urn.
“This is a lot of money,” Suzanne says. She spreads the money out like a fan.
“He was a valet. He always had a lot of bills everywhere.” I keep my distance, looking at it, quickly.
“These are hundreds.” She makes eye contact with me, but I can’t hold it.
“Okay,” I say. I take another sip, then point to the desk. “Your wine’s right there.”
“These are hundreds,” she says again. “There’s got to be about three grand here.”
“Well, he was working at the hotel since, what, June? June until December, so—”
“So he parked a lot of cars?” she asks. “He was extra cute and polite and got tipped in hundreds? This isn’t Vail.”
“What are you getting at?” I look at the money in her hand, then away again as if it’s something I’m not supposed to see.
“I’m not getting at anything.” She waves the money, like a fan. The bills look damp and old. “But you don’t think it’s weird these are hundred-dollar bills? We tip with ones and fives—well, you do. I tip with a twenty, but—”
“He probably exchanged the ones.”
“Why wouldn’t he put it in the bank?” She gives me a patronizing look that I can’t stand. I hate when her questions aren’t really questions but her superior alternatives.
“I don’t know!” I say. “What does it matter? Maybe he was going to buy something for himself. A car or a computer.”
“Okay, this is a scale,” she says, as if saving it if she couldn’t get through to me the first time.
She extends the black scale toward me, making me walk up to it. It looks like a calculator. I take it, turn it on, and am tempted to weigh something. “You’re like an attorney, springing evidence on me.” I look at this object in my hands and give it back to her.
“I’m not trying to do that,” she says.
“Then don’t!” I turn away because my heart is beating so fast I feel I must look panicked. I walk to the stereo and start to rummage through CDs. My hands shake. Obie Trice, the Roots, NOFX, Rolling Stones. I flip through them all.
“Don’t be defensive, Sarah. I’m trying to help. It’s okay. I mean, you can put it together, I’m sure. The baggies of pot, now this. He obviously . . . had a second job.”
“It can get busy at the Village,” I say, still not facing her. “And people used the valets even when they weren’t staying there. He did well. He worked hard. He worked all the time.”
I turn around, keeping my hands in fists by my side.
“Sweetie, I know. Look, it was probably just pot—at least not the hard stuff.”
“You don’t know that! You don’t know anything!” The room is too small. I have nowhere to go. I walk to the door. I need to leave this room, this friend, this life. I touch my throat.
“I know I don’t know the specifics,” Suzanne says. “But I mean”—she laughs—“you kind of gotta consider the—”
“You should consider putting a beeping mechanism on your ass in case you back up!”
The CD begins to skip, a sound I can’t stand. I go back to the stereo, slam the button to make it stop, then look at Suzanne to see what I’ve done. Her eyebrows are raised in a way that says she is better than me and she will rise above my comment. She puts the cash on the bed, then raises her hands to indicate she tried, and now she’s done. The room has an angry hush, like the silence after a lovers’ quarrel.
“Whoops,” I say.
“Yeah, whoops,” she says. “I don’t even know how to respond to that. Oh right, I can’t! Because you’re in mourning!”
My jaw tightens. I bite the inside of my lower lip and try to summon some control, some eloquence. “You can say whatever you want,” I say. “So what if he didn’t put his money in a bank. He was doing things his way. I know you didn’t approve—you’ve never approved of him—”
“Stop,” Suzanne says. “I loved him. I loved him so much. You know that. We all did.”
My composure is a farce and I let it go.
“This is a lot of money,” Suzanne says. She spreads the money out like a fan.
“He was a valet. He always had a lot of bills everywhere.” I keep my distance, looking at it, quickly.
“These are hundreds.” She makes eye contact with me, but I can’t hold it.
“Okay,” I say. I take another sip, then point to the desk. “Your wine’s right there.”
“These are hundreds,” she says again. “There’s got to be about three grand here.”
“Well, he was working at the hotel since, what, June? June until December, so—”
“So he parked a lot of cars?” she asks. “He was extra cute and polite and got tipped in hundreds? This isn’t Vail.”
“What are you getting at?” I look at the money in her hand, then away again as if it’s something I’m not supposed to see.
“I’m not getting at anything.” She waves the money, like a fan. The bills look damp and old. “But you don’t think it’s weird these are hundred-dollar bills? We tip with ones and fives—well, you do. I tip with a twenty, but—”
“He probably exchanged the ones.”
“Why wouldn’t he put it in the bank?” She gives me a patronizing look that I can’t stand. I hate when her questions aren’t really questions but her superior alternatives.
“I don’t know!” I say. “What does it matter? Maybe he was going to buy something for himself. A car or a computer.”
“Okay, this is a scale,” she says, as if saving it if she couldn’t get through to me the first time.
She extends the black scale toward me, making me walk up to it. It looks like a calculator. I take it, turn it on, and am tempted to weigh something. “You’re like an attorney, springing evidence on me.” I look at this object in my hands and give it back to her.
“I’m not trying to do that,” she says.
“Then don’t!” I turn away because my heart is beating so fast I feel I must look panicked. I walk to the stereo and start to rummage through CDs. My hands shake. Obie Trice, the Roots, NOFX, Rolling Stones. I flip through them all.
“Don’t be defensive, Sarah. I’m trying to help. It’s okay. I mean, you can put it together, I’m sure. The baggies of pot, now this. He obviously . . . had a second job.”
“It can get busy at the Village,” I say, still not facing her. “And people used the valets even when they weren’t staying there. He did well. He worked hard. He worked all the time.”
I turn around, keeping my hands in fists by my side.
“Sweetie, I know. Look, it was probably just pot—at least not the hard stuff.”
“You don’t know that! You don’t know anything!” The room is too small. I have nowhere to go. I walk to the door. I need to leave this room, this friend, this life. I touch my throat.
“I know I don’t know the specifics,” Suzanne says. “But I mean”—she laughs—“you kind of gotta consider the—”
“You should consider putting a beeping mechanism on your ass in case you back up!”
The CD begins to skip, a sound I can’t stand. I go back to the stereo, slam the button to make it stop, then look at Suzanne to see what I’ve done. Her eyebrows are raised in a way that says she is better than me and she will rise above my comment. She puts the cash on the bed, then raises her hands to indicate she tried, and now she’s done. The room has an angry hush, like the silence after a lovers’ quarrel.
“Whoops,” I say.
“Yeah, whoops,” she says. “I don’t even know how to respond to that. Oh right, I can’t! Because you’re in mourning!”
My jaw tightens. I bite the inside of my lower lip and try to summon some control, some eloquence. “You can say whatever you want,” I say. “So what if he didn’t put his money in a bank. He was doing things his way. I know you didn’t approve—you’ve never approved of him—”
“Stop,” Suzanne says. “I loved him. I loved him so much. You know that. We all did.”
My composure is a farce and I let it go.
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