Page 27 of The Arrangement
“You know I have a cell phone, right? I can text you. Or call you. I don’t have to yell.”
“What is wrong with you tonight?” I ask, laughing. “You’re ornery as hell.”
“I just got pissed off again thinking about Thomas and his skinny little finger shoved in my face.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “Next time, I’ll take it and shove it up his?—”
“Good night, Mimi,” I say loud enough to drown out her rant. “I love you.”
She smiles. “I love you, too, honey. Sleep tight.”
I pull her door closed and take the few steps to the kitchen.
The air is scented with the popcorn I had for dinner and the sauerkraut the people across the hall apparently had for theirs. I flip on the light, waiting for it to finish flickering before plucking the papers I hid from Mimi off the top of the refrigerator.
My stomach sours as I reread the return label.Marquis Morrison Insurance Co.
“How can they get away with this?” I whisper, releasing a long, hard breath. I tap the envelope against my palm and sigh.
The letter was at the bottom of the stack of mail delivered today. I almost mistook it for junk and tossed it in the garbage. A part of me wishes I had.
I scan the letter once again, looking for their contact information. Thankfully, I spy a twenty-four-hour customer service number.
“Mimi?” I poke my head into her room, working hard to keep my tone light. “I’m going to go for a quick walk. I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay.”
I turn for the entryway, open the envelope, and type the customer service number printed at the top of the letterhead into my phone. Then I slip into the hallway and lock the door behind me.
Sitcoms and music drift out of each apartment as I pass. I take the stairs quickly down one floor, my finger hovering over the phone but wait until I reach the entry before pressing the green button.
The doors to the Pliny Building squeal as they open. Cigarette smoke clouds the steps, the inhabitants of the complex not giving a crap about the sign forbidding that exact behavior that hangs behind them. I fan my face, trying not to breathe in the putrid smell, as I find a relatively quiet spot next to a tree in the vacant lot beside our building.
Car alarms and sirens wail in the distance as I work through several prompts, and it takes a few minutes to wade through the questions before I get a human.
“Thank you for calling Morrison Insurance Company. This is Savannah. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with today?”
“Hi. This is Chloe Goodman.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “I received a termination letter today for my car insurance, and I’m unsure what happened. I sent my payment in on the seventh.”
“I’m happy to look into this for you, Ms. Goodman. May I get your birthdate and the last four digits of your social security number, please?”
“Sure.” I rattle off the information. “This has never happened before. I don’t know what’s going on.”
She clicks away on a keyboard. “All right, Ms. Goodman. It looks like your monthly installment was due on the first. We offer a ten-day grace period, as stated on your bill. But your check wasn’t received until the twelfth.”
“Okay. But you did receive it?”
“Yes, ma’am. But unfortunately, it was two days beyond the grace period, and your policy went into automatic termination.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.I pace around the tree trunk.
“One easy way around this is to sign up for automatic bill pay,” she says, like I’m unaware of the marvels of modern technology.
“I know. I switched banks recently and am moving everything over slowly,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Look, I’ve been a customer with you for three years, and I’ve never missed a payment. I mailed it on the seventh. It’ll say that on the envelope.”
“I understand. However, it was due on the first. It was still technically six days late if you mailed it on the seventh.”
“So what do I do now? Do I have car insurance?”
“You do not.”
