Chapter 9 - The Cost of Coming Home
The dealer offered less than I wanted for the car. I said yes anyway. The condo sale took longer, so my attorney helped arrange a disclosed, documented short-term advance against its expected equity, subject to the lender's approval. My investments covered the rest of the immediate cash requirement.
It was not enough to make the building healthy. It was enough for the bank to grant ninety days to attempt a real plan.
We couldn't spend a second of that time staging a comeback for me.
Outside management brought in licensed electricians and stair contractors under an independent engineer's supervision. The company provided the city with a schedule and reported delays to tenant representatives. When an additional wall cavity revealed old water damage, the project manager changed the estimate instead of hiding the problem until someone complained.
I wanted to argue about the extra cost. I bit my tongue and signed the authorization.
The investigation into questionable invoices continued. A forensic accountant identified payments lacking adequate proof of work, but cautioned against treating every discrepancy as theft before interviewing those involved. Kent's attorneys disputed the findings. Craig, the contractor Isaiah had seen with Paulie, retained counsel and gave a statement through proper channels. Nothing happened quickly enough to satisfy my anger.
For the first time, I had to live with uncertainty instead of trying to buy my way around it.
On a cold morning, I met with the bank, an independent housing lender, and a nonprofit preservation group that had helped stabilize older Detroit buildings. They were interested in a restructuring that would retain most apartments as rentals, but no one promised money without seeing audited figures and the repair risk.
The nonprofit director asked why I was suddenly willing to consider limits on future rent increases and an independent tenant advisory process.
“Because our old way failed,” I said.
“That's a reason to change. It isn't proof you'll keep changing.”
“Then put the requirements in the agreement.”
She made a note. It was the kind of answer Nora would have given.
Back at Ash Street, I found Mrs. Franklin sitting on a folding chair in the courtyard while inspectors moved through the building.
“You've lost some weight,” she said.
“I've been busy.”
“You should eat.”
I laughed for the first time in weeks. “Yes, ma'am.”
She pulled a photograph from her bag. It showed Paulie helping carry a refrigerator up her stairs five years earlier, his face red from the effort.
“He refused my money,” she said. “Then he broke my kitchen lamp by accident and insisted on replacing it. That was your brother.”
“Sounds like him.”
“You two looked alike when you smiled.”
I couldn't remember the last time anybody had said that.
A week later, the tenants' attorneys and the company reached a preliminary arrangement covering relocation expenses and a process for addressing habitability claims. Nora's separate claims for the removal attempt and her losses remained unresolved. There would be mediation. There would be documents. There would be consequences that nobody could cancel by shaking hands for a photograph.
When Nora heard about the repair schedule, she asked to visit Unit 3B under supervision. I accompanied the property manager but remained in the hall at her request.
Through the door I heard her moving slowly, opening drawers, running a hand over the windowsill. Then I heard a sound I recognized from Paulie's funeral: someone trying not to cry loudly enough for other people to hear.
Nora emerged carrying his sweater. “They say the back landing needs a complete rebuild,” she said.
“It does.”
“He would have been so angry that it took this long.”
“He would've been right.”
She looked past me at the repaired temporary lights. “I don't know whether I can live here again. Some nights I hear the crash even though I wasn't there.”
“You don't have to decide today.”
“I know.”
She tucked the sweater under her arm. “Paulie wanted to stay. I have to decide what I want, not spend my life proving him right.”
I wanted to say I'd keep the apartment empty for her forever. That would have been another promise about a property I could not honestly guarantee.
So I said, “Whatever you choose, your home and your rights aren't favors from me.”
She held my gaze, then walked toward the front door.
As she left, she put the silver ring in my hand.
“Paulie wanted you to have this when you finally listened,” she said.
I closed my fingers around it, feeling its familiar worn edge.
May you like
“He didn't tell me I'd have to wait until he was gone,” I whispered.
“He hoped he wouldn't,” Nora replied.
