Page 35 of The Light Year

Barbie crosses her feet at the ankles and straightens her spine. She knows that she’s right in wanting what she wants here, and that what she’s planning on doing with the money from her mother is a good and positive thing, but it’s also clearthat the road ahead of her is littered with landmines and hidden obstacles, and she wants Jasper Wilkins to understand this from the outset.

“So,” Barbie says, folding her hands in her lap. “I inherited a sum of money from my late mother when I turned thirty a few weeks ago, and my father has decided that, without my consent, he’s going to take control of the funds.” She holds up a hand before Mr. Wilkins can ask questions. Barbie wants to get the whole story out. “My father is Senator George Mackey from Connecticut, and he and my brother, Theodore, are planning on using the funds to start a foundation that will, in their words, ‘benefit young people who want to go into politics.’” Barbie stops and inhales sharply as she stifles an eye-roll, then surges on. “My intention was to start my own foundation called the Marion Foundation, in honor of my mother, Marion Mackey, and to use the funds to assist community organizations and to better the lives of my less fortunate neighbors.”

“That sounds like a very impressive goal, Mrs. Roman,” Jasper Wilkins says, picking up a pencil and scrawling something on the notepad on his desk. “Senator Mackey, you say?”

“Yes,” Barbie confirms. “And I know there has to be a way to stop them. I don’t want my inheritance to be used so that some kid who went to Princeton can get into politics more easily. That’s not what my mother would have wanted, either.”

“I see.” Jasper Wilkins puts the pencil down and looks at her seriously. “First, can we assume that thereisa will?”

“Yes,” Barbie says. “I think so.”

Mr. Wilkins nods gravely. “You’ve never seen it?”

Barbie shakes her head slowly. “No… I guess I haven’t. I’ve just always known that she left money for me and for my brother to receive on our thirtieth birthdays. Ted got his a few years ago, and now it’s my turn.” For the first time, Barbie considerssomething: “Do you think that there’s some provision in the will that my father has to approve whatever we do with the funds?”

Jasper Wilkins sits back in his leather chair and puts both elbows on the armrests. Behind him, a large window looks out at the parking lot, which is filled with shiny cars and palm trees sprouting from grassy medians.

“I think that’s possible,” Mr. Wilkins says. “Certainly. But if she’d wanted you both to wait until you turned thirty, then it’s unlikely she would have added a stipulation like that. However,” he says gently, lowering his head like he’s worried that Barbie might get angry and throw something at him. “There might be enough fight in him that he’s willing to drag this through the courts and slow things down indefinitely. I mean, a woman can’t even open a bank account without a co-signer, Mrs. Roman, so it’s possible a judge and jury might agree with the idea that you need a man to oversee your expenditures and plans for this money.”

The attorney looks at her apologetically, and Barbie fumes. She very nearly stands up from her chair and paces the room, but instead she makes her hands into fists and pounds her own thighs. “No,” she says adamantly.

Jasper Wilkins raises his eyebrows. “No?” he repeats.

“Okay, yes, I understand women aren’t allowed to have their own bank accounts—or even their own brains—but that shouldn’t apply here, Mr. Wilkins. That money is mine,” Barbie says angrily, jabbing a finger at the giant wooden desk, “and I have plans that my mother would wholeheartedly approve of.”

He looks even more sad as she says this. “Barbara—may I call you that?” Barbie nods; she hardly cares what he calls her as she’s being told that she’s incapable of inheriting and managing her own money. “Unfortunately, your mother is not here to confirm her intentions, so all we can do is speculate at this point.”

Barbie feels the words like a knife in her belly, and she sinks back in her chair, deflated. “I know,” she says softly. “I know she’s not here.”

When Barbie leaves Jasper Wilkins’ office, it’s with a clutch of bags in each hand, and a frown on her face. She’s not defeated yet, but she’s frustrated. Mr. Wilkins has promised to get in touch with Senator Mackey’s attorney and request a copy of the will and the inheritance paperwork, but with each passing day, it’s feeling more and more like Barbie will have to smile cheerfully for the cameras as she fronts some dumb foundation that funds golf lessons for young fraternity boys who want to improve their games so they can hobnob better with other politicians. And that depresses her deeply.

Even the oversized bells and candy canes made of tinsel that hang from every lamppost on the main street don’t cheer her up. As Barbie loads presents into the trunk of her car, rather than thinking about how happy her boys will be to open them on Christmas morning, all she can think about is how disappointed her mother would be if she were alive to see this sad spectacle between her husband and children.

She drives home in silence, not even bothering to turn on the radio.

The next evening is the community holiday party at The First Baptist Church of the Gospel. Barbie has worked all afternoon decorating the room where the children play during services, and she’s thrilled now to walk down the aisle in the church’s nave, taking in the greenery that she and Carrie have gotten as donations from a florist in Stardust Beach, and the way the tall pillar candles flicker on the altar.

It’s all so beautiful and peaceful, and Barbie slides onto a pew in the silence, taking a moment for herself. From the kitchen in the distance, she can hear people talking happily and prepping food, but this time is hers, and she closes her eyes and says a silent prayer of gratitude for being welcomed into this community of people the way that she has.

“Mind if I join you?”

Barbie’s eyes fly open in surprise; it’s Father Watkins’ son, Sam. He stands a respectful distance away from Barbie, hands clasped in front of him. He’s dressed in sharply creased black slacks, and a white shirt with a tie.

“Yes, please,” Barbie says, sliding over in the pew. “Of course.”

Sam sits and they both face forward, eyes cast towards the giant wooden cross that hangs over the pulpit. The candles flicker and dance, warming the space with their glow.

“This is beautiful,” Sam says. Barbie turns her head and looks at him to see the way his eyes sparkle with gratitude. “Seeing everyone pull together for an event always touches my heart,” he says, looking right at her and not even trying to hide the tears of joy in his eyes.

“I feel really lucky to be here.” Barbie puts both hands between her knees and looks down at her lap. “I wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome here, and I have been. You have such a lovely church, and such generous and kind parishioners.”

“They are lambs of God,” Sam says with a firm nod. “All of them. Hard-working, good-hearted people who are humble and filled with the spirit.”

“I can see that.”

Sam frowns slightly, looking somehow confused and amused at the same time. “But let me ask you, why did you think you wouldn’t be welcome here?” He gives her a long look. “Is it because of the color of your skin?”

Barbie’s cheeks flame hotly; she nods.

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