Five pages.
Whew! Last month it was ten. Thank God. I scanned the charges.
Let me be clear, not all of the charges had been made by Kat. We both had cards for the joint account. I had always tried to convince myself that it paid off, since that way we accrued a lot of AmEx points. Someday we’d be able to go on an awesome trip.
Pen in hand, I read each charge, noting where and how much. It was pretty typical. Kat loved to buy certain things: clothing, lingerie, shoes, items for the house, and groceries. She was an amazing cook.
One charge at the art shop by Fenway caught my attention. When Kat moved in, we had converted one of the small guest rooms into an art studio for her. At first, she spent the majority of her time in there, painting. But for the past year, she hadn’t stepped foot in there—at least not that I could tell. I know it’s awful, but I go in there to see if she’s been painting again. It’s her passion, and she’s damn good in my opinion. But when I tell her that, she laughs. She knows I’m the only one in my family who doesn’t “get” art. I can appreciate it, but I can’t analyze it like my aunt. Even Mr. Tube Socks has a better eye than me. When I tell Kat she’s good, she smiles and says, “Yes, but you also like paintings of dogs playing poker.”
I’m not that bad, but I’m close. I was only in Kat’s art studio yesterday, and I hadn’t noticed any new supplies. The dust hadn’t been disturbed on any of her paints or easels. So what in the heck did she buy at the art store?
Squinting—I refuse to admit I need reading glasses—I noticed it was dated one week ago. Damn, trash day was two days ago. More than likely the receipt had gone into the recycle bin. Kat was fastidious when it came to cleaning, and she insisted on recycling every scrap of paper, including receipts.
Sighing, I set the bill aside on my desk. Sounds coming from the kitchen suggested breakfast was almost ready. Smearing a smile on my face, I went to say good morning to my drop-dead gorgeous spendthrift.
Make more money, Cori, and it won’t matter. Or finish your fucking novel. You promised her a lavish lifestyle, and you aren’t upholding your end of the bargain.
* * *
Before I could say good morning, Kat handed me my espresso and planted a wet kiss on my lips. “Morning, darling. How do the bills look?”
I almost pissed my pants. She had never asked me that before.
“Not too bad, actually.” Questions about the art supplies were forming, all I needed to do was spit them out.
I opened my mouth.
Kat looked at me, grinning like a fool in love, which forced the words back into the pit of my stomach. Instead, I licked my lips. “It smells good. What’s for breakfast?”
I’m pathetic.
She had opened the door to that conversation, and I’d slammed it shut like a terrified child who’d just heard a noise in the attic.
“French toast.”
I wanted to laugh. Kat knew it was bill day, and that French toast was my favorite breakfast food. Did she realize how obvious she was being?
“Sounds wonderful.” I walked to the fridge and peeked out the glass door leading to the back deck. The recycle bin was completely empty. I gulped down half of a tiny bottle of orange juice from the fridge.
Maybe Kat had signed up for a painting class and was keeping the supplies there. I could hope, at least. When she painted, she was content. And when she was content, she didn’t shop as much.
“You excited about the game today?” Kat set our plates on the kitchen table and took her seat.
I sat opposite and poured organic maple syrup on my French toast. “Yep. I know this sounds silly, but I couldn’t sleep a wink last night. I can’t believe my father is taking me to a Yankees game. I usually get the tickets no one wants.” I took a bite. After swallowing I asked, “What’s your plan today?”
“I’m going to your aunt’s today. She needs help setting up a new exhibit.” Kat placed the daintiest mouthful of food in her mouth. Not once have I seen her take an enormous bite of food. She eats like a surgeon operating on a brain: slow, delicate, and calculated. I could eat three meals in the time it takes her to eat half of one. Looking up from her plate, she added, “Don’t forget dinner with Phineas and my mother tonight. Six sharp.” She punctuated the word sharp by stabbing the air with her knife.
* * *
Leaving Fenway, I was on cloud nine. The game hadn’t started well for the Sox. In the second inning, Alex Rodriguez, nicknamed A-Rod, hit a homerun. In the third, the Sox were down six runs. Boston’s manager yanked the starting pitcher, Lester, off the mound. It was clear he was having a bad day at the “office.” The Yankees’ pitcher already had four strikeouts and no runs.
Dad and I contemplated leaving the game and having a late lunch. Losing was bad. But getting a beat-down by New York was hideous for die-hard Sox fans.
Then the Yankees’ manager pulled Sabathia, their starting pitcher, off the mound in the sixth since he thought the game was locked up. The score was eight to one. I could see why he felt safe. That’s when the game turned around completely. The Red Sox lit up one reliever after another. By the eighth inning, they led by two runs. In the ninth, the Yanks tied the game.
Ortiz hit a homer in the eleventh and won the game. By the time I arrived at the restaurant to meet Kat and her parents, I was in the best mood. Nothing was going to get me down, not even Phineas Finn.
I strolled in wearing my green Sox baseball hat and a large red foam finger that proclaimed the Sox were number one. Did I look silly? Absolutely! But I didn’t care. The Sox won—that was all that mattered.
Kat looked amused as I slid into the booth next to her. A child at the nearest table was eyeing my foam finger, so I happily handed it to him. His astonished parents thanked me profusely, and I was sure Kat’s parents were glad I had managed to rid myself of the silly thing. Phineas Finn, Kat’s father, was not a fan of frivolity.
A dentist, he seemed the type of guy who loved the music he played in his office—tunes that would make a coma patient hurtle out of bed and run screaming rather than listen to another Michael Bolton, Kenny G, or Celine Dion song. In fact, the only thing cool about Phineas Finn was his name. When I first heard the name, I loved it. I was a Trollope fan, so I asked if he were named after Trollope’s famous character. Dr. Finn stared at me as if I had lobsters hanging from my eyelids.
The name had been in the family for five generations, he told me. He was Phineas Finn the Fifth. I’m not making that up.
Furthermore, he had never heard of Trollope, and the fact that I compared him to a literary figure was a downright insult to their family, which was, according to Kat’s father, directly responsible for why Boston was such a thriving city today. Without the Finns, Boston would still be a backwoods town in the middle of a swamp.
According to Phineas, his family was the only one of any importance in Beantown. Forget the Adams—even if two men from that family became presidents of the United States. And don’t even mention John Hancock—he was of no importance. That massive John Hancock building on Clarendon Street? Didn’t mean a thing. Paul Revere was a “reckless man.”
The list goes on.
One of my first dinners with Kat’s parents was especially illuminating. After that night, Kat was terrified I would never want to see her again. For three hours, she squirmed in her seat while Phineas bad-mouthed all of the great names associated with the American Revolution and the founding of our nation.
All from a dentist! From the little research I’ve done on the Finns, no one in the family was a statesman of any type. They got their money from shipping, and, truth be known, piracy. The Finns of yesteryear were brave men who ran through blockades during the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 and made a killing because their competitors couldn’t get a ship out. If they saw a ship in distress, they would kindly relieve them of their burden. Most of Kat’s ancestors would no doubt laugh in Phineas’s face now—a dentist exclaiming h
ow great their family was. They were merciless thieves and rogues. Yes, they were successful, but they certainly weren’t honorable. And from the diaries I’ve read, they were damn proud about their lack of honor. There was no money in that.
It wasn’t until the fifth Finn was born that this “legacy” surfaced. Phineas had spent all his life being full of himself, and his attitude had isolated him, his wife, and his daughter. During her childhood, Kat was kept hidden away, attending private schools and living at home under lock and key after school hours. Luckily for Kat, she was an avid reader. I sometimes think she would have gone mad if she hadn’t been a reader.
The Finns owned a TV, but only watched the news and shows on PBS. They never went on family vacations unless they involved Cape Cod. They didn’t even go on picnics. Not once. I took Kat on a picnic after I found that out; she’d never been so excited. She acted like a child going to Disney World for the first time.
Kat was even denied friends unless they were relations. But all of her aunts, uncles, and cousins knew Phineas was a whack job, so they ostracized Kat anyway, thinking she was brainwashed as well. When she left home to attend Wellesley, Kat finally felt free. But her childhood still haunted. How could it not?
I couldn’t imagine growing up like that. My family wasn’t perfect, but compared to Kat’s, we were like the Cleaver family from the 1950s television show Leave It to Beaver.
Kat’s mother, Margaret, was the perfect mate for Phineas. She was just as boring, conceited, and unintelligent. For their honeymoon, Kat’s mom suggested they go to Mount Rushmore. At first I thought she must have been a huge North by Northwest fan, which might have made it somewhat cooler. But she has never seen the Cary Grant classic. Never. Movies with any type of suspense are too much for her. Margaret couldn’t even watch Bedknobs and Broomsticks with her daughter when Kat was a kid.
No, Margaret picked Mount Rushmore because she really wanted to see the presidents carved in stone—on her honeymoon. How was that for lighting the fire in the bedroom? Not to be disrespectful, but I was pretty sure most people didn’t get turned on by George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt. They might have been great presidents, but their faces were pretty much the last thing on my mind when I want to get naked.
The honeymoon was their first and last trip outside of Massachusetts. Ever since then, they go to Cape Cod every summer. They stay in their family home, go to the same restaurants, and visit the same museums when it rains. For more than twenty years, they haven’t varied this routine a bit. Margaret almost cried when one of their favorite restaurants on the Cape closed. But she was a tough woman, so not one actual tear fell from her dead eyes. Her predecessors came over on the Mayflower. She would not disappoint them by showing any emotion, let alone happiness or sadness. Or maybe she couldn’t even recognize other emotions. Everything was black and white with that woman. No shades of gray.
“I take it the Sox won.” Kat squeezed my thigh, quickly so her parents wouldn’t see. I could tell she was relieved when I finally arrived. She never missed the monthly dinner with her folks, but I knew she preferred for me to be there, for moral support. I was her buffer, and it was my job to keep the conversation going. Even Kat, the most bewitching of creatures, couldn’t charm her parents. Not that I could either, but I was new enough to their lives that they were forced to pretend to care about what I had to say.
“Oh, Kat, too bad you missed it.” I turned to face her. “Today’s game will go down in history!” I slapped the tabletop, which caused Phineas’s puckered face to sink further into his skull. He constantly looked like he was sucking a lime. I didn’t mean to lay it on so thick, but her parents gave me the willies so I always felt uncomfortable and acted like a buffoon.
“So what did I miss?” I looked across the table at them as I placed my napkin in my lap, remembering my manners.
“We were just getting ready to order, Cori,” explained her father.
I was ten minutes late. By the looks on their faces, they were not happy about it. Plus, I had been at a sporting event, mixing with the lower classes. Could they smell the beer and hotdogs on my breath?
The waiter approached and asked if I needed more time to look at the menu. I almost laughed in his face. We went to dinner once a month with Kat’s parents and every time, we came here. He was our usual waiter. I hated the place, which didn’t have any decent vegetarian meals, but heaven forbid we eat someplace else and break Finn family tradition. In its heyday, this joint had been popular. But now it was run-down and usually half-empty. Only tourists, who didn’t know better, and the Finns patronized it. The Oriental rug on the floor was dingy and so threadbare I feared walking on it in case it disintegrated, and the grime of the place killed my appetite every time. The owners kept the lights dim—beyond dim—but I knew the truth. Anyone could smell the dust and mold.
“Not to worry. I’m ready.” I motioned for him to take Margaret’s order first. I knew my place.
After everyone ordered the exact same meal they always ordered, I tried to kindle a conversation. “Dr. Finn, how’s business?” Pathetic, I know, but what do you ask a dentist who only watches PBS?
He sat up straighter in his chair, which impressed me since he was straight as a board already. “I’m glad you asked. I have a proposition for you, Cori.”
A proposition? From a dentist?
This should be good.
I stifled a laugh. “Really?” I took a sip of my iced water; I never drank alcohol in front of the Finns.
“Yes. Our billing person quit, Cori.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” I had no idea why that was so important that we had to bump up our usual dinner plans by a week.
“Tragic, Cori. It’s so hard to find people I can trust.” His lips puckered again and disappeared into his sloping chin.
Tragic—that seemed a bit too much. The person quit. It’s not like he or she died, which would be tragic.
I did my best to keep my face judgment-free. Every day, I saw ads on TV about people signing up for an online school to learn dental and medical billing. It didn’t sound hard at all. How difficult could it be to find competent workers in Boston, especially now that the economy was in the shitter? He could probably find a Harvard grad who was desperate for the job. Then it hit me. I was being set up! I was a Harvard alum who was struggling financially.
Oh no, oh no, oh no …
Kat seemed to stop breathing. I wanted to give her a hug, to let her know it would be okay. No matter what, we’d get through this.
Instead, I grabbed a piece of bread and angrily buttered a small portion as I waited for the ball to drop. Kat and I were not allowed to show affection at her family dinners. The Finns were the coldest people I’d ever met. Rattlesnakes had more charm. Truthfully, I’d rather hug a snake than either of her parents; not that they’d ever tried to hug me. Kat couldn’t even remember either of them hugging her. Not hugging your own child seemed unimaginable to me
“I know you’ve been working at Beantown Café part-time, Cori.” He paused for me to respond.
I didn’t. I wished he’d stop saying my name. I already had a part-time job. I hated Beantown with a passion, but I’d rather work there eighty hours a week than do dental billing. And working for Kat’s father—shit, that sounded awful. Fucking dreadful. Why couldn’t I have been hit by a bus on the way to this dinner?
“And this job would fit with your schedule because you could file the claims at any time, even at three in the morning,” explained Phineas. There was an odd look in his eye. I wouldn’t call it a glint—just a different shade of dull. I wondered if it was Phineas Finn’s personal brand of happiness.
Neither Kat nor I spoke, but I’m pretty sure Phineas didn’t expect us to. He was the type of man who thought he commanded respect.
He continued, “I’ll have the software installed on your home computer, and I’ll set up a fax machine for you. Each night
, my secretary will fax the claims that need processing and then all you have to do is enter them in the system. Our biller has agreed to train you for a few days. If I remember correctly, you don’t teach on Thursday during the day. She’s expecting you at ten. And she’ll be in the office this Saturday and Sunday to finish the training.” He started to sip his wine—the one glass he allowed himself during these dinners—and then added, “I’m glad that’s settled. What a relief.” His voice and face displayed no emotion.
“Oh, of course.” Either my tone wasn’t sarcastic enough, or he didn’t do sarcasm. There wasn’t a flicker of comprehension from Phineas.
Kat picked up on it and ran her hand up my thigh, stopping at my crotch briefly. Her demonstration informed me that she was sorry but had no idea how to say no. She never said no to her parents; ergo, I couldn’t say no either.
Our salads arrived. I stabbed a crouton viciously and the damn thing shot off my plate and hit the waiter in the ass.
Although I apologized profusely to the waiter, Kat couldn’t hold in her laughter and some iced tea dribbled out her nose. The parents of the kid I had given the foam finger to, smiled, sensing my mortification.
Phineas, engrossed in cleaning his salad fork with his linen napkin, never even noticed the hubbub. Margaret just stared at me with empty eyes before daintily forking up some of her salad.
And that was it. I had three jobs. Four if we counted writing a novel.
* * *
Later that night, Kat ran me an extra-hot bath and actually climbed in with me. She wasn’t a huge fan of baths—the idea of soaking in her own filth disgusted her—but she catered to me every once in a while. My doctor had ordered me to have one each night to help my back following a car accident I’d had ten years ago. Lately, my back had been acting up, right about the time I started working at Beantown Café. Normally, I preferred soaking in the hot tub, but it needed repairing so Mom’s handyman was coming by next week.
Confessions From A Coffee Shop Page 6
