“Twenty thousand dollars,” Mom whimpers. “It might as well be twenty million.”
We’re back at the police station, sitting in a tiny basement holding cell while Nonna and Michael try to sort everything out with a bondsman. If they can’t come up with ten percent of the bail money, Mom and I are going to jail — actual jail — for the foreseeable future.
“What about Nonna’s savings?” I ask. Mom is laying against my shoulder while I sit upright in the corner of the cot and play with her hair in an attempt at therapy. It’s in decent shape for having been completely neglected over the past twenty-four hours. No split ends at all. Maybe just a little oily. I wrap a curl around my index finger and let it go. “She didn’t say how much she has?”
“You know she lives from paycheck to pension check,” Mom says. “I just hope she has half of it. Then we could at least get you home today.”
“But that would mean —”
“I’ll survive.”
But I won’t, I think to myself.
I wish I could scream right now. Right in that fucking Judge Turner’s face. With her stupid-ass gavel and “the Court just cannot ignore that” speech.
What hurts the most is that I knew this would happen. Ever since the possibility of bail was first mentioned last night, I had a feeling that — actually? — it was even before that. I knew from the very beginning that this would all eventually just come down to money. Isn’t that how it always works? And isn’t that why we ran away in the first place? Because we were broke. And broke people always get fucked. It’s just how the world works.
It’s not that I don’t feel bad about what we did. But how does forcing us to come up with money make anything right? As if there’s a price tag on morality. I’m not going to do this fucked-up thing because then I’d have to pay this many dollars. Shouldn’t we just not do fucked-up things out of the goodness of our hearts?
“That’s bullshit,” I say. “You shouldn’t have to sit in jail just for a stupid mistake.”
“Honestly? I think I should.”
“Stop —”
“Everything the judge said was right.” Mom peers at the ceiling. “It could have been worse. People could have died. We could have died, Joey. And for what? Because Richard lied to me about divorcing his wife?” She scoffs. “I’m not the only bitch in the world who’s ever had her heart broken.”
“We overreacted,” I admit. “But obviously we’ve learned our lesson. Don’t you think jail would be a bit much?”
“Burning a house down — even if it was an accident — should come with serious consequences,” she continues. “Think about it. What if Marco did that to me after I —” She cuts herself off. “You know what I’m trying to say.”
I do. And it’s not that I disagree — clearly we need to figure out how to process our emotions in a healthier manner. But I also think it’s possible for us to get there without having to serve hard time.
“But I will say it’s fucked up she set the same bail for both of us,” Mom continues. “You’re just a baby.”
“I’m not a —”
“You’re my baby.” She sits up. “Do you wanna know what I was thinking about when she was giving her speech up there? With that little hammer in her hand?”
“It’s called a gavel.”
“Whatever,” Mom says. “I was thinking about how this bitch is — I don’t know — maybe forty? And she’s a judge. She’s not that much older than me! But she did something with her life. And she didn’t do it by burning shit down.” She sighs. “It’s like I was saying last night in the car. We can’t let the bullshit bring us down anymore. You’re still so young — you could be a judge if you want to.”
“Are you high?” I ask. “In what universe have I ever expressed an interest in… judging?”
Mom laughs through a sniffle. “You know what I mean.”
“And it’s not like you’ve done nothing with your life,” I offer. “Fire or no fire — you’re still the best mom in the world. I consider myself so lucky to have you. Seriously. Can you imagine if I had a mom like Judge Turner? I’d be so boring. Forget about my comedy career. My jokes would be even worse than they already are.”
“Shut up.” She hits my knee. “You’re funny.”
“And your work is just as important as hers!” I continue. “Your customers all worship you. You make them beautiful. And you give them free therapy.”
“Aw, Joey.” Her lips crease into a small smile. “You’re such a sweetheart.”
An echo of heavy footsteps reverberates from outside.
“Do you hear that?” I ask.
Mom peels herself off the bench and stands up next to me. Officer Nelson slides the door open a moment later.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You can go home.”
“My mother came up with twenty thousand dollars?” Mom asks.
Don’t question it, I nonverbally tell her with my elbow. Just get up and run.
“I don’t think she put it up,” Nelson says. “She seemed surprised.”
Mom looks at me with what I imagine is the same holy shit face I’m giving her right now.
“Then who was it?” she asks.
“Dunno.” He shrugs. “I’m just following orders.”
It must have been Marco. I knew all along that he’d be coming back here to help us get out of this — it just took a little longer than expected. Traffic on I-87, probably.
As Nelson leads us toward the stairs, my lungs expand. I can breathe — like really breathe — for the first time in days. It’s like we’ve been on a crashing plane all week that somehow just pulled off a miracle emergency landing. Soon we’ll be home. We won’t have to worry about getting arrested. We’ve already been arrested.
“You think it was Marco?” Mom asks as we march up the stairs toward freedom.
“Had to be.”
We get to the front of the office and see Nonna sitting alone on a wooden bench, clutching her pocketbook and car keys. For someone whose daughter and grandson just dodged a jail-shaped bullet, she doesn’t look nearly as relieved as she should.
“Here they are,” Nelson says with a silly smile. “Thelma and Louise are free to go.”
I give Nonna a giant hug. She reluctantly pats my back.
“So where is he?” Mom asks.
“Michael?” Nonna says. “He’s still meeting with the prosecutor about the plea deal. He’s trying for community service and probation and some kind of conflict resolution therapy program. He said there could also be fines, restitution payments” — she cuts herself off in exasperation. What a buzzkill. Can’t we just enjoy this moment without worrying about what our sentence will be? We were just bailed out of jail! As my favorite Oprah GIF would say: Let’s celebrate that. “He thinks he can keep prison off the table. You two have horseshoes up your ass, I swear to God.”
“I wasn’t asking about Michael,” Mom says. “Where’s Marco?”
“Marco?” Nonna asks. “Why would he be here?”
“He didn’t pay the bail bondsman?” I ask. “Then who did?”
“That woman.” Nonna flicks her wrist. “She’s in the bathroom.”
“Who?” Mom asks.
“You know,” Nonna says. “Lisa. The woman who —”
“Hiiii,” a distantly familiar voice says from behind us.
Mom and I turn around.
Shut the fuck up! It’s Joggy McBitch.