The lawyer had called. Glen Kelner of Taft, Kelner, and Moore was perhaps the only person certain of Layla’s paternity—aside from her biological parents. It was Kelner who’d responded all those years ago after Tonya had formally requested child support. Kelner who’d worked out the DNA test. Kelner who’d determined the annual payment and how that money would be delivered in “the interest of discretion.”
Tonya kept the attorney’s card clipped to papers within a folder inside a Payless boot box beneath her bed. Unbeknownst to Layla, it had always held their family’s most important documents: social security cards, hospital files, and the birth certificate with the blank space after father’s name. Its bottom was lined with the folder containing Layla’s paternity test and Kelner’s number.
She withdrew the card and tapped the telephone number into her cell. As it rang, she moved to her bedroom window. Tonya was certain that Layla stood on the opposite side of the master bedroom wall with her ear pressed to the plaster, straining to hear some answer that Tonya had refused to provide.
Her daughter had wanted to know everything. Who was he? How many years had he been supporting her? And, above all, why was he paying their rent but refusing to meet her?
Tonya had deflected each question in hopes that her daughter would give up before posing the final one. She’d known every query was a segue to Layla asking why her biological father wanted to remain secret. As Layla had asked her questions, Tonya had felt like she was driving up a stretch of mountain road leading to a summit and inevitable drop-off. On the other side of that last question was nothing but an emotional free fall.
The phone continued to ring. Kelner’s secretary picked up, her voice all business and then faux concern. “Yes, I understand. Well, I’ll have to see if he’s in. You don’t have to hold.”
“Oh yes, I do.”
Every muscle in Tonya’s strained neck fought to constrain her vocal cords, to keep them from vibrating at a speed that would produce a harpy’s cry. The threat to board the next Midtown-bound train and barge through the law firm’s door lodged in the back of her throat.
As hold music played, Tonya paced the sliver of space between her bed and the wall. When she couldn’t stand doing that anymore, she opened her window and climbed out onto the fire escape. Her fury kept the cold from registering. This was not how things were supposed to go. The payments were automatically deposited and the bills withdrawn—no matter what. Even in the event of death, the money was supposed to come out of Layla’s father’s estate.
Kelner came on the line just as Tonya was poised to start down the steps in search of yet more space. She responded to his curt greeting with a seething whisper. “How dare you talk to my daughter.”
“Ms. Sayre, I understand you’re upset.”
“Why would you—”
“Your daughter answered the phone and didn’t identify herself. I’d believed that I was speaking with you.”
“She’s eleven. E-le-ven.” Tonya broke the age into three clear syllables. “We sound nothing, absolutely nothing, alike.”
“On the phone, that’s not clear, and you and I don’t speak—”
“What in the hell did you tell my kid?” Tonya shouted.
Dead air answered.
Tonya tilted her head back in a silent scream. She might not sound like Layla, but she was in her daughter’s exact position. Just as she knew more than she’d told her kid, Kelner had the information that Tonya needed. It was the attorney’s choice—not hers—whether he shared any of it.
The silence on the line made Tonya aware of the sounds below. She glanced through the metal staircase to see a car rumble past and at least one individual lingering on the sidewalk, staring up as though she might be a jumper. She raised a hand in apology and slunk inside.
Back in her bedroom, she forced herself onto her mattress and dialed a second time. Ringing resounded until there was a loud click. Tonya clenched the duvet beneath her, determined to keep her tone neutral as she left a message.
“Have you calmed down?” Kelner answered.
The question didn’t help Tonya’s effort to restrain her anger. She swallowed hard. “I’d like to know what you said to my daughter.”
An exhale, loud as rushing water, reverberated in the speaker. “Thinking she was you, I explained that it had come to my attention that the account had been closed and all remaining funds withdrawn, which I understood must be causing some problems.”
“How is that possible? I don’t even have access to withdraw funds. The rent is direct paid. I—”
“No one is claiming it was you, Ms. Sayre. As I told your daughter, the account is under Layla’s father’s name, and he controls it.”
Tonya sucked in air. “He doesn’t control it. He puts money into it and then automatic bill pay does the rest. That was the whole agreement. Neither he nor I touch it. Whatever remains after the rent and the amount that transfers to me quarterly for groceries and incidentals is held in trust for Layla’s future college payments. She had nearly eighty thousand dollars in there.”
“Ms. Sayre—”
Tonya could tell Kelner was about to give her a lecture about her volume or tone. She knew she wasn’t doing a good job of keeping it level. But she also was aware that closing the account breached every agreement they’d ever had. She’d been wronged—multiple times. Her tone should be self-righteous.
“No matter what happens,” Tonya said through gritted teeth. “When we worked out this deal, that was the caveat, right? No matter what happens, I don’t tell anyone who he is—I don’t explain how he manipulated me and lied and cheated—and he pays his child support with a bit extra thrown in for pain and suffering. That’s the deal.”
“Ms. Sayre, we don’t need to relitigate prior matters. Please calm down.”
Tonya grabbed her thigh with her free hand and squeezed, containing her anger the same way she might a muscle cramp. “Layla’s money needs to be restored immediately.”
The attorney cleared his throat. “The problem is that, from an outside perspective, it was never clearly Layla’s money in the account.”
“Come on, you—”
“Though the account is run for her benefit, it is not a trust fund,” Kelner said. “That’s an important distinction. If it were a trust account, the funds could not be released until Layla came of age. The account in question was a standard checking account for expenses related to Layla’s care. And, as you know, Layla’s father had some concerns that the money might be misappropriated—”
Tonya squeezed her thigh harder. “I don’t spend my daughter’s money on anyone or anything unrelated to Layla’s care.”
“Again, Ms. Sayre, please calm down and let me finish.” Kelner’s voice was now the one that was elevated. “There were concerns that the childcare payments could be used for your personal expenses, so we all agreed on an arrangement of setting up an account, controlled by Layla’s father, from which your rent would be withdrawn as well as the quarterly stipend you’ve referenced. Layla’s father always had access to the money and could close the account at any time. And he did.”
If she hadn’t been so close to screaming, Tonya might have laughed at the lawyer’s careful use of pronouns and possessives. They’d gone to such lengths to hide Layla’s parentage that the attorney didn’t even want to utter his name. He was the Candyman or Voldemort, the man so powerful and evil that you didn’t dare call him.
“He.” Tonya stressed the word to show that she was aware of what the attorney was doing, even as she also refused specifics. Layla was right outside and, by and large, eleven-year-olds possessed excellent hearing. “He must pay the agreed upon child support. What did he think? That if he had a rough twelve months he could snatch his daughter’s money to make up the difference?”
“As I understand it, the account closure is unrelated to any financial issues stemming from the pandemic.”
“The timing—two months ago—suggests otherwise.”
Kelner sighed. “His wife became aware of the account and wanted it closed.”
“She doesn’t get to make that decision. It’s Layla’s money.”
“From his wife’s perspective, it was a private checking account that was, perhaps, being used to siphon off marital assets.”
This was karma, Tonya thought. She’d been too relieved about Nate being silenced. She hadn’t spent enough time thinking of what his death meant for his daughter. The universe was punishing her for being selfish.
“And before he closed the account to make his wife happy, did he tell her that he was not siphoning off anything because he is legally required to take care of his child?”
Kelner cleared his throat. “I am working on reestablishing a custodial account as per the initial contract. Regrettably, it could take some time.”
“My rent is two months past due. I don’t have time.”
“Well”—Kelner’s voice took on a new energy—“I have good news there. There’s a moratorium on evictions at the moment. Even if this whole business takes a bit to sort out, you will be able to remain in your apartment. And if I can be of any assistance in that, I’d be happy to help—providing, of course, that discretion continues to be maintained.”
Tonya coughed up a thank you, aware that her landlord would have a notice on her front door in no time. The phrase left a bad taste in her mouth. She wasn’t thankful. She was rageful, furious at Kelner for thinking that a poor little waitress had no choice but to shut up and beg for money that rightfully belonged to her daughter, incensed at Layla’s father for canceling the account two months ago under pressure from his clueless wife, and most of all, infuriated with herself for not immediately realizing when the payments had stopped and proceeding as if the money was an automatic bank transfer that would continue without interruption. She should have been more on top of her finances. More careful in dealing with him. More cunning.
Still, Kelner was wrong if he thought that Tonya would simply wait with her lips zipped. Her silence had a price. And, like any past-due bill, there had to be consequences for failure to pay on time. She just needed to determine what those would be, and how she might make them happen.