It was a form letter stating the cancellation document for the mortgage on the Parkers’ house was enclosed, and it had been a pleasure doing business with them. It was signed Marilyn Walker Smyth, Mortgage Counselor.
Stunned, Ida sat with her heart fluttering and her breath coming in thin little stops and starts. Right now, she was managing; getting by on a shoestring maybe, but getting by nonetheless. She’d be in better shape once the second room was rented, but even then she wouldn’t have nearly enough cash for the remainder of the mortgage. The bank wasn’t going to settle for what savings she had left, and if she did give it all to them she’d be wiped out. Completely. There wouldn’t be a dime left for electricity, telephone, or even food.
She thought back to five years ago when William had taken out a mortgage and assured her it was the best possible interest rate. At the time, he’d labored over every little detail, making sure every T was crossed and every I dotted. The house was in both names so she’d assumed the mortgage would remain in place after Bill’s death, but apparently the bank had other ideas. Now she was stuck with the responsibility of paying the mortgage off or trying to get another one.
She knew nothing about mortgages and had barely listened when Bill rattled off comparisons and asked her opinion. She didn’t have an opinion and without giving it a second thought had said, “Do whatever you think best.” Now she regretted those words. She should have listened, paid more attention; then she’d know how to fix this.
As a feeling of helplessness settled over her, she leaned forward, dropped her face into her palms, and began to sob.
“Dear God, Bill,” she cried. “What do I do?”
For a brief moment, she felt the weight of a hand on her shoulder. Then she heard the familiar voice say, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and do as I’d do.”
Startled, she lifted her head and turned to look, but no one was there. “Bill?”
There was no answer; only the tick of the mantel clock.
He’d been there, she was certain of it. She’d recognized his voice, felt the reassurance of his hand. But do as he’d do was something she didn’t understand. She puzzled over it for several minutes then remembered Delbert Stanfield, the loan officer at First Federal. He was a vice president, more than likely Ms. Smyth’s boss. He was also Bill’s friend, a man Bill trusted.
As that thought took root and grew, anger overcame Ida’s feeling of helplessness. She stood, stiffened her shoulders, and headed for the kitchen telephone. Before Delbert finished his hello, she lit into him.
“I’m sorely disappointed in you, Delbert. Bill was a loyal customer and a friend. After he gave you all that business, you pulling an underhanded trick like this is almost unthinkable!”
“Ida?” Delbert sputtered. “What on earth is wrong?”
“Wrong?” she snapped. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. The bank cancelled the mortgage on our house, that’s what’s wrong! Now, what am I supposed to do when—”
“Wait a minute,” Delbert said, interrupting Ida’s tirade. “You don’t have to do anything right now. At the end of the year, the city will send you a bill for next year’s property taxes.”
“And what about getting another mortgage? You’re the only bank in—”
“The house is paid off. You don’t need a mortgage.”
Ida hesitated a moment, allowing what he’d said to settle in her head.
“Paid off?” she finally asked. “But how…”
“Bill had a home life insurance policy—”
“I know he had life insurance. The company sent me a check, but it’s not enough—”
“That check was for the insurance policy where you were the beneficiary. This one is different; this was a home life policy. On this one, the bank is the beneficiary, not you. The policy pays off the mortgage when something happens to the homeowner.” Delbert paused, then asked, “Didn’t Bill tell you about it?”
Ida thought back on the hundreds of thousands of conversations they’d had. They’d talked about anything and everything. They’d struggled through the Great Depression together, watched presidents come and go, shared the anguish of losing their grandchild. She remembered all those moments, but she couldn’t recall that conversation.
With words made heavy by the memories, her answer came in little more than a whisper. “I don’t remember.”
After she’d hung up the telephone, Ida returned to the chair and sat there thinking. Her first impulse was to share the good news the minute Darla Jean got back from Barston, but after mulling it over she began to wonder whether it was wise to do so.
She thought back on the dreadful days before Darla Jean returned. The house was silent, the mood somber, and the days lingering on for hours longer than they should have. She’d tried to shorten those dreary days by going to bed before the sun started its journey toward the horizon, but it was a wasted effort.
The nights were no better than the days. The tiniest noise startled her awake; then she’d lie there feeling the emptiness Bill had left behind. Some nights she carried a book to bed thinking she’d read, but that too was useless. No matter how many times she read or reread the words, she failed to catch the drift of the story.
The day of the memorial service, Darla Jean had been on her way to New Jersey. It was only after Ida asked for help that she changed her mind and stayed. Opening up the third floor, renting the room to Gregg—all done for the same reason. Because I needed them. Now, things would be different. With the house paid off and Bill’s insurance money in the bank, she was financially stable. She didn’t need help to clear away the clutter or a boarder who’d pay rent, but needing and wanting were two different things.
The truth was she wanted Darla Jean to stay.
