the junco and knocks the birdfeeder off its suction cup attachment.
Wide-eyed, Caro nods. “If there’s a hippie within earshot, they’ll be in our backyard to administer bird-CPR any minute.”
20
zeke
“What is this place, again?”Freddy asks, swinging his crutch around his body as we enter the dark room that looks less like a theater and more like a busy YMCA. He’s getting around on the crutch pretty well.
Of course, Pasha suggested a cane would’ve been more appropriate for the way he’s moving, to which Freddy said he’d use a cane only when his balls shriveled up into raisins. Which was actually pretty spot on for our destination today.
“Welcome to the Rusty Trombone Senior Center, gentlemen,” a grizzled voice greets us. We turn toward its owner and find a man who can’t be more than about forty, wearing a wig that makes him look bald, and about ten pounds of stage makeup. “Are you here for BINGO? Or the Crusty Clamshell concert?”
“Crusty Clamshell?” I ask, and I regret it as soon as it’s out of my mouth.
“Those ladies are our resident girl-group, even though there’s been nothing girlish going on there for at least six decades.”
“Crusty Clamshell,” Pasha says with a loud bark of a laugh. “Classic.”
