The Juror (46 page)

“Wait. Sit for a minute. The drawing’s coming up.”

“Got a quiz tomorrow, Mom. So I should probably—”

“You know what it’s worth this time?”

Tara shook her head.

“You’re kidding me,” said Mom. “You really don’t know?”

“I really don’t.”

“Three hundred and eighteen million dollars.”

“Wow.”

The sum touched Tara’s life in no meaningful way, but she thought if she showed sufficient awe maybe Mom would release her.

“Though if you take the lump sum,” said Mom, “then after you pay your taxes, you’d only have a hundred some million.”

“Oh.”

“Like a hundred twenty-odd. Hardly worth bothering, right? You mind freshening this for me? So I won’t disturb the Little
Prince here?”

Mom swirled her glass.

On the TV was
Nip/Tuck
, which wasn’t appropriate for ten-year-old Jase but then he wasn’t watching it anyway. He was playing
Revenant
on his Micro. Oblivious as ever—and Tara was happy to ignore him back. She carried Mom’s glass to the kitchen, filled it
with ice and Bombay and tonic, cut a thin half-wheel of lime and placed it festively. Be solicitous, servile. Try to soften
her. Don’t resist in any way.

But when she returned, Mom was holding up a thin windowed envelope, a bill from some credit card company, and demanding: “Know
how I got this? Came right to the office.
Angela
gave it to me. I didn’t even know this bill existed. It’s for seven hundred dollars. Your father never
mentioned
it.”

What would be the least resistant reply possible? Tara tried, “That’s awful, Mom.”

“Awful? It’s the most humiliating thing that can ever happen to
anyone. Anyone. Ever.
Of course your father isn’t worried. Your father thinks we’ll be fine.”

“Well, won’t we?”

Oh, that was dumb. That was way too cheerful. Mom pounced. “You don’t get it at all, do you? They’re gonna
foreclose
. They’re gonna take our
house
. They’re gonna take it out from under our feet and take the damn Liberty with it. You’re gonna have to leave school. I’m
sorry, cupcake. You’re gonna have to start producing some
income
.”

“Mom, I’m a little tired. Would you mind if I—”

“Do you think I’m
not
tired? I am so
damn
tired of being this poor and your father in total denial and you kids thinking this is some kind of bad dream we’re gonna
wake up from! We’re gonna lose
everything
, do you not get it? This boat is
sinking
. Nobody’s gonna bail
us
out. The boat is going down! I mean, baby, sugarcake, you’re gonna have to start
swimming
. You’re gonna—”

But then came a fanfare on the TV, and instantly Mom left off. She gave Jase a little swat and he hustled out of her way,
and she leaned forward to check her flotilla of tickets.

“And now,” said a somber announcer, “here’s tonight’s drawing for the Max-a-Million jackpot. Tonight’s jackpot is worth… three
hundred and eighteen
milly-on
dollars.”

No one onscreen. Just the voice of that undertaker. And a hopper in the shape of a funeral urn, full of lightly waltzing plastic
balls. One of them flew up suddenly on a puff of air and rolled down a serpentine ramp and posed itself before the camera.

“The first number is… tuh-
wenty
-seven.”

Mom murmured, “Uh-huh. Got that here.” Trying for indifference. But her eyes were full of eagerness.

Tara quietly cheated a few steps toward the hall.

“The next number is forty-two.”

“Well I do have
that
,” said Mom.

And Tara made her move. Melted silkily away while Mom was too dazzled by the numbers to notice.

In her room, Tara shut the door and sat at the laptop on her desk. Clio had just posted:

u still “studying” bitch? do u think jonah wrights sperm has beneficial properties of healing? wil it help u lose pounds from
hips waist and thighs? he wasn’t at headquarters tho just creepy seth from jax. I h8 the wick. die if I dont getout of the
wick.

Tara wrote back:

Havent started yet. Caught by Mom. She’s watching the drawing. In 20 seconds she’l lose and go skitzo.

And right on time: Mom’s hell-on-the-loose shriek from the living room. Worse even than usual. Then: “TARA! TA-
RA!
”

Tara typed brb and opened the door. “Yes?”

“TARA!”

Particularly anguished tonight. Tara returned to the living room to find her on her knees before the TV, with Jase cowering
in the corner. Mom had utterly lost it. Her mouth was open and she was holding up one of her tickets and tears were pouring
down her cheeks, and this wasn’t just another drunken display of self-pity: there was true fear. “GRACE OF GOD!” she cried.
As though she were beholding His face at that very moment. She clutched the ticket in her fist and rocked back and forth.
“GRACE OF GOD! GRACE OF GOD! GRACE OF GOD!”

Credit: Nick Cardillicchio

G
EORGE
D
AWES
G
REEN
is a highly acclaimed novelist and poet and the founder of the not-for-profit storytelling organization, The Moth. He currently
divides his time between Georgia and New York.