Chapter 8 - The House I Could Lose
Nora's lawsuit wasn't the betrayal that kept me awake. It was knowing how long she'd had to fight for the simple right to remain in her own apartment.
Meanwhile the bank sent its formal notice. We were out of compliance with the loan covenants, and the potential sale proceeds could no longer be counted as a cure. The lender would consider a short forbearance agreement, but only if we contributed cash, agreed to independent financial oversight, and produced a viable building stabilization plan.
The board meeting lasted four hours.
Dennis argued that Kent could still arrange another buyer. Maureen laid the repair invoices and questionable payment records on the table. My cousin Dominic, who owned a minority stake, asked why he'd learned about all this from a city notice.
“Because I didn't tell you,” I answered.
“That's not an explanation.”
“No. It's an admission.”
By the end of the meeting, Dennis was on paid leave pending an independent review. The board hired outside management to coordinate repairs and elected an interim operations chair. I abstained from the vote on my own authority.
It was a small humiliation compared with what I'd done to other people, and it was necessary.
I called an agent about selling my condo. He quoted a figure lower than the one I'd carried around in my head. After the mortgage and closing expenses, it wouldn't solve the entire problem. My vintage car and a few investments could cover the emergency contribution if I accepted a loss and stopped pretending my assets were worth what I'd once paid.
“Don't do it for the photograph,” Maureen told me when I said I might sell the car Paulie and I had restored with our father. “Do it because the repairs need to be funded.”
“I know.”
“Then don't expect the tenants to be grateful when you do.”
She was right again.
At the repair site, an engineer showed me a photograph of Paulie’s warning tape, tucked under the old railing.
“He marked it himself?” I asked.
“That's what the maintenance log indicates.”
I remembered Paulie at fourteen, wrapping yellow tape around a broken swing in our yard so the younger kids wouldn't try it. Our father had scolded him for being fussy. I had laughed.
Now I wished I could hear him explain, once more, why small dangers didn't stay small.
Nora joined us as we left the building. She had been staying with Mrs. Franklin at a hotel and going back only when the city permitted supervised access to collect belongings.
“Marisol says the temporary-housing agreement is finally signed,” she told me.
“It is.”
“She says the bank could still force a sale.”
“It could.”
“Will the next owner have to honor our leases?”
“Your attorney should review any sale documents. I'm not going to promise something a buyer might dispute.”
Nora gave a tired nod. “That's the first answer you've given me that doesn't sound like a speech.”
We stood beside the same curb where I'd kicked her box. Its cardboard had torn so badly she'd had to replace it. I had sent money for the damaged frame through counsel, but the photograph still had a scratch across Paulie's face.
“I wanted to know why you didn't come to our wedding,” she said suddenly.
“Because I didn't know about it.”
“That's the answer to the invitation you didn't receive. It isn't the answer to the two years before it.”
I stared at the sidewalk. “I thought Paulie wanted my share of the company. Every time he asked about a repair or a tenant, I heard criticism. I didn't hear what he was saying.”
“He wasn't trying to take your place.”
“I know that now.”
She sighed. “Knowing after someone dies is a lonely kind of knowledge.”
Then she went inside, leaving me with the engineer's report and the knowledge that she didn't owe me a comforting word.
May you like
That evening the bank called. The forbearance offer was available until Friday. It required money I could raise only by selling things I'd spent years using to prove I was successful.
At midnight I put my car keys on the kitchen counter and called the dealer.
