Chapter 8 - The Sunday Call
Sunday afternoon was quiet—the kind of lazy, sun-drenched afternoon where the world seems to pause. Cal was outside with Dwight, measuring boards for a new wooden birdhouse they were building to hang by the oak tree in the front yard.
I was sitting at the kitchen island sorting through the mail when my phone lit up on the counter.
It wasn't Trisha this time, and it wasn't my mother.
It was my father.
I stared at the screen for five full rings, watching his name flash against the dark glass. Then, with a slow, deliberate breath, I pressed Accept and put the phone to my ear.
"Jody," Lou’s voice came through the speaker. He didn't sound angry anymore. He sounded old—smaller somehow, like the air had been slowly let out of him over the last forty-eight hours.
"Dad," I said.
"Your mother is... she's very upset," he began, clearing his throat the way he always did when he was about to ask for something he knew he shouldn't. "The club manager called us in this morning for a formal meeting. They gave us until Tuesday to clear the three thousand dollars in overdue tab charges, or our membership is being revoked. Permanently. After thirty-five years, Jody. They're going to take down our plaque by the pro shop."
I leaned back against the counter, listening to the faint sound of Dwight’s hammer tapping a nail out in the driveway.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Dad," I said quietly.
There was a long, heavy silence on the line. The kind of silence that usually preceded one of my mother’s lectures or my father’s disappointed sighs.
"Can't you... can't you just put it on your card for one last month?" he asked, his voice dropping into a desperate, pleading register that made me feel a sudden, sharp pang of pity—followed immediately by cold, absolute clarity. "Just until I can talk to the regional director about my pension adjustment? Just this once, honey. For the family."
"No, Dad," I said.
"Jody, you don't understand—"
"I understand completely," I interrupted, my voice steady and clear. "You've been telling people for six years that you were managing your own finances while you let your daughter pay your club dues out of a poultry-plant paycheck. You let your youngest daughter bully my son and walk away without a single word of apology. And then you walked out of his eighth birthday party because you were late for cocktails."
"We were stressed," he muttered defensively. "You don't know what it's like to maintain a standing in this community."
"No," I agreed. "I don't. Because my husband and I work for our living, and we teach our son that people matter more than country club plaques."
"So that's it?" Lou's voice hardened again, the old pride flaring up like a dying ember in a cold stove. "You're just going to cut us off? After everything I did for you when you were growing up?"
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"You raised me, Dad. I paid you back—with interest—for six years," I said softly. "We're even now. Don't call this number again."
I tapped the red button, ending the call before he could answer.
