“The bidding is over. Title is awarded to the plaintiff.”
The old two-story house to his back, Sheriff Daryl Finnegan’s voice was very much that of a bingo caller at the end of an exceptionally long night. He clicked the end of his ballpoint pen and made a check at the bottom of a paper on a really cheap clipboard. His pen had the words, ‘YOUR NEW HOME’ in shiny gold lettering right above the face of a smiling real estate agent. Sheriff Finnegan would not have recognized the irony, being in a profession in which irony, while abundant, was little appreciated. Those who dealt in ‘distressed properties’, (the kinder, gentler euphemism for foreclosed), tended to be naturally tone-deaf to the whimsical aspects of the world.
Of the three men in attendance at the auction of Item# 78726 (1851 Tulip St Philadelphia), the one wearing the expensive suit got into his double-parked car and drove away. The other man remained behind. Watching the Sheriff drive off, he reached in through the open passenger-side window of his car, took a single sheet of paper and a role of clear plastic tape and walked up the concrete stairs. Taking care to be certain that it was both level and centered on the glass of the storm door, he taped the Notice along all four sides.
On the single 8 1/2 by 11 inch piece of paper, in 36pt., Times New Roman, the single word: ‘FORECLOSED’. In the center of the bottom half, in smaller, friendlier, 18pt Courier font: ‘In Case of Vandalism or Damage call 1-666-BER-NBAU’.
Stepping back down onto the sidewalk, he held his phone up and took a photo of the Notice, a ghastly parody of a priest’s final benediction. He then backed out to the middle of the street and took several photos of the front and sides. Returning to the curbside, leaning against his car, he swiped through the pictures. He stopped after the first. In each of the five subsequent photos, there was a woman, just barely visible in the front window. She must have been a step or two back from the window and blended in with what interior was visible through the slightly dirty glass. She was in all five photos, an unintended homage to Andy Warhol, the features of the old woman’s face came into focus courtesy of the repetition. Not enough detail to allow him to spot her in line at the Stop n Shop, but sufficient for him to feel the emotion was frozen in 12.5 million pixels. It was the expression of a person, fortunate enough to find a floating seat cushion in a storm-tossed sea, unfortunate enough to be watching their ship sink beneath the surface.
The woman’s face was a portrait of wonder and awe at how something so very familiar could be transformed into something so unfamiliar and hostile.
The man looked up from his phone and saw the woman standing on the small porch in front of the house. He nodded acknowledgement and, without waiting for a response, stepped around the front of his car, got in and drove away.
He resolved, (not for the first time), to find work that did not involve people who were watching their lives being torn apart silently and politely.
“Patrice why did you run away?”
“I can’t tell. The man said if I told my mother anything, something bad would happen.” The thirteen-year-old fidgeted less than girls of her age were inclined to when being somewhat interrogated by an adult. This was especially noteworthy given that the adult was her eighth grade teacher, Sister Catherine.
They sat in the living room of the Avila home. Patrice’s mother had driven into town to pick up some Chinese food. It was a celebration of sorts, the return of a missing and/or runaway child. The police detective who brought her back to Crisfield from Atlantic City seemed, surprisingly, not entirely convinced that Patrice was, in fact, a runaway. The social worker, more expert for spending her professional days amid the incomprehensible suffering of dysfunctional families was satisfied that she had simply acted on impulse. The sudden death of her father, like the currents beneath the surface of the sun, flared up and she ran. In part to find closure, but mostly to escape the incomprehensible change in her life.
When a person is unable to cope with extreme tragedy, physical action often holds a non-specific promise of relief. To a person not under duress the act may seem childishly pointless. It didn’t help that Patrice was still a child.
The police detective, Glen Trahmani, brought her home, asked a few perfunctory questions and left, promising to call if any leads appeared in the death of Roger Avila. It looked for all the world to be one more cold case that added numbers to the statistics of human suffering.
The Chinese food was a slightly misguided attempt to celebrate her daughters return. Sister Catherine was invited and now the teacher and the 8th grader sat in the living room.
“Well, I’m not your mother, so it would be alright to tell me, wouldn’t it?”
“But you’re just like her.” Patrice Avila looked startled, at the expression on her teacher’s face. Sister Catherine began to laugh and Patrice forgot for a second that she was an adult and a nun.
“I’m so not like her. Let me tell you about my mother and then, after you know something about Sister Catherine, I’ll ask you again. It might turn out that you can talk to me about the things that happened. It might even be something that could prevent another girl, somewhere, from being hurt. Deal?”
The middle-aged women in the ancient fashion of her order sat on the blue sofa and began to speak to the young girl. Her voice was more of a person who might start out saying, ‘Once upon a time…’ than an adult telling her students about the Magna Carta.
“It all started with the Beatles…”
For all of his grey hair and wrinkled face, Morris Richmond offered me his hand. That he demonstrated out-of-time manners was not surprising, one look at the pony-tail and the Fillmore East tee-shirt made it clear that he had not let go of a time past. It was how he went from sitting-in-the-sand to standing-up that made me catch my breath. None of the ‘roll from cross-legged to kneeling’ or ‘lean forward and try to get his feet under him, pushing up with both arms’. One minute he was sitting in the sand in a loose lotus-style posture, the next he was casting a shadow and reaching down to help. He simply stood up.
Other than my tai ch’i instructor in college or the occasional ballet dancer, I can’t recall ever seeing anyone move as effortlessly.
I reached up and allowed myself to be pulled into a standing position.
“Have you ever wondered if God is disappointed in you?” I spoke on impulse, the oxygen-deprivation had rendered my mind relaxed and somewhat un-focused.
“At some point in life, don’t we all?” Morris took the fishing pole that he’d stuck in the sand and held it, cradled in his left forearm. The line, still lost beneath the growing waves, pulled taut by the receding tide rather than a doomed fish.
“The feeling that I’m just not worthy of the way of life that I’m totally lucky to have found is so …bad.” I crouched in the sand next to the dog who lay just above the seaweed line. “Its like there’s a part of me that insists another part of me is the reason for everything going wrong, while at the same time insisting that I can never stop trying.”
“Sounds like a trap to me. Perhaps you’re asking the wrong question.”
I laughed at the memory-collage of discussions of free will and life marked nights of conversation during my three and a half years in college. My much more recent life in the Order made debate obsolete. I reminded myself that faith is more useful as a verb than a noun. I looked up and said with a smile, “Please, spare me the zen master’s ‘if you have to ask the question, you cannot understand the answer’. I am way, way too tired to contend with that.”
He laughed, “Damn! That was my big close. Totally out the window ’cause the grrl nun be reading her Castaneda!”
We both laughed. Ragnorak raised his head from his front paws and wagged his tail in agreement.
I borrowed a smile from the dog in the sand and speaking in a voice that wanted to be a whisper, “No, it’s worse than that.”
Morris did not turn, determined not to let the endlessly advancing waves out of his sight, “How so?”
“My best efforts to save my mother’s house from foreclosure? Failed. My brother is in a hospital, on the critical list, and though I don’t have a prayer of proving it,” I interrupted myself to laugh. It was such a sharp-edged laugh, I chose to ignore it. “I’m convinced his illness is connected to what I was trying to do to save our mother’s house.” Grey clouds, hunched low over the land to the west, seemed to sense an opportunity and began to grow tall and threatening. As if in sympathy, the breeze off the water began to increase. The small waves, emboldened by the clouds above, grew in height and broke with a noticeably louder splashing. My sweat-soaked tee-shirt seemed to thicken and clump at my waist. “It’s not the failure that depresses me, it’s the fact that I can’t accept it.”
“I suspect that you don’t, at this moment want to hear me praise the value of perseverance. Conventional wisdom and common sense does possess a certain magic.” I looked at Morris, his back remained the only part of himself he made available. I started to say something I suspected would be rude when he continued, “The magic is that, like poles of a magnetic field, the opposites that form the foundation of the reality most of us experience usually keep their distance. Nevertheless, nearly every adage, insight and ‘moral of the story’ has a matching and opposite half. They are the binary code of the human condition. The ‘on’ to every ‘off’. If one person is saved by hearing that, ‘Haste makes waste’, there is one other person saved by the knowledge that ‘Easy does it.’
“So there’s no right way to do anything?” I rose and stepped to Morris’s left side. “The version of me inside, the Margaret who has no problem attacking the company that took my mother’s house from her, she is the real me?”
Morris began turning the handle of the fishing reel. The nylon line went taut, the water at the point where the line disappeared into the wave started sliding towards us. Reflective beads of sea water making a last effort to die in the most alien of worlds, dry land.
“‘Cause she could, or rather ‘I’ could totally bring bad events to the people who are hurting my family. She is so very good at that sort of thing. If it’s true the world is a binary place, where ‘no’ is equal to ‘yes’ and our lives are ruled by a coin in motion, I should follow the teachings of my new family and forgive and love my enemies? Tell me, Mister Scarecrow, which is the right road?”
Morris turned and took a couple of steps to a spot that made him one point of a triangle, me being one and the yellow lab sitting in the sand the third. Pointing at me, arm fully outstretched and looking at the dog, he said, shouting in a voice of alarm, “Ragnorak!! Protect me! Attack!!”
The yellow lab lifted his head at the sound of his name. He looked up at the man, followed the pointing arm and looked at me. The dog looked back at Morris and wagged his tail, got up, came to my side and sat, looking back at the man.
I put my hand on Ragnorak’s head and he lifted his face, cold nose touched my inner forearm. I started running. As I passed Morris, which was pretty much immediately, I said, without looking at him, “Thanks.” And I ran.