Week Four, Part 6 - Money Problems

On Thursday I find a bill on the kitchen counter. Across the top it reads “University of Notre Dame” in Old English script. Below that, “Office of Student Accounts.” In the left corner is the Notre Dame seal: “Sigillum Universitatis Dominae Nostrae Alacu,” Latin for “pay up now or we’ll kick your butt.”

The tuition for fall semester is $9,210.00. There’s also $43 for Motor Vehicle Registration, $15 for Bar Association Fee, $3 for Law Review, $7 for Journal of Legislation, $2 for Journal Univ & Colleges, and $432 for Health Insurance that I don’t need.

My total amount due is $9,712.00. Ye gads! That seems like a mountain of money for 17 weeks of school.

Strangely enough, I’ve never paid tuition before. Undergrad costs at Pillsbury College were waived because my dad taught there. A graduate assistantship at Seattle Pacific covered the bills for my masters in education. And when I taught at Pillsbury, a faculty development grant paid the bulk of my M.A. from Minnesota State University, Mankato.

After supper I raise the delicate issue of money with Terri. We’ve been married less than a year and our financial accounts have yet to be “commingled,” as a lawyer might say.

I figure it would be ideal if Terri footed the bill. She’s having a bang-up year at AT&T. In the last six months, Terri has “won back” the long-distance business of three large corporations: Jayco, Skyline, and Chore Time Brock. With commission, she should make six-figures.

“Honey,” I say, “Did you see the bill from Notre Dame Law School?” I’m clearing the table as she loads the dishwasher.

Terri nods.

“Ten thousand bucks!” I say. “That bites.”

“Sure does,” she replies.

“Looks like I’ll have to take out a loan.” I might as well be on one knee. “They say the average law school student grad ends up with $55,000 of debt.”

“Wow.” Her tone is flat.

I carp on until Terri says, “The money I earn goes to pay for everything – food, insurance, you name it.”

“But we’re not going to eat $100,000 worth of ravioli!” I say.

Terri softens. “You know my phobias,” she says, code for “I’m not the same trusting fool I was five years ago.”

“Fair enough,” I reply. “I’ll pay it myself.”

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