“What am I supposed to do? Draw wrinkles on my face?” Mom had said.
Mom had practically the same pixie haircut as in the first-grade picture of her Gram and Pop still kept hanging in their living room. But tonight she’d used strategic amounts of gel on it. Her dark eyes were highlighted with a precision that Lori’s fashion magazines would praise. Her purple suit was classy—not too prim, not too outrageous.
Lori practically approved.
Not that you’d ever catch her saying so.
“Let’s go then,” Mom said. She looked both kids up and down, then turned on her heel for the door.
You might have told us that we looked good, Lori thought. Or at least me. She’d crumpled the homemade sundress into the bottom of her suitcase hours ago (maybe explaining why she’d felt better all afternoon). Now she wore one of those ankle-length floral dresses just about everyone owned. Pure polyester, Gram would have said, but who cared?
Lori followed Mom and Chuck onto a glass elevator overlooking a lobby many floors below. Even through the elevator, they could hear tinkly music being played on the grand piano, right next to an indoor waterfall.
Fancy-schmancy, Pop would call it. In spite of herself, Lori liked it. She remembered a song Pop had sung for her once when she was doing a family history project for school: “How Are They Gonna Keep Them Down on the Farm Once They’ve Seen Paree?” Pop’s own grandfather had sung it to him, because he’d fought in World War I. “Paree” was really Paris, and Pop’s grandfather had really gone there during the war, but he’d hated it. “Filthy people, filthy houses, filthy food, and nobody can talk right. Plus, all those so-called French beauties ain’t any prettier than spit,” had been his report on the city, according to Pop. “Give me the farm any day.”
Lori had always been inclined to side with her great-great-grandfather. Chicago wasn’t Paris, of course, and it wasn’t so bad to visit. Just so you got to go home afterward.
They got to the huge banquet hall, and Mom showed Lori and Chuck their seats.
“I’ll have to be up at the speakers’ table during the meal, too, but you’ll know where to find me if you need me,” she said, just like they were Emma’s age. Lori rolled her eyes. Mom didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll come and get you afterward,” she finished.
The other people at Chuck and Lori’s table were business-people who gave them “What are you doing here?” looks and then ignored them. Lori picked at her dinner: stringy chicken, lumpy rice, and tough pellets of zucchini. Lori tried to imagine what a 4-H cooking judge would have to say about the meal, but that was a boring game. Lori didn’t even like 4-H cooking projects. She just took them because everyone else did. You had to win your blue ribbons somehow.
Lori was actually reduced to daydreaming about whether she should take chicken croquettes or chicken divan to the fair for her cooking project this year when she heard an announcer say, “Our speaker for this evening . . .”
Lori turned around and started paying attention.
He seemed to be introducing some other person—some wildly successful businesswoman—but then he said, “Joan Lawson,” and Mom stood up to a burst of applause and even a wolf whistle or two. You could tell she was standing on a stool, but the man still had to bend the microphone down for her.
“Thank you,” Mom said firmly, making a motion with her hand that effectively ended the clapping. “I knew I could ‘count’ on a group of bankers for a warm reception.”
It was an utterly lame joke, but somehow Mom made it sound funny.
“People are always saying time is money,” she continued. “I figure that’s something you all would know about.”
For some reason, getting behind the podium made Mom sound different. Her vowels got longer, and the “you all” practically became one word. She sounded like she was from the Deep South, instead of southern Ohio. What was that all about?
“I just can’t see someone walking into your bank, strolling up to one of your tellers, and declaring, ‘I’ve got a little spare time on my hands right now, and I’d like to open an account. What kind of interest are you offering on deposits of three hours or more? Will it be up to four hours by the time I’m fifty-nine and a half?’” Mom was saying. “‘How many minutes will I have to forfeit for early withdrawal?’”
Lori didn’t get it. Sure, she understood that Mom was pretending that time really was money and that people could put it in the bank like dollars and cents. But why were the people around her practically falling out of their seats with laughter?