For the Love of Money Read Online Free PDF Page B

him to work, let herself get fat, and trapped him in a loveless marriage. His eyes narrowed; he ordered the spicy fish.
    I leapt into the silence that followed. “How’s work?” I said to Dad.
    â€œShitty,” Dad said. “I didn’t get the account. Close as a cunt hair.”
    I giggled.
    â€œTony!” Mom said.
    â€œOh fuck off, Linda,” he said, and we kids stared at the table.
    â€œWork is going good for me,” I offered, hoping to re­establish the peace. Ben and I were selling newspapers door-to-door. A couple times a week, a pickup truck rolled by our house and we jumped in the back with a few other kids. The boss drove to a new neighborhood and dropped each of us off on a different street to knock on doors.
    â€œI was the top seller again this week,” I continued.
    Dad smiled. “Oh yeah?” He turned to Ben. “What about you?”
    Ben’s face reddened.
    Just then the food arrived, and relief flashed across Ben’s face; he didn’t have to answer. Hands reached out before theplates even hit the table. After everyone’s plates were filled, silence descended around the table. This was the part I loved. The tension between my parents, the sarcasm and teasing, all faded into a Christmas Eve cease-fire so we could eat our spicy green beans with chicken. The only sounds were forks on plates and heavy breathing. After the last bowl was emptied, the last plate scraped, we sank down in our seats with loud groans. Heads at other tables turned to look at us. The waitress cleared the dishes. What remained on the table was disgusting. Rice everywhere, splashes of sauce, noodles strewn about—it looked like we’d eaten without plates. But there was no electricity in the air, no wisecracks, no tension.
    â€œI need to get out,” said Julia. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
    â€œGo ahead,” Dad said, not moving. Dad was on the end. He needed to stand up for her to slide out of the booth.
    â€œDad!” she whined.
    â€œYou know the rules, Julia,” he said. Once he’d sat down, he wouldn’t get up.
    â€œFine,” she said, infuriated. She slithered down under the table and began crawling through the jungle of hairy legs.
    By the time Julia returned, the single dessert Dad had ordered, a sweet bean pie called Mah-Gang, was gone. As we stood to leave, Julia began to whine.
    â€œI didn’t get anything for dessert,” she said. “It’s not fair .”
    Outside, Julia stood at the window of the Circle K convenience store next door, pleading for Dad or Mom to buy her a Suzy Q. Mom fished a couple dollars from her purse and handed them to Julia.
    We squeezed into Dad’s gray Cadillac, the four children in the back, the interior still carrying the scars from OJ ’s death. Julia sat on Ben’s lap. She hunched her body around the Suzy Q as she opened it, but she didn’t have a chance. First, Ben reached around her from the left and swiped hisfinger through the thick cream in the middle of the cake sandwich. She whirled, yelling “Stop!” As she did, I reached from her blind side and pulled off a chunk. She whirled back, infuriated. Daniel reached over and grabbed a handful of her treat and stuffed it into his mouth, laughing. “Stop! Stop! It’s mine !” Julia screamed, as tears poured down her cheeks.
    â€œShut the fuck up back there,” Dad yelled.
    The next night, Dad took Daniel, Ben, and me to Fender Benders, a fifties diner known for its signature dessert—the Bender, a plate piled high with chocolate-frosted chocolate cake, vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, nuts, and a cherry. Every time Dad brought us here, we begged for the Bender. He almost never relented. But on that night, he ordered it. He’d gotten furious at how we’d fought with each other over dessert the night before. He wanted to teach us how to eat “like civilized