Author's Note: I haven't written one this short in awhile. It was nice to get it out of my head in in under 20,000 words. Thanks Tim413413 - at least I am starting to make it a little easier to edit.
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Mailboxes had been innocuous things most of my life. The last year had made mine something to fear. It was a simple white metal box, sitting atop a crossbeam of white wood. That was, in turn, mounted on a vertical white four-by-four, cemented securely in the ground at the edge of the driveway. Three blooming red roses were painted on the side of the box, tied together with an artistic green vine. I remembered picking it out so many years ago. I thought it was pretty and now I only saw the roses' non-rendered thorns.
My husband's death, a year-and-a-half ago, had removed most of the color from the world. Cancer was the murderer, a fight we took on with money we didn't have. He had beaten it once before, when we were first married, with aggressive radiation and chemo. I thought we would beat it again. When the insurance ran out, we borrowed. When we reached our credit limit, we lied and borrowed more. Tom wasn't here to see the river of financial sludge left in the wake of his illness. He knew it in the end and refused treatment, trying to lessen the burden. I would have assumed the national debt if it meant another day. My arguments fell on loving deaf ears. He died in my arms, at home where he belonged.
I opened the jaws of the mailbox and reached into its throat. I withdrew a small stack of letters, most covered with red ink. My heart constricted as it always did. I was still not used to being dead broke. I had placated the financial leeches for over a year, parsing out the life insurance proceeds in conservative installments. Now, that spigot had run dry. It was my own fault. I had supported Tom through college, never seeking a degree myself. My bookkeeping job, the one I wasn't qualified for, handed to me by a dear friend, didn't come close to providing the funds I needed. Unbidden, a tear ran down my cheek. Life had raped me.
I stood at the end of the driveway, sorting the bills by priority. A past due from the mortgage company caught my breath. I had forgotten I had put that off. I looked up at the small ranch, speckled brown bricks half way up the front with tan siding sitting on top of them to the roof. It was to be our starter home. Now, I would be lucky if it remained my only home. The power and phone bills joined the mortgage at the top of the stack. The three persistent medical bills, MasterCard and the locksmith bill to the bottom.
"Mom, dinner's ready," Natalie yelled from the front door. I snapped the letters to my side, hiding the obnoxious red lettering. Sixteen, with all the problems of high school on her shoulders, she had grown up too fast without her father. She had been Tom's angel, almost to the point of generating my jealousy when she could turn his attention from me by just entering the room. It took me a week to get her back to school after her father's death. Now, he was a cherished memory, and the thought of boys Tom would not approve of had become her world.
"I'm coming, honey," I said with a forced smile. Trying to hide from Natalie how poor we had become was exhausting. She already had enough problems with homework and the cruel right of passage of high school. I wiped my eyes after she ducked back into the house. As I moved up the driveway, I caught, out of the corner of my eye, my new neighbor, Jared Thompson, watching me. I looked over at him on his knees trimming the edge of his lawn with shears. His eyes returned to his work as if I wouldn't notice. The bill of his baseball cap covered any need for him to acknowledge me. A strange man. I had met him briefly when he first moved in two months ago. The conversation was difficult since he never really formed complete sentences. One word answers that disallowed me from politely finding out anything about him. Besides a few hellos and waves, we hadn't spoken since.
Jared was just as cryptic with other neighbors. He was a mystery to the neighborhood. We had deduced he lived alone simply from the lack of seeing others and no additional cars. Some of the furniture he moved in seemed to have a woman's touch, but no woman followed. His distinguished graying sideburns clashed with his youthful face. The guess was that he was in his early forties, possibly divorced. I guessed widower, since I surmised the furniture would have followed the wife in a divorce. There was a shadow of sadness around him that created a barrier to anyone trying to dig deeper. I knew death does that to a person. Jared didn't lift his head again, so I aborted my friendly wave and entered the house.
"Smells good." I smiled at Natalie. She had taken over the dinner duty, I breakfast. It made life easier, and I dearly needed easier. After a full day at work, cooking wasn't exactly a chore I looked forward to. It was Natalie's hunger that made her offer her services. We wouldn't be eating until after six if she waited for me to play chef. She, of course, would starve to death by then.
"Suggi's Pizza offered me a job," Natalie said, not looking at me. I sucked in my breath, putting the letters face down on the kitchen counter. The school year had barely started. A summer job was one thing, but this could hurt her grades. She knew I wouldn't approve. That was why she was concentrating on stirring the noodles.
"Honey, I don't think that..."
"I'm going to accept," Natalie interrupted. She turned to me, almost a woman. "I know what's in those letters you try to hide. I can at least buy my own clothes and gasoline." My throat swelled up.
"These aren't your problem," I choked out, pointing at the letters. "Your job is to get good grades and build a future." She turned back to the noodles. I realized I hadn't said no.
"It's Friday night and eight hours on Saturday; possibly one other night if someone calls in sick," Natalie continued, "I'm old enough now, so it's done." My eyes began to feel misty.
"I don't want that for you," I said firmly, with a mother's authority.
"And I didn't want Daddy to die either," Natalie said softly. I saw her shoulders jerk as she said it. I went to her as I lost control of my tears. She turned to me, her own tears just beginning. I held her, my daughter, my life, a woman in all but age.
"It will help," I conceded between sobs. We had a long-needed cry. Some of the noodles burnt to the bottom of the pan.
Natalie insisted on knowing how deep underwater we were. I spent dinner telling her half of it, which was twice as much as I should have told her. At her age, the sums seemed astronomical. She must have been thinking thousands, not hundreds of thousands. I was making daily calls to forestall a bankruptcy that would see us lose our house. I teetered constantly on giving in and moving to some decrepit apartment, but Natalie had enough disruption in her life.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Natalie asked. Her eyes were wider than a sixteen-year-old's should be.
"I'm your mother," I answered, as if that explained everything. I fell back on the useless cliché. "You'll understand when you have children of your own." She would, but that was, hopefully, many years away.
"But you bought that stupid magazine subscription," Natalie said incredulously. It was for a fundraiser for her school.
"I didn't want you to be the only one who didn't sell one," I answered weakly. It was stupid vanity. Some idea that Natalie would be lessened if she didn't sell a subscription.
"That's silly...," Natalie said, then tilted her head slightly, "thanks." I smiled. It was the thought that counted. "Are we going to have to move?"
"Maybe," I said quietly. In time, the answer would be yes. I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold off the inevitable. It was actually better to have it out in the open. I felt like a failure, but I didn't see it in Natalie's eyes. "I'm sorry," I added weakly. She hugged me again. At least the truth had the benefit of us seeing eye to eye for once.
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I listened to the recording and decided to continue in English. The menu was rattled off, and I chose three for customer service. A year of paying things late, and you learn the systems. Not all late payment penalties are the same. You can get most removed with only a simple phone call. TriDeed Mortgage was such a company. This call would be fairly embarrassing since it would be my third attempt at getting a penalty removed. I had the depressed real estate market working in my favor. Foreclosing wasn't a profitable endeavor for mortgage companies when a mortgagor's equity was almost nonexistent. Mine was in that category.
"TriDeed Mortgage, this is Monica. How may I help you?" The voice was pleasant. They always were. I decided the truth was in order. They can't squeeze blood from a stone.
"Hi Monica, this is Linda Henderson," I started, returning the friendly tone. "I received a late payment notice with a $78 penalty yesterday."
