Saturday was the county sports show at the fairgrounds.
Peg's diner operated a food stand there every year.
It was one of our busiest weekends.
People came for fishing equipment, hunting supplies, boats, outdoor clothing, and all sorts of things they didn't necessarily need.
Some came to buy.
Others came to look.
Most came hungry.
I worked the pierogi station.
The recipe belonged to my mother.
Potatoes.
Cheese.
Onions.
A little butter.
Nothing complicated.
But people loved them.
We sold each one for a dollar fifty.
I had spent the morning preparing the filling and organizing the trays.
The large pan sat beside the stove.
Steam rose whenever I lifted the lid.
I was concentrating on the next batch when I heard familiar voices coming from the boat section.
At first, I didn't look up.
Then somebody laughed.
I knew that laugh.
Faron.
I raised my head.
There he was.
He had three of his fishing friends with him.
All four wore camouflage caps.
They were walking through the exhibition area, stopping at displays and talking loudly.
Faron looked relaxed.
He had one hand in his jacket pocket.
The other held his wallet.
I turned back toward the pierogi pan.
I didn't want to deal with him.
Not there.
Not while I was working.
But I could still hear him.
He stopped near a used bass boat.
It was painted a bright red.
The surface had a glittery finish that caught the overhead lights.
Faron walked around it.
He touched the side.
Then he stepped back to admire it.
One of his friends whistled.
"That's a nice boat."
Faron nodded.
"She's got plenty of room."
I kept my eyes on the food.
A few seconds later, I heard him talking to the salesman.
"How much do you need to hold it?"
The salesman gave him an answer.
Faron looked toward his friends.
They gathered closer.
He wanted them to hear.
"Fifteen hundred down?"
The salesman nodded.
Faron didn't hesitate.
"All right. Let's do it."
I stopped moving my spatula.
I knew that tone.
It was the voice he used when he wanted people to think he had plenty of money.
One of his friends laughed.
"Well, look who's doing all right."
Faron chuckled.
He opened his wallet.
Slowly.
Almost proudly.
I could picture him pulling out the card before I even looked.
He handed it to the salesman.
The card had his name printed on it.
But the account wasn't his.
It belonged to me.
I recognized the card immediately.
It was one of the additional cards I had issued years earlier.
I had closed the account on Tuesday.
Faron apparently hadn't understood that the card in his wallet was no longer useful.
Or perhaps he thought the bank would continue accepting it because his name was printed on the front.
His friends were still congratulating him.
One slapped him on the shoulder.
"You're going to have a good summer."
Faron smiled.
He began telling them where he planned to take the boat.
I stood behind the pierogi table.
The spatula was in my hand.
For a moment, I didn't move.
The salesman walked over to a small payment terminal resting on a folding table.
He inserted the card.
The machine processed the transaction.
Then he looked down.
His expression changed.
He tried again.
The same thing happened.
Faron was still talking.
He didn't notice at first.
He was too busy describing the fishing spots he wanted to visit.
His friends stood around him, smiling.
The salesman studied the screen.
Then he picked up the card.
I lowered my spatula.
He walked away from the payment table.
Straight toward Faron.
The card was held carefully between two fingers.
Faron turned when he noticed him approaching.
His smile was still there.
But it began to fade.
The salesman stopped in front of him.
"Sir, I'm afraid there's a problem with this card."
Faron looked at it.
Then he looked at the machine.
"What kind of problem?"
The salesman spoke quietly.
I couldn't hear his answer from where I stood.
But I saw Faron's face change.
His friends stopped talking.
One of them glanced at the card.
Another looked toward the boat.
I stood beside my mother's old recipe, watching.
For eleven years, I had paid those bills without asking for much.
I had covered the gas.
The fishing supplies.
The beer.
The salon appointments.
I had even paid for the things Faron bought when he wanted to impress his friends.
Now he was standing in front of them with a card he believed would work.
And for the first time, the bill wasn't going to disappear into my monthly paycheck.
I picked up another pierogi and placed it in the pan.
The oil crackled.
The salesman was still holding the card.
Faron reached for it.
His face had gone red.
And his three friends were watching him.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The Salesman Returned My Card, and Faron Had to Explain Himself in Front of the Men He Wanted to Impress
I Thought Being a Good Wife Meant Never Making My Husband Feel the Weight of His Own Mistakes
Part 4 of 20
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