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He blinked at her. “Well…tha’s ’cause I ain’t got no money.”
Emma’s thudding heart rocked her on her feet. “Youwouldhave money,” she stated through her clenched teeth, “if you didn’t spend it all on beer.”
“Is this your kid?” Carl’s companion gestured to the baby sleeping on Emma’s shoulder.
“One of ’em.”
Emma stepped closer. “Give me whatever’s in your pocket, and put the rest of what you owe in my bank account tomorrow.”
Carl pretended to laugh. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll sic my lawyer on you, that’s what. Your boys are too hungry to sleep, Carl. Doesn’t that even bother you?”
“Who says they’re even my boys?”
She went rigid. “The state of Mississippi, that’s who!”
“Well, that boy, Simon, ain’t mine. I don’t owe him nothin’.”
She was about to snatch up his glass and throw the contents at his face when he reached into his front pocket. “Here.”
Emma put her hand out. A wadded five-dollar bill and several coins fell into her palm—probably his intended tip for the bartender.
“It’s all I got,” he insisted as she slipped the money into her own jeans pocket. “Best get yourself a job,” he added. “I sold that heap-o’-junk trailer you live in to Eddie Levi up the road. You got two weeks to move out of it.”
“What?” Emma felt the blood drain from her head. “You can’t do that! Our decree says I can live there until the youngest turns eighteen.”
“Well, I done sold it, and Eddie Levi’s about to move in.”
Hearing his speech slur, Emma could only hope he was so drunk he was making up stories. Grinding her teeth to keep from calling him every name under the sun, she whirled and stalked toward the boys, who were emerging from the restroom.
As their hopeful gazes fastened on her, she almost started to cry, but then Chris would take it upon himself to console her. And that was not his job.
“Okay, let’s go.”
“Did you get the money?” He shot a disapproving scowl at his father.
“I got enough for now.” She pushed the door open and herded them out of it.
“How much?” Christopher demanded as they marched in a knot back to the car.
“Just get in.” Emma’s throat ached. Surely Carl was just taunting her about the trailer. She wasn’t about to be homeless, was she?
As she buckled in the baby, Simon and Colton wrestled over their seat belts. Christopher buckled himself in upfront. Emma was conscious of his serious, sidelong stare as she got in next to him and started up the car.
What could she buy with five dollars that would feed all of them? She blinked back tears and focused on the question. A box of macaroni and six hotdogs ought to come in for less than five dollars. Thank God the supermarket stayed open late on Saturdays.
But what about tomorrow?She would have to contact her lawyer, whose fees were more than she would ever recover from Carl.
There’s always Social Services.
Emma squashed the unhelpful suggestion as it occurred to her. She’d experienced firsthand what Social Services in the state of Mississippi did to families. It broke them apart. Her boys belonged together. They belonged with her. She would sell a kidney first, take in extra children, and do whatever it took to keep from asking for a handout.
But if Carl really had sold the trailer, what then? They would be living on the streets in two weeks—in which case, she might have to call Social Services, after all.
* * *
Fitz reached for his ringing phone with relief. He couldn’t keep his thoughts on his work long enough to be productive. “Fitzpatrick,” he rasped, hoping for a big distraction.
