Faron took the card from the salesman.
He turned it over.
Then he looked at the front again, as if the name might have changed.
"What's wrong with it?"
The salesman kept his voice polite.
"Your bank isn't approving the transaction."
Faron frowned.
"Try it again."
"I already did, sir."
"Then try it one more time."
The salesman glanced toward the machine.
"I can try, but it's giving me the same response."
Faron looked at his friends.
He gave them a little laugh.
"These machines are something else."
One of the men nodded.
"Technology. Can't trust any of it."
Faron seemed relieved that somebody had spoken.
He handed the card back.
The salesman ran it through the machine again.
A few seconds passed.
The machine rejected it.
Again.
This time, nobody laughed.
Faron took a step closer.
"Is there a problem with your machine?"
The salesman shook his head.
"No, sir. Other transactions have gone through today."
That was when Faron stopped smiling.
I was standing behind the pierogi table.
My spatula was resting beside the pan.
I could see the red boat behind him.
I could see his fishing buddies looking at one another.
And I could see the card in his hand.
My card.
For eleven years, that little piece of plastic had paid for more things than I could remember.
Now it wouldn't pay for a boat.
One of his friends leaned toward him.
"Maybe you should call the bank."
Faron ignored him.
He looked at the salesman.
"Can you hold the boat while I sort this out?"
The salesman hesitated.
"Normally, we need a deposit to reserve it."
Faron nodded.
"I understand that."
He opened his wallet again.
He looked through the other cards.
I knew what he was doing.
He was searching for another account that might still work.
But the accounts he had used were connected to me.
He had no idea which one I had closed first.
The salesman waited.
Faron finally pulled out his phone.
"I'm calling somebody."
He walked a few steps away.
His friends stayed beside the boat.
I turned back to the food.
I had customers waiting.
One woman wanted six pierogi.
A little boy was asking his father whether the filling was made with potatoes.
I answered them.
I took their money.
I kept working.
But I could hear Faron talking behind me.
"Something happened with my account."
A pause.
"No, I know there's money on it."
Another pause.
"Well, that's what I'm trying to find out."
He lowered his voice.
I couldn't hear the rest.
A few minutes later, he came back.
His friends were still waiting.
One of them asked whether everything was all right.
Faron shrugged.
"Bank problem."
The man looked at the boat.
"Are you still buying it?"
Faron put his phone away.
"Not today."
He said it like the decision had been his.
The salesman didn't argue.
He simply took the card and handed it back.
Faron shoved it into his wallet.
Then he looked toward the food stand.
Our eyes met.
I didn't look away.
He started walking toward me.
I picked up the spatula again.
"Ange."
I continued turning the pierogi.
"Ange, we need to talk."
"I'm working."
"This isn't funny."
I looked at him.
"What's not funny?"
He glanced around.
His friends were several feet behind him.
"Don't do this here."
I almost smiled.
He had chosen the place.
He had brought the card.
He had announced his purchase.
And somehow I was the one doing something wrong.
"I haven't done anything here."
He lowered his voice.
"You know exactly what happened."
I nodded.
"I know."
He waited for me to say more.
I didn't.
He looked frustrated.
"Did you call the bank?"
I wiped the spatula against the edge of the pan.
"Yes."
"You closed my card?"
"I closed the account."
His mouth opened slightly.
Then he looked down at the card in his wallet.
"You can't just do that."
"I can."
"We've had those cards for years."
"They were my accounts, Faron."
He shook his head.
"You could have told me."
I looked at him.
"I asked you for the cards back on Tuesday."
He didn't answer.
I returned to the pan.
A customer stepped forward to place an order.
Faron moved aside.
For once, he had to wait.
I served the customer and handed over the paper tray.
When I looked up again, Faron was still standing there.
"You're making things difficult."
I thought about the bills.
The napkin.
The eighty thousand dollars.
The Friday appointments.
All the times I had stood at that same kitchen table wondering how I was going to pay everything.
"No," I said quietly. "I'm not."
He stared at me.
Then he walked away.
His friends followed him.
I watched them disappear into the crowd.
The red boat remained beside the salesman.
I turned another batch of pierogi.
They were beginning to brown around the edges.
I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Peace.
Not happiness.
Not satisfaction.
Just the quiet feeling that I no longer had to rescue somebody from a problem he had created himself.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: I Thought the Embarrassment Would Be Enough, Until Faron Started Calling People Who Had Nothing to Do With Our Marriage
I Thought Being a Good Wife Meant Never Making My Husband Feel the Weight of His Own Mistakes
Part 5 of 20
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