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“Did you call me just to laugh?” Wallace asks. He’s only half here, obviously in the middle of something else, his voice strained because the phone is pinched between his shoulder and ear.
“Basically,” I say. “But not to you. Where’s Mother?”
“She’s getting her hair and makeup done. And I believe she told you not to bother her while she’s in Paris?”
“She never told me she was leaving! I found out from Liz Slate, of all people.”
“I was literally in the room when she was talking about this, Rhett. Maybe if you paid a little more attention to your mother you’d have half an idea of what’s going on at this bank.”
Any pleasure at the snow storm is quickly being sucked up by Wallace’s unique ability to drain the life out of everyone around him. “I need to talk to her.”
“And I need to go.”
“Don’t you dare—!”
Wallace hangs up on me. It’s pretty shitty. Enough that I actually, beyond all reason, feel a little bad for doing the same to Liz last night. There’s no time for repentance though. I need to tell Mother not to expect either of us in Chicago.
I call Wallace again. He ignores me. There’s another option but even I stop to consider if I really want to dial Mother’s personal phone number. Once she’d disturbingly told me that it’s only for friends and lovers and since I’m neither, I can go through Wallace if I want to talk to her. The memory is enough to push me toward it. What kind of fucked-up family has an intermediary between mother and son?
The phone rings three times before she picks up. “How did you get this number?” she demands.
“Texted myself from it when you left it on your desk,” I say simply. “Why are you getting your hair and makeup done?”
“For a photoshoot. I’m going to be on the cover of Banks and Babes,” she says.
“Wait, that’s a thing? Isn’t there someone — I don’t know — younger they could use?” Like Liz. She’d look good on a magazine cover.
“What? No, I—” Mother takes a deep, calming breath. “Do you listen to anything I say? I told you in New York. I’m on a panel with the Minister of Finance today. Now what do you want?”
“Can’t go to Chicago,” I say, getting right to the point. “Airports are closed and backlogged for a couple days, and then the storm’s going to be in Chicago shutting down their airports over the weekend.”
Mother is quiet so I continue, lounging back in my king-sized bed, a satisfied smirk on my face: “I’m not one to believe in omens but I suspect that forces larger then yours are at work here.”
“There’s no such thing,” Mother snaps.
“So you’re more powerful than—” I pause to read the news ticker on the bottom of the television. “The Largest Winter Storm of the Decade?”
“Yes,” she says flatly. “And so are you. It’s weather, Rhett. I never could have built the Westing Bank if I’d just turned over in bed the moment I hit an obstacle.”
“I’m not building a bank, or a business,” I remind her.
“No, you’re fighting for your future,” she states. “Maybe you’re not taking this seriously enough, Rhett, so let me be very clear. Either Chicago now or a homeless shelter on Monday.”
“I have friends I can stay with,” I snap. “I don’t need you or your money.”
“And will they still be your friends once you’re broke?” Mother asks. “I wish I could have the same confidence in my friends.”
She has a point and I hate it. Could she actually be serious about this?
“Aren’t facials supposed to make people relaxed?” I ask. “Only you can still be a massive bitch in a spa.”
“I’m not getting a facial, Rhett,” she barks. “I’m preparing for war. Now I’m asking you to do the same. If you care about your lifestyle and your family name you’ll do whatever it takes. Trust me, once you get to Chicago the snow will be the least of your worries.”
I sigh heavily and look again at the whiteout outside my windows. “Well how the hell am I supposed to get there?” I ask.
“Take a car.” Then she too hangs up on me.
I stare at the phone for a moment before tossing it beside me. I may have to apologize to Liz for that. Not immediately of course. But apparently there’ll be plenty of time to get to it.
