DOMINION by Bentley Little (interesting books to read .TXT) 📗

the litany of abuses that continued to provide topics for daytime talk shows. She finally ran away from the last home at seventeen, and at nineteen she was a bank teller in Omaha and pregnant with Dion.

She had not done so badly, all things considered. She had not gotten trapped in the welfare cycle, had been fortunate enough to avoid the minimum-wage circuit, but she had never really been as independent as she wanted to be, as she felt she should be. There had always been the men, paving her way with sheets, assisting her financially and opportunistically in each of her attempts to better herself, to gain more experience or education.

And there had been mistakes.

Lots of mistakes.

Big mistakes.

Cleveland. Albuquerque.

But all of that was behind her now. She was going to try to start fresh here, to learn from the past. It was not going to be easy. She knew that. She was like a recovering addict—there were temptations everywhere. But she just had to be strong, to focus her sights on the future, and to always, always keep Dion’s welfare—financial, educational, and emotional—first and foremost in her mind.

Mr. Aames, her supervisor, walked across the carpeted lobby carrying a stack of folders, which he proceeded to hand to her. “Backlog,” he said.

“From your predecessor.”

“Thank God,” she told him, accepting the pile. “I was running out of things to do.”

He grinned. “You never have to worry about that around here. Anytime you run out of things to do, you come and see me. I’ll find something for you.”

She looked up at him, her eyes level with his gold wedding band. Was that a come-on?

Did she want it to be?

She wasn’t sure.

She smiled sweetly at him. “Thanks,” she said, putting down the folders. “I’ll get started right away.”

The afternoon was slower than usual, particularly in the loan department, and April found herself finishing all of Mr. Aames’ backlog before closing. She was cleaning off the top of her desk, putting papers in their proper drawers, preparing to go home, when she heard a familiar voice.

“Hey there.”

She looked up to see one of the new friends she’d met the other night when she’d come home late and she and Dion had had the fight. She couldn’t immediately remember the woman’s name, but she didn’t need to.

“Margaret,” the woman said. “Remember? Joan Pulkinghorn’s friend?”

“Yeah. Hi.” April glanced over at the teller’s cage, but Joan was either in the vault or in the back office, not at her station. Her gaze focused again on the woman in front of her. “So what brings you around here? Did you come to see Joan?”

“Actually, I wanted to see you.” Margaret sat in the overstaffed chair reserved for loan applicants. “We all had a great time the other evening, and we were just wondering why you hadn’t been by. A couple of us usually stop off at the Redwood Terrace after work to unwind a little before going home, and we were kind of hoping that you’d be one of our regulars. I mean, you certainly breathed some new life into the old group the other evening. I asked Joan about you, and she said she’d invited you to come along, but you were busy. I just wanted to make sure we didn’t offend you or anything, or scare you away.”

“No.”

“So where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

April shrugged awkwardly. “You know. I’ve been busy with my job, my son, getting settled…”

Margaret nodded. “Yeah, I know how that is. When we were just getting our business started, I never saw the light of day. I was up before dawn, not home until after sunset. Work-eat-sleep. That was my life.”

She smiled. “But now I have time for play. So what about after work today? You’re almost off. You want to come along, have a few drinks?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Come on. It’ll be fun.”

April looked down at her desk, concentrated on picking up a paper clip.

The offer was tempting, the pull was strong. It was not just the inducement of a good time. There was something else as well, something more subtle; the promise of belonging, the same sympathetic camaraderie she’d felt the other night. She looked up at Margaret, thought of her other new friends, and felt her resolve slipping.

But then she thought of Dion, sitting alone at home, waiting for her, worried about her. What the hell kind of mother was she? How could she even think about leaving him to fend for himself while she was out on the town?

But then, he was old enough to take care of himself.

“Okay,” she said.

Margaret smiled. “Great!” She leaned forward conspiratorily. “Do I have some stories to tell you. Remember that construction worker I told you about?”

“The one with the—?”

“Yeah. Well, that wasn’t the end of that tale.” She raised her eyebrows comically and stood. “I’m going to stop by and talk to Joan. I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay.” April watched her new friend walk purposefully across the lobby to the teller window where Joan now stood counting her money. The two talked for a moment, and Joan glanced over, smiling and waving.

April waved back. She looked down at her phone, thought of calling Dion to tell him she’d be a little late, then decided against it.

Five minutes later, the bank closed.

Ten minutes later, the three of them were in Margaret’s car, laughing about the construction worker, heading down Main Street toward the Redwood Terrace.

13

The week passed in that quirky time rhythm which always seemed to be generated by school—individual days that crept slowly by yet somehow added up to a quick week overall. Dion had planned out several conversational paths to take with Penelope, but she was absent Monday, and by Tuesday his bravery had fled. They nodded to each other, said hi, but the tentative stab at friendship they had made at lunch on Friday did not seem to have survived the weekend. They were strangers again, awkward and distant with each other,