Eva was at the stove, buttering bread next to a fry pan for grilled cheese. She eyed them.
“Did you bring your lawyer to have a look?” she asked Margot.
Margot said nothing, watching Satterfield perch himself on a stool.
“I was beginning to think you’d dropped off the face of the earth,” Eva said. She put the buttered bread into the skillet, creating a hiss.
The little boy had followed them, was tapping Margot’s hip, holding up the red car. She took it. He stood quietly a moment, watching her, satisfied, then reached up for it. Margot handed it back to him. He climbed onto a stool, still staring at the visitors. Eva flipped the sandwich and the pan hissed again. She covered the sandwich and switched off the burner, then started building the second sandwich, slicing a huge brick of cheddar.
“You followed me home,” she said without looking up. “That’s creepy.” She turned to face Margot. “Why? What do you want?”
Margot gave a short laugh. “You’ve been calling me, blackmailing me about my son and—”
“It’s not blackmail!” Eva interrupted, turning back to the stove. “Blackmail is when I have information I’m going to leak if you don’t pay.” She used the spatula to point at Birdie. “A little late to keep him a secret.”
Margot pulled her bad arm closer to her body, rankled.
“Since it’s legally my money,” Eva continued, “It’s not blackmail.”
She pulled off the lid and scooped the sandwich onto the cutting board, sliced off the crusts with four quick moves and slid it onto a plate. She handed it to Birdie, warning him not to burn himself. He began to blow on it.
Cheese oozed out the side.
“A paternity test,” said Satterfield, leaning on the counter. “We’re here to ask for a paternity test.”
“A paternity test!” Eva cried. “You still don’t believe me!” She looked at Margot and snorted. “If I was going to lie, if I wanted to blackmail somebody, wouldn’t I choose, like, a senator’s kid? Or the university president?”
Margot looked at Satterfield, speechless.
“How long did you two date?” Satterfield asked. Margot could tell he was hoping to catch her in a lie.
“Uh, I wouldn’t say we dated,” she laughed, turning on the burner again. She dropped the second sandwich in with another satisfying hiss.
“Well, it’s irrelevant,” Satterfield boomed, “until we get a paternity test.” He cleared his throat with authority and stood. “If the test comes back positive, you’ll be asked to sign a document, a notarized document that says this won’t go on forever. There will be a settled upon amount, then, that’s it. No calls when you want to send him to private school. No haggling over new clothes, or a car when he’s sixteen.”
Margot’s jaw dropped. Was he making this up as he went along? What document? What was he talking about? Forgetting the sandwich, Eva turned to Satterfield, then Margot.
“You act like we’re an illness.”
“You are an illness!” Margot shouted. “You’re blackmailing me and I want proof! How absurd that this might hurt your feelings!”
Satterfield glared at her and continued in his booming voice. “We will file for a restraining order. If you approach any member of the Fickett family, they have the right to take you to court. You could go to jail.”
Margot’s fracture was aching. She suddenly longed for her house, the view of the back yard, where the grass was showing now. The creek was thawing. She looked at Birdie, who was quietly eating his sandwich. She smelled burnt cheese. Where on earth were this girl’s parents? How could anyone be so alone?
With deliberate, unrushed movements, Eva turned back to the stove and switched off the burner. Looking straight at Satterfield, she said, “That doesn’t sound remotely legal. Whoever heard of a restraining order on a single mother wanting child support?”
He was silent. Margot knew he was thinking the same thing she was: Eva wasn’t stupid.
“What kind of lawyer are you, anyway?” she asked. “Lawyers don’t work on Saturdays. They don’t stalk people.” She looked at Margot. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
Weariness had settled over her. She said to Satterfield, “I think we should go.”
Satterfield stood and headed towards the door.
“I’ll do it,” Eva said.
They turned.
“The paternity test. But I want you to do something for me, too. I have Monday off. Meet me here, in the morning. I want to show you something.”
When Margot didn’t say anything, Satterfield asked, “What?”
“Why I want the money.”
Margot’s throat was dry. She felt like she was coming down with spring flu, that sinking tightness in her throat. Satterfield was moving again, saying they’d be in touch about where to go for the test. Margot felt his long fingers gently encircling her upper arm, leading her to the front door.
Once they were driving away from the condo complex, Margot said, “You shouldn’t have parked so close. That was horrible.”
He didn’t answer right away. His brow was knit. She was about to say more when he asked, “What did you say her name was? Her full name?”
“Eva Baker.”
“And her father, you said—what does he do?”
Margot closed her eyes, tried to remember that first terrible conversation. “She said he was a wealth manager.”
“Ethan—was that his name? Ethan Baker?”
“That’s him,” Margot said.
Satterfield covered his mouth with a weary hand. They were at a stoplight. He looked at her.
“What?”
“Donors,” he said. “Gold level symphony supporters, Ethan and Annie Baker.”
A gong pounded in her chest. Christ, the Bakers had been sponsors several years running, had bought a table at the spring fundraising gala. They were enthusiastic supporters of the adopt-a-musician program. This year, in fact, the musician chosen for their gold level cello section sponsorship was Margot herself.
Christy Stillwell is the winner of the 2017 Elixir Press Fiction Award, a finalist in the Glimmer Train Short Story Contest, a Pushcart Prize nominee and the recipient of a Wyoming Arts Council Literary Fellowship. She is also the author of the poetry chapbook, Amnesia (Finishing Line Press). She lives in Bozeman, MT. You can visit her at christystillwell.com.
