He had entered the house through the front door. Henry immediately bounded over, then snaked his way in and out of Peter’s legs, rubbing calico fur against his jeans. The animal purred like a small engine.
“You’re scared, aren’t you, Henry?” Peter asked.
With the blinds drawn, the entranceway was dusk-dark. He looked over to the living room and the oak floors, chipped and dented with nearly three decades of hard-use. The area rugs had worn spots at their edges, and the house smelled musty. Surveying the rest of the room, he noted a pile of papers, threatening to spill off the cedar work desk. Peter went over and opened the top drawer. It was empty. He wondered if his mother was looking for something and dumped out the contents. Another strange thing: the computer was turned on, the screensaver dancing with floating checkerboards. When he slid the mouse, his mother’s file window popped up. After shutting down the computer, he had considered taking a tour of the house—his old room, the den, his mother’s bedroom— but decided to wait for another day. He felt too drained to weather the sadness.
He noticed a flashing light on the answering machine, which sat on the window ledge separating the kitchen from the dining area. He shuffled over and hit
With Henry standing alongside his empty food bowl, Peter realized the animal hadn’t been fed the previous night—another unsettling curiosity. His mother went out of her way to take care of her pet, and not coming home —at least long enough to feed Henry—was unprecedented. It also meant the computer had been left on that morning. None of this made sense, then or now. His mother rarely forgot even small tasks.
From a hook near the phone, Peter remembered retrieving a set of keys. One was an extra to his mother’s destroyed Subaru. The other key, undersized, looked like a bicycle-lock key with a round, nondescript insignia and some kind of numerical code stamped across its face. Peter removed the smaller key and slid it onto his key chain. One day, he suspected, he would discover whatever the key unlocked—maybe some trinkets or memories locked in a drawer or a box somewhere in the house.
He next fed Henry, gathered up the animal’s bed, litter box, dishes, and food, and put them in several grocery bags. Scooping up the cat with his free hand, he left. Peter loved this house, but he had driven away without a look back.
On the lengthy drive to Smitham and Jones, Estate Attorneys, Peter had too many questions and too few answers. Arriving at the Solana Beach law office, Peter put these concerns on temporary hold. Jerome Smitham had said certain matters needed to be decided sooner, rather than later. The man’s concerned tone of voice had made it clear: there were unpleasant, pressing financial issues. Time to address a whole new set of problems.
Peter entered and the receptionist immediately escorted him to Smitham’s office. In his sixties, the attorney, at six foot-six inches, resembled a preying mantis, his skin taut like pulled taffy, and his joints sharp and severely angled. He also jittered like a man who had inhaled five cups of house-blend. Hound-dog eyes, however, gave his face a sympathetic look.
After a few minutes of brutal overview—in which Peter learned more than he cared to about red ink— Smitham informed him, “I advised your mother to declare personal bankruptcy,” as if explaining why he shouldn’t be sued for malpractice.
“No way she’d do that,” Peter said. He didn’t bother to explain about the Neil family pride. His father had laid it on the line: pay your debts, and meet all your obligations, no matter what.
“You’re right,” Smitham said. “The suggestion of bankruptcy offended her. I’ve been advising Hanna
“I know what
Smitham nodded.
Peter looked over the ledger pages lying on the table and tried to make sense of the lines and rows of numerical entries. “Excuse me if I sound stupid,” he said, “but it looks as if Mom still owed money from Dad’s hospitalization.”
Smitham gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“How could there still be debts after more than ten years?”
The attorney explained about the medical costs associated with Matthew Neil’s illness. “They were gigantic,” he said. “Peter,” he continued, “if Hannah were still alive, I wouldn’t say anything.”
“About what?” Peter asked the question, despite knowing he didn’t really want to hear the answer.
“Your schooling was another drain on her finances. In your junior year, a tuition check bounced. Jason Ayers picked up the shortfall.”
Peter’s guts sank. “That can’t be. She and Dad set up a trust. She said everything was paid for.”
“Saying it didn’t make it true. Hannah had nothing—as I already implied, her entire income went to pay bills and debt service.”
Peter surveyed the attorney’s office while he absorbed all this new information. Diplomas and pictures of Smitham’s family hung in precise rows: a son, a daughter, several grandchildren, a plump wife. A picture of him in a fishing outfit, a bass flapping in a net, was blown up into a three-foot by four-foot glass-fronted frame, and made the centerpiece of an entire wall.
Despite its cavernous dimensions, the office felt confining. Overstuffed furniture, standing lamps, pine filing cabinets, and over-filled bookshelves shared the room with billowy live plants whose broad leaves selfishly demanded space.
Worse, the room felt jungle hot.
Peter removed his jacket and slung it over the arm of the leather chair. His knees bent into his chest. He felt like a leaf-eater waiting for the next predator to take a bite.
“I need to know what you intend to do about your mother’s mortgage,” Smitham said.
“Mortgage?” Peter had no notion his mother still owed money on the house. He quickly came to a new understanding: he didn’t just have nothing, he had less than nothing. No make that
“Unfortunately, your mother secured loans against her property. Little or no equity remains. If you don’t repay approximately fifty thousand dollars, creditors will force sale.”
“I grew up in that house, Mr. Smitham. Mom would never have wanted me to give it up.”
“If you can manage the payments, I should be able to convince the creditors to let you keep the place.”
“Fat chance of that. I’ve got no job, and, because I opened my big fat mouth when I quit, I’ve got a former boss who hates my guts and won’t give me a reference worth shit.”
The phone rang. On the third ring, Smitham said, “Excuse me. I must take this call.”
The desk separated the older man from Peter by ten feet. Smitham spun in his swivel and began to speak in a low voice. Over the high-backed chair, Peter saw only the top of the attorney’s head. As he waited, Peter continued to eye the numbers on the ledger. His parents, it seemed from the lines of debits and credits, never had a dime of savings. He wondered: was being poor an inherited trait? While he pondered his financial morass, Peter thought he heard Smitham say, “Jason” and a moment later, “debts.” Less than three minutes after picking up, Smitham spun and again faced Peter. “Excuse me, where were we?”
For the next few minutes, they reviewed Peter’s options. Smitham then asked, “Do you have any assets?”
“Squat. Owe money on my car. Rent’s due. I have maybe a grand in accrued salary and commission, and that’s more than spoken for. Basically, I’m tap-city.” Peter reflected inwardly long enough to blame himself for getting into this mess. If stupid were smart, he told himself, he’d be Einstein.
The attorney nodded as if he’d heard those thoughts and agreed with them. “I understand you have a standing offer from Jason Ayers.”
“That was Mr. Ayers who just called?” Peter asked.
