Chapter 7 - The Saturday Inventory
Saturday morning came with the bright, sharp sunlight of late autumn. In our house, Saturday mornings usually meant a trip to the farmers market on the square in Bentonville, followed by a stop at the bakery for cinnamon rolls. This week, we had something more practical on the agenda.
Dwight had spent the first hour of daylight cleaning out the garage—sweeping up the sawdust, organizing his socket sets, and dragging our old, rusted lawn mower out to the curb for the city bulk pickup.
"We're going to use that money we saved," Dwight announced as I poured a cup of black coffee at the kitchen counter.
"What money?" I asked.
"The four hundred and eighty-five dollars that used to go to Sycamore Glen every single month," he said, grinning as he dropped a piece of toast into the toaster. "Plus the hundred and fifty Trisha’s guarantor fee used to cost us in hidden interest whenever we juggled the credit cards. I priced a new shingle bundle at Home Depot yesterday. We can finally fix that leak above the stove before the winter rains set in."
I looked up from my mug, feeling a strange, unfamiliar lightness in my chest. For six years, every dollar we earned had felt like it was already spoken for—earmarked for country club dues, pottery studio leases, or my parents' invisible emergencies. Now, for the first time since we bought the house, our money belonged to us.
Around ten o'clock, there was a tentative knock at our back gate—not the frantic pounding of my sister, but a soft, polite tap.
I pushed open the screen door and saw Tamika standing on the patio holding a brown paper bag smelling of fresh bakery muffins.
"Morning, neighbor," Tamika said, smiling warmly. "Cal’s inside playing with my boy, Leo, building a Lego spaceship on the rug. I just wanted to drop these off and see how everyone is holding up."
"We're holding up better than we have in years," I said, taking the bag from her hands. "Come inside for a minute."
We sat at the kitchen table while Tamika drank a cup of coffee. She didn't pry, but she didn't have to; in a town like Rogers, news about country club scandals and downtown storefront evictions travels faster than a summer storm over Beaver Lake.
"I heard about Trisha's shop," Tamika said softly, stirring a spoonful of sugar into her mug. "And I heard about your dad's insurance office friends talking at the diner. People are talking, Jody. But mostly, they're wondering why it took you this long to drop the rope."
"I thought I was being a good daughter," I admitted, looking down at the wooden grain of the table. "I thought if I just kept paying, they would eventually love us back the way they loved their country club friends."
May you like
Tamika reached across the table and placed her warm hand over mine. "Love isn't something you buy on an installment plan, honey. The people who love you don't need a guarantee signature to treat your child like a human being."
When Tamika left an hour later, I felt like the last heavy anchor holding our family to the bottom of the lake had finally been cut loose.
