| DATE | RECEIVED | NOTES |
| March 31, 1990 | $45,000 | J.W. Roof Service and Repair |
IT WASN’T HARD TO DO. Becky had logged so many invoices in her years of bookkeeping that she had a veritable mental album of Accounts Payable: dozens of templates, fonts, misspellings, dropped digits, and unimaginative company names to whip through. She mocked up an invoice, at home usually, on one of four flea market typewriters, rotating through different kinds of paper (cream to dead white, in varying weights), and gave it a fake service date and amount. In the beginning, she worried about the bill itself, and would go to great lengths to simulate the crunch of post office processing by crumpling, then smoothing the bill, folding it in thirds, at times flicking it with dirty dishwater and leaving it to dry on a tea towel. Then she just dropped the fake invoice into the wire baskets for Accounts Payable along with the real bills she sorted from the general mail delivery.
Payments rolled out with no questions, funneled into the spiderweb of accounts and sub-accounts and sub-sub-accounts that she herself set up and managed, closing and instituting accounts so often that everyone in the office was grateful not to have to understand the big picture, grateful she was there to tell them what to do. No one had a better memory than Miss Farwell. She could call up details on the past four rounds of tax code revisions without batting an eye (if you’d been so unlucky as to ask a tangential question)—and would reel off numbers and years and acronyms, on and on and on, smiling brightly at you there by the water cooler, until you could thank her, nod as if you knew what she was talking about, and flee back to your desk. Thank god for Becky, so commonly muttered around City Hall, was a kind of shorthand everyone understood. It meant Thank god someone else knows that mess so I don’t have to get my head around it.
Money moved in and out of the accounts, including RF Capital Development, one of a half-dozen dedicated “RF” funds, and Becky made sure to supervise numerous payouts for bills from all of them. At times she even let RF Capital empty out—though she hated to see it that way—just as the others did, to keep them all alike. Then once a month she would pay her credit card bills using RF Capital. She often paid city cards that way too—they were transitioning to credit for many services—and also she ostentatiously “paid back” to City Hall any personal charges, i.e., meals without clients, using her own pale pink checks stamped Miss Rebecca Farwell, 140 County Road M, Pierson.
So much money shunted in and out of that one artery, RF Capital Development, and yet Becky could put the total in the account to within a few dollars at any time. Not to mention she kept detailed notes—stupid, she knew—logged in the meticulous bookkeeping manner that was her second nature. By the end of the 1980s she was taking a hundred thousand a month and putting back into Pierson maybe a quarter of that. Her annual salary was a respectable fifty-nine thousand, plus benefits.
| DATE | PAID | NOTES |
| October 9, 1989 | $140 | United Airlines (NYC) |
| $300 | Le Cirque (NYC) | |
| October 16, 1989 | $199 | United Airlines (NYC) |
| $695 | Casa Bella (FRANK M BROUGHT FRIENDS!!) | |
| October 25, 1989 | $180 | United Airlines (NYC) |
| $80 | CATS tickets | |
| $400 | Four bottles Château Mouton-Rothschild | |
| October 26, 1989 | $580,000 | Wired to Frank M, via Beate Gallery, full payment for Thiebaud, ICE CREAM CAKE 1979 |
| October 26, 1989 | $14.99 | Pierson Fantasy Florals (Mrs. Fletcher, Happy Secretary’s Day) |
By early 1990 all of Pierson knew that Becky loved “pictures.” For her twenty-ninth birthday, the city council surprised her with an ornately framed oil rendering of Rock River, commissioned by esteemed area painter W. Marlon Rinman, who presided gravely over the ceremonial unveiling of his work, accepting Miss Farwell’s gushing astonishment with mere nods of acknowledgment. Later, several members of the council wondered at the way Becky chose to hang this beautiful piece, so relaxing to look at, right next to a couple of other pictures, small brown things with squiggly lines. Like stuff your kid made.
But if only she had someone! Women in Pierson would inevitably gossip.
I heard she was dating Ted Thompson.
Oh, she dumped Teddy two months ago—but he won’t say a bad word about her.
What about that commissioner from Rock Falls, the one she brought to the tree lighting last year?
He could light my tree.
Who knows.
Men can’t handle strong women. They don’t like it when they’re not the one wearing the pants.
Nothing Becky can do there—she’s always going to be the one wearing the pants.
Thing is, even if they have it all, some women—at this, everyone sighed—just aren’t lucky in love.
Ingrid laughed every time Becky did this routine over the phone at night, cranking up her voice into her best nasal flat-vowel accent, making up what they were all saying. Who? Ingrid demanded. You know who, Becky said. Them.
Fuck them, Ingrid said through the receiver, and Becky smiled. Sleepy-phone protective Ingrid was one of her favorite Ingrids.
| DATE | RECEIVED | NOTES |
| June 9, 1990 | $140,000 | Mapplethorpe, SHADOW BLOCK, sale to Monk Gallery, LA |
| DATE | PAID | NOTES |
| June 10, 1990 | $499,999 | Hockney, STUDY 2 (Ghent Gallery—NEVER AGAIN!) |
| July 4, 1990 | $1,900 | Marilynne’s Pony Parade (July 4 town party) |
| DATE | RECEIVED | NOTES |
| July 21, 1990 | $4,000 | Doherty video |
| $45,000 | Auerbach, PROFILE | |
| $19,000 | Bill, THREE SQUARES sale to Adira Khan (via Mac) |
| DATE | PAID | NOTES |
| July 30, 1990 | $35,000 | Marden, SKETCHES FOR COLD MOUNTAIN |
| $43,000 | Sherman, UNTITLED NO. 102 | |
| August 1, 1990 | $1,000 | Tracy Moncton, monthly |
| August 7–10, 1990 | $9,000 | Bergdorf (Ungaro, YSL, Perry Ellis) |
Council meetings took place monthly, on Tuesday evenings, in the first-floor conference room in Town Hall. Budget season was May and October, so during those months Becky and Mayor Brennan held more frequent sessions for various city services to come plead their cases for funding. Later, the published budget would be released to the local paper, and a public hearing traditionally took place in one of the church meeting rooms.
Council members, many of whom had been elected and reelected for decades, could barely remember a harder time than the present year, although they often tried to: the Carter administration crisis . . . the mid-sixties drought . . . the early-eighties subsidy squeeze. But no one could successfully argue Pierson had seen it worse before.
And it was clearly taking its toll on Miss Farwell. Each meeting, stretching past 10 pm, deepened the violet shadows under her eyes. Look at her tonight, shaking her head even before Police Chief Vessey finished reading his statement. It had to be hard, to be the one always having to deliver bad news.
“I wish we could, Jim.”
“Now wait a minute. We were told if we held off until fall we could—”
“It just isn’t there.” Becky brushed at the binder in front of her. Several council members nodded, or shook their heads, meaning the same thing. “I would go to Busch Municipal on my knees if it would do anything. They’re screwing us, Jim. Excuse me for putting it that way.” Her voice caught.
Mayor Brennan began to speak, something conciliatory, but Chief Vessey shook it off. “You said fall,” he told Becky, exhaling hard. “Training, operations, patrols, ballistics. Can’t be done on ninety thousand. We’ve waited. Now it’s goddamn fall!” That last shouted word startled everyone, but none so much as Miss Farwell, who flinched, both hands flying up to her mouth and nose, pressed together in front of them. She swiveled to turn her back to the table. Was she—?
Brennan called for a break. Vessey hovered, uneasy, until a council member drew him away. Miss Farwell stood, shielding her face, and walked quickly out of the conference room. In a short time she was back, though, in the same chair at the front, her face freshly washed and her eyes shining and steady.
“Next item,” Becky said. Voice clear and almost entirely calm.
| DATE | PAID | NOTES |
| November 20, 1990 | $650 | Groceries |
| $1,300 | Wine delivery (Thanksgiving here with I’s parents and two aunts, JESUS GOD) | |
| December 10, 1990 | $1,400 | Resurface HS gym floor |
| $500 | Food, drinks, decorations (HS Winter Ball) | |
| December 15, 1990 | $1,299 | (Franklin Furs—Mrs. F) |
| $4,500 | (Swarovski—office staff) | |
| $850 | (Blackhawks VIP pkg—Ken) | |
| $2,000 | (FAO Schwarz delivery—TJ) | |
| $32 | (necktie—Ken) | |
| $13,300 | (Davis Jewelers—Ingrid) |
“What the shit,” Ingrid said flatly. At Becky’s door, 9:45 Christmas morning, dangling the emerald pendant necklace from her gloved fingers. She pushed past Becky in her robe, bringing cold air into the house.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Because, you dummy. I drove by last night on my way home from church and saw your lights on! You lied to me!”
“The flight was canceled last minute!” Becky wrapped her robe tighter, naked underneath. She’d been upstairs having espresso, opening her own gifts to herself: a rare small Barnett Newman oil and two photographs from Tracy Moncton’s latest editioned series. She’d had to fight to get these from the woman’s new big-name agent who only reluctantly allowed the sale when Tracy insisted, still honoring their deal. The artworks and all of their discarded packaging were now strewn across Becky’s California king–sized bed.
Guilt after the nightmarish series of budget meetings had worked its way through her, and the past several months she’d pulled back hard on the skimming. She’d moved money around to return some to various accounts, and she’d covered as much as she could for the town out of her own pocket (secretly, as far as she could). That meant denying herself the fall art shows and half a dozen serious deals that made her fume with longing and regret. So these purchases were extra special.
“Why didn’t you call? We have so much food!” Ingrid stalked the living room, her fleecy pajama bottoms tucked into winter boots. Then she stopped, suddenly quiet. “You don’t . . . Do you have someone over?”
Becky followed Ingrid’s pointing toward the stairs. She laughed, immediately igniting her friend’s ire again.
“I knew you weren’t going to the Florida Keys. I told Neil, I call bullshit. Since when does Becky go sit on a beach for vacation? Since when does she vacation! But I can’t believe you lied to me.”
“I lied to everyone. Do you want a coffee?”
“No, I have to get back. My in-laws will be expecting a festive brunch on top of tonight’s roast beef extravaganza.” Ingrid collapsed onto Becky’s leather sectional. “And what the hell is this?” She swung the emerald necklace around her fingers.
“You’re welcome?” Becky curled up next to her friend, whose wide pale face looked more tired than ever. She’d had to quit being an ER nurse after TJ was born in order to care for him full time. After a series of bewildering seizures, and multiple tests, he’d been diagnosed with an intellectual disability. Ingrid dealt with all of it—finding doctors, researching treatments, and now her own lack of income—with brisk good cheer. Becky wasn’t sure what it meant for TJ and never really knew what to say. “Did he like the electric car?”
“Oh, Becky.” Ingrid’s face lit. “I don’t think he’s gotten out of it since six am. He can barely sit up in it but he’s driving it all over the house, ramming it into everyone’s legs, making all the right car noises . . . We’re going to go broke for that thing’s batteries.” She grabbed Becky’s hand, but then scowled. “But this? And don’t tell me it’s paste. What are you thinking, spending that kind of money?”
“I thought it would go well with your eye color.”
“With my jelly-stained sweatsuit?”
“I’ll exchange it for you.”
Ingrid let the necklace fall in a silky metallic heap onto the coffee table. She stared at it, not Becky. Becky made herself wait. She wouldn’t think about the two pieces on her bed upstairs. She wouldn’t look toward the one painting she allowed herself to display down here, a 6-inch-by-6-inch Matisse oil. Pretty enough to escape anyone’s notice—Ingrid had never commented on it—it was worth several times the house and property lot combined.
“You could tell me, you know.” Ingrid pushed back a tendril that had escaped her scrunchie, and smiled. “If there’s . . . someone. Like, a guy. Or a girl!”
Becky laughed, and so did Ingrid. “I’m just saying!”
“Nothing’s going on, Beanie. I’m sorry I didn’t call. Tagging along on other people’s family holidays can get me down, that’s all.”
Ingrid weighed this as she was now weighing the necklace coiled in her pink palm. She had no response, which startled Becky, who realized that what she’d said about tagging along had more truth than she’d planned.
“Well,” Ingrid said at last. She handed the necklace to Becky, swiveled away from her, and waited.
Becky needed three tries with the clasp, her fingers brushing against her friend’s nape. “What do you think?”
Ingrid turned and held down her bulky acrylic scarf so they could see the pendant, half-hidden in her pajama top.
Becky burst out laughing. “Okay, I’m an idiot. Give it back and I’ll—”
Ingrid put a hand over the emerald. “No way! I’m going to wear it on every trip to the FastMart. And the pediatrician. And story hour at the—” They tussled, shrieking, until Becky slid off the leather couch onto the carpet. Ingrid gave her a hand up. “All right, let’s go. I’m already in the doghouse.”
Becky put her hands on Ingrid’s shoulders. “You head back, and I’ll be half an hour. I’ll get doughnuts from that place by the gas station.”
“My in-laws are the worst, you’ll go crazy,” Ingrid said happily, giving Becky a long muffling hug. “We’ll start drinking at noon.”
“We’ll hide in the kitchen with a bottle of wine.” Becky breathed in the sugary scent of Ingrid’s melon shampoo.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Ingrid sighed. Still hugging her.