“Okay, okay,” Dave says, and for the first time I see something else on his face; thin-lipped and arms crossed, he is pissed off. “We get it.” He stands and shoves his chair toward the table. And then he turns back. “Three- point-eight?”
CHAPTER 17
IN MONTE’S FIELDS THE sweet weed grows
On a basement farm where row by row
Water courses through plastic tubes
Feeding unlikely dreams of rescue:
Roughly four million dollars in B.C. bone
Who knows what it is that causes the world to seem benevolent: you rise in the morning and it just feels like something has lifted, some weight. Everything that yesterday looked terrifying today seems benign, maybe even munificent. There’s a certain slant of light, or the turning of those red leaves…or it could be the last of a good buzz or simple brain chemistry; hard to say. Whatever it is, I sit up on the basement couch curled beneath an afghan-I can’t say that I wake, really, since I only slept an hour or so-and my eyes land on a small painting that Lisa and I bought years ago at a little gallery, and for the first time in weeks I feel…hopeful. Clear. The painting is the style that Lisa and I both like-not quite abstract but not overtly figurative either, in between: there appears to be a couple standing near a road, and I don’t know why I missed it before, but now it’s obvious to me: the man in the painting is reaching for the woman.
I walk over and lightly touch one of the squalls of paint on the dry warm canvas-all reds and oranges and browns-and then I climb the basement stairs and glance outside; it’s beautiful out there, trees emerging from leafy cover like the bones of an old ship. Dad stirs on the living room hide-a-bed, and I hear Lisa and the boys upstairs, getting ready for work and for school and it sounds so wonderful, so sweet; is it possible to fall in love with your own life?
It’s not that I’ve caught up on my sleep-other than the thirty-minute nap in Drug Dealer Dave’s car and a quick hour this morning, I haven’t really had any. It just feels as if there has been a slight turn in events, a gentle shift in my direction…a clearing, so that I get a glimpse of the other side of this storm.
It certainly isn’t Lisa’s reaction that cheers me; she turns away on the stairs, as pissed off as I’ve ever seen her. I was hoping that she’d assume my “sleeping” in the basement was a way of giving her some respectful space. But Lisa is seething-greedily anticipating more space between us. I volunteer to make pancakes for the boys and she wordlessly heads back upstairs to finish getting ready for work. I try to catch her eye as she leaves, to give her a short shrug of apology for ambushing her with guilt last night. She wants no part of me.
And it’s not Franklin who turns my mood, either, because he’s pretending to be too sick to go to school. “You know what I think?” I ask, pulling a 98.8 digital thermometer from his downturned mouth. “I think you’re worried about seeing Elijah, or that Ms. Bishop will still be disappointed in you. But listen, you have to face your fears, Frankie. You have to look them in the eye and say, “I can handle you.” Franklin gives me the first of what will likely be thousands of rolled eyes, and heads upstairs to brush his teeth.
Dad doesn’t exactly spread rays of sunshine from his ass, either, when I force him to take a shower and he comes out of the bathroom naked, insisting that someone has stolen his clothes.
No, the evidence of a shift in fortunes isn’t there, but I feel a shift anyway. And when Lisa leaves with the boys-still without a word-I stand at the window and watch her back out of the driveway. She glances up, and this might be the only opening I’ll get today, and so I give her a slight nod and a tip of my coffee cup, just a beginning, a first entreaty, and even though my move is firmly unreturned (she looks away) I feel better.
I feel better, because today my long road to comeback begins, because today, rather than just taking all of this shit I have a plan of action. Today, I settle all family business
Today I: (1) Go out into the world and sell the three ounces of weed in my messenger bag to Richard and Amber, and (2) get some names from them and begin compiling my pyramid of future customers. (3) Watch a load of lumber get unloaded in our yard-a clear message to my drifting wife that tomorrow night’s “concert” is off, and that, hopefully, no more need ever be said about Chuck Stehne. (3a) (Afterward, I’ll call and have the lumber taken back…it is not to my liking.) (4) And tonight, go back out to Weedland with Jamie to get the rest of my dope, so I can (5) get to work pulling my family out of debt.
My phone rings. I look down at the number. Earl Ruscom: “Look, Matt. I’m sorry to call so early, but I felt shitty about our meeting yesterday.” Another good thing about Earl: the man loathes small talk. “Offerin’ you fiftee’ when you expectin’ fifty? Sup’m like that’d make me feel like a neutered dog in a bitch factory.”
“It’s okay, Earl. In this economy…starting any kind of business, especially a publication…I really do understand.”
“Well, I don’t want my editor feeling like a failure on day one. So I ran the numbers again, tightened some shit up…and I know it ain’t much, but I can go to twenty.”
Yes, a very subtle shift…“That’s very generous, Earl-”
“Naw,” Earl says, “it’s shit and we both know it. But it’s all I got, Matt. Look, even if you just think of it as a thirty-hour-a-week job, if this thing somehow takes off…”
I tell Earl that it’s still not close to the amount of money I’d need to live on, but “I think I’ll probably take you up on it,” and he whoops and that’s when I get another call on my cell. I hold the phone away to see the number but don’t recognize the area code. “Earl, I got a call coming in. Can I get back to you?”
He’s still whooping and in the middle of some homespun inanity about kicking one’s own ass with someone else’s boot when I click over.
A woman’s voice. “Mr. Prior?”
Yes.
“This is Joy Addison, with Providential Equity? Gil West asked me to look over your file, and to give you a call.” Wait-
Is it possible
that my long-lost lapsed lender
has contacted me?
As lifesaving news must often be, this phone call is simple, matter-of-fact. Joy says that I’ve been identified as a strong candidate for their mortgage modification program. In the coming days, I’ll get an application packet, and then an account specialist will contact me about setting up a new payment plan, with a new rate. In the meantime, if I am found to be eligible under one of several federal assistance programs-if for instance, I’ve suffered some catastrophic event, say, I’ve been laid off-Yes, that’s me!-
and as long as I have a decent credit rating and no active criminal record-again, me!-then I might also qualify for an interest-free loan so that I can bring my account current and resume making payments. And the payments on that interest-free loan can even be deferred. Of course, I’ll still owe what I owe, but with the payments flattened and delayed, I can hopefully get back on top, says Joy Addison. After that, it will be up to me. And if I default, Providential might still have no choice but to file a deed-in-lieu-of-foreclosure.
“Sure,” I say, and “No, no, obviously,” and “Of course, of course,” and “I just want a chance, that’s all.”
“We all deserve a chance,” Joy says and I want to kiss her. I want to kiss Gilbert West. Want to kiss every person at Providential Equity, every person in Benicia, in California, in the United States of America, on Planet Earth.
“I was getting sort of worried there,” I say. “Four days…you people really know how to take it down to the wire.”
Joy ignores this, tells me that a packet will be arriving in the mail, and that I am to fill out the forms, sign them, have them notarized and send them back. And she gives me her direct phone number in case I have questions. I thank her. We hang up, and I immediately call right back and when she answers, “Joy Addison,” I pretend that I’ve accidentally hit the return-call button on my phone, but I’m pumping my fist in the air because
