Donna Birdsell - Madam Of The House

The checker’s ears turned red. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“‘Ma’am,’” she muttered under her breath.

The checker unloaded the stuff from her basket and ran it over the scanner.

“Gimme those,” she said, grabbing the M&M’s out of the bagger’s hand and opening them with her teeth.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop calling me ma’am.”

“Yes, ma—” He clammed up.

The checker scanned the box of tampons she’d picked up, and a knowing look passed between the two guys.

She pointed at the bagger. “Oh, you think I’m just a hormonal old lady, huh? I’ll have you know, we old ladies work hard to maintain ourselves. Do you know how many pints of Ben & Jerry’s I’ve passed up for my butt’s sake? Do you know how many miles I’ve logged on the treadmill?”

The bagger shook his head. “No, uh…miss?”

She gave them both a scathing look. “You owe me for that hard work. You, and every other man on the planet. So you better not ever call anyone under eighty ‘ma’am’ again.”

“Yes, miss.”

“And one more thing.” They looked at her the way men should always look at women—both fearful and expectant. She leaned in. “You better have the decency to watch my ass when I’m walking away.”

Whatever you do, don’t let yourself get backed into a corner.

In the half hour it took to reach the top of the winding hill leading up to the Catalina School, Cecilia had eaten half the bag of M&M’s, added up everything and everyone she owed in her head and chewed her thumbnail down to a bloody nub.

She found a parking spot in the circle outside the boys’ dorm and climbed the wide, stone steps to the door, admiring as she did every weekend the placid beauty of the place. No wonder Brian loved it here.

The dorm rested on the crest of the hill, which overlooked a sprawling formal garden arranged on tiers, meticulously maintained since the school opened in the late nineteenth century.

The dorm was swarming with excited parents picking up their kids for the weekend. Most families lived too far away for the weekly visits Cecilia was able to make, so the activity was unusual.

When Cecilia checked in at the desk, a tall, brittle-looking man she didn’t recognize greeted her.

“You are here to pick up…?”

“Brian Katz. Room 101.”

“Ah, yes. Mrs. Katz.”

She didn’t care for his tone.

“I’m Victor Newhouse, the new director of student living.”

“A pleasure,” she said, even though it definitely wasn’t. “May I go up to Brian’s room?”

“Just a moment, please. Wait right here.”

He disappeared into the office behind the desk, and closed the door.

Cecilia leaned up against the desk and watched the bustling in the lobby for a while. She checked her watch. Six minutes.

“Hello?” She called.

Victor emerged from the back room. “Sorry. I had to make a call.”

“I see. May I go get my son now?”

“In just a moment.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Is something wrong? Is Brian okay?”

“Of course, of course. We…”

The dorm door pushed open, and suddenly it was clear what she’d been waiting for. Or rather, who.

Melvin Weber, the school’s finance director, hurried in, his thin blond comb-over flapping up in the gust created by the door’s closing.

Cecilia steeled herself.

“Mrs. Katz, I’m so glad I caught you.”

That was exactly how she felt. Caught. Trapped. By the look on Melvin’s face, he was moving in for the kill, and she couldn’t even chew her leg off to get away.

“Mr. Weber, how nice to see you again,” she said, shifting into full bitch-queen mode. If she couldn’t get away, maybe she could bully him into submission. “I’ve come to pick up Brian, and I’m in rather a hurry. If you’ll excuse me—”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Katz. But I can’t let you go until we discuss your outstanding financial obligation to the Catalina School.”

“Outstanding…? I’m afraid I don’t know to what you are referring.” She did her best imitation of her fourth-grade teacher Mrs. Wickett, who was largely regarded as the meanest teacher in the state of Pennsylvania and was rumored to have been created from a block of ice.

The Mrs. Wickett thing was ineffective in the face of Melvin Weber’s crusade.

The finance director patted his comb-over back into place. “Brian’s fall tuition, Mrs. Katz. We’ve attempted to contact you on numerous occasions. Your check bounced.”

Cecilia’s stomach dropped. Her gaze slid sideways to Victor Newhouse, who looked as if he were wishing for a bucket of popcorn and a box of Junior Mints to go with the show.

“Mr. Newhouse, would you kindly excuse us?” she said.

Newhouse looked at Weber, and Weber nodded. Newhouse looked crestfallen. “Of course. I’ll just wait in the office.”

“Perhaps you’d be so kind as to go get my son for me, so we can be on our way without further delay.”

He hesitated.

“Are you holding my son hostage, Mr. Newhouse? Is that what you’re doing?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then, will you please go get him?”

Weber nodded to Newhouse.

“Sure. Of course.” Newhouse came around the desk and headed up the hall, dragging his feet, clearly hoping to hear the end of the conversation.

Cecilia brushed an errant curl from her forehead. “Mr. Weber, if payment hasn’t reached you, I do apologize. We’ve been having a bit of trouble with our bank accounts, a snafu with account numbers or something, and I asked my husband to handle this matter. However, as you might know, we are estranged, and it’s a bit of a messy situation. I assure you that I will send another check first thing on Tuesday.”

Weber’s lips formed a tight line. “See that you do, Mrs. Katz. I know how much effort you put into getting your son admitted to the Catalina School. It would be a shame if we had to release him.”

AN HOUR LATER, with Brian listening to his MP3 player and munching pumpkin seeds in the back of the Cayenne, Cecilia ate the remainder of the M&M’s and chewed the rest of her fingernails down to bloody stumps.

What in the hell was she going to do?

This was definitely not the weekend to quit smoking.

She glanced at her son in the rearview mirror. He looked more relaxed, happier, than she’d seen him in a long time.

She simply could not take him out of Catalina.

But where was she going to get the tuition money? She’d been playing musical payments with all of her bills since March, trying to make her commission checks stretch farther than her Aunt Theresa’s girdles.

The money just wasn’t there.

Her mind flooded with thoughts of torturing Ben. Nothing too severe. Maybe just extracting one of his kidneys with a rusty lawnmower blade. As a bonus she might be able to sell it on eBay.

She counted to ten and cleared her mind. She’d handled tougher situations. There had to be a way to come up with some quick cash.

She’d already taken two ten-thousand-dollar advances on her commission from Belkin-Frye. She couldn’t ask for any more, especially now that Monty was gone.

She’d sold off all the antiques in the house that were worth anything months ago, so that was a dead end. She’d gotten advances on her credit cards and a second mortgage on their home, going into more debt to pay debt.

She’d cashed in the retirement account from her first job, selling pharmaceuticals for a big New Jersey drug company. The penalties had killed her, and she’d lost her matching funds, but she’d been desperate.

“Mom, can we get a puppy?” Brian called to her from the back seat. “Ethan has a puppy.”