Page 31 of Operation Annulment
A male voice pipes up in the background, and Dakota explains my predicament with the same enthusiasm one might have when going in for a root canal.
“Here, talk to Little Ricky. He’s a man and knows how they think.”
“But I don’t?—”
“Hail Mary, full of grace. How’s it hangin’?”
I don’t want to discuss my love life with my sister’s neighbor and new best friend. A man who shared the history behind his name within seconds of meeting me but was suspiciously vague when I asked what he did for a living. I want my sister to give me the same attention I’ve given her over the past twenty-two years.
“Rick,” I force out through gritted teeth. “It’s Kate. As I’ve told you at least a hundred times by now. May I speak with Dakota again, please?”
He laughs easily. “Nah, Caparina’s gettin’ ready for the gym. I hear there’s trouble in paradise. Tell ya boy all about it.”
For reasons I cannot fathom, Little Ricky refuses to call us by our real names. Dakota never bothers to correct him, though she obviously has no idea what Caparina means. Meanwhile, I’ve wasted more time than I care to admit trying to determine if his nickname for me is a football or Catholicism reference.
Against my better judgment, I lay out the case against Nate, starting with the nagging feeling that something is missing to finding ‘female shit’ in the bathroom, as Little Ricky so eloquently put it.
“And you’re sure they weren’t there before?” He asks after a brief pause. “You said he was married before, maybe his ex moved out and left some of her shit behind.”
I consider it before remembering the most damning piece of evidence. “I also found a pair of panties wedged between the couch cushions.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Caparina, get yourculoback in here. Hail Mary’s got actual problems this time?—”
“What do you mean,actual problems? I’m not calling for fake problems.”
He laughs like he thinks I’m joking. “Okay, Hail Mary. Whatever you say. Personally, I feel you need to take a chill pill most of the time.”
“Don’t tell her that,” Dakota tells him before taking the phone. “Kate, what do you have for me? Do I need to add him to the list? Come on, a girl needs a name.”
I massage my temple with my free hand. I should have called my co-worker and best friend Nicole instead of my sister. “No. He doesn’t need to be on your list. Will you stop with the Game of Thrones talk?”
“Let me know if you change your mind. Ooh, real quick, have you seen our grandmother lately?”
In the background, Little Ricky cackles maniacally.
“Um, no. Seeing her isn’t high on my priorities right now, kid. I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact she was stealing from us the entire damn time we lived with her.”
“Thought so. Just one small favor? If you see her, ask her if she’s feeling royal lately—maybe work something about me into the conversation, if needed. What do you think, Little Ricky? Implicate ourselves or work like the group Anonymous? You know, ‘we are legion.’ I think that might be more terrifying for her. Scratch that, Kate. Just ask her how she likes the dye job.”
I groan. “What did you do to her hair? I thought we were going to discuss things before you began punishing people. I seriously just called for some advice.”
“Uh, we discussed it,” Dakota says, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “You didn’t make the meeting. As for the advice? I’d say your chances of having an honest, long-term relationship with the man are about as good as my chances of getting back together with the undercover cop sent to ruin my life. What do you think, LR?”
“Oh, Hail Mary. You’re completely fucked on this one.”
I hang up with a growl and pace my apartment. Once, after one too many happy hour martinis, Nicole speculated that my father’s death and mother’s abandonment were the reasons behind my sky-high standards in relationships.
As much as I want to deny it, her assessment rings true. I leave people before they can leave me because I never want to feel pain like I did when they told us my father had died. I don’t want to relive watching my mother drive away after dropping us off on our grandparents’ front porch.
These were the same grandparents who would go on to steal the money our mother sent every month. The money would have been enough to cover clothes, cars, and college.
I stumble to a stop beside the couch, struck by the possibility that the twenty-five thousand dollars that appeared in my bank account overnight isn’t an error after all.
My mother had been gutted to discover we never received a dime of the money, but to wire thousands of dollars to try to make up for years of neglect?
Never gonna happen.
If I call and report it, the bank should be able to reverse the payment. I gnaw on my bottom lip when it occurs to me that I could also do something completely irresponsible, like spend it.
