Hannah was wailing against my left collarbone while Nora gnawed on my shoulder, her hot little forehead pressed tight to my jaw.<\/p>\n
I had forty-two dollars left in my coat pocket, and the white plastic tub of formula in the kitchen pantry was down to its last two scoops.<\/p>\n
At five thirty, the front door of our one-story house on Birch Street swung open, bringing in a gust of cold autumn rain and the thick smell of wet sawdust.<\/p>\n
Jason tossed his brass truck keys onto the little oak mail table by the door.<\/p>\n
They hit with a loud clatter right on top of an unpaid city water bill and three five-dollar gas receipts from the Chevron on Fairview Avenue.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019ve both had thirty-eight-degree fevers since noon,\u201d I said, rubbing the thin blue skin inside my left wrist with my right thumb.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t hold out his arms for either one of his six-month-old daughters.<\/p>\n
He unbuttoned his canvas work jacket and threw it over the arm of the couch, letting a fine haze of white drywall dust sift down into the dark blue fabric.<\/p>\n
\u201cI framed four hundred feet of exterior wall today out in the cold mud,\u201d he said, unlacing his leather boots without looking up at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cCould you hold Nora for twenty minutes so I can go scrub the bottles?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s been crying since four.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jason lifted his left arm and tapped the glass of his wristwatch twice with his thumb, never once looking down at the numbers on the face.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was on my feet for ten hours straight,\u201d he said, his voice flat and cold.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not walking into a domestic circus the second I come through my own front door.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMarcus told me the framing crew wrapped up early today,\u201d I said, holding Hannah closer as she whimpered into my neck.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy father doesn\u2019t run my schedule,\u201d Jason snapped, setting his muddy boots down by the heat vent.<\/p>\n
\u201cI run it.\u201d<\/p>\n
He shoved past us without another word, his wet socks leaving damp marks along the beige carpet of the living room hall.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I hitched Hannah higher on my hip and followed him toward the back of the house, the silver baby monitor on the hallway shelf crackling with soft static from the empty nursery upstairs.<\/p>\n
By six, twelve dirty plastic bottles were bobbing sideways in cold dishwater in the laminate kitchen sink.<\/p>\n
A gray ring of dried formula clung to the neck of every bottle like hard lime scale.<\/p>\n
Nora whimpered against my shoulder, her small knees kicking steadily against my stomach while I stretched for the bottle brush with my free hand.<\/p>\n
Jason pulled open the refrigerator, stared at the empty top shelf where the milk usually was and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the plastic emergency-numbers magnet from St.<\/p>\n
Luke\u2019s Clinic.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook at this kitchen,\u201d he said, turning around with his thick arms folded tight across his chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt looks like a tornado blew through.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve been holding two sick babies since three in the morning,\u201d I said under my breath, letting my voice sink to a whisper the way it always did when heat began building in my throat.<\/p>\n
\u201cOther women handle two babies and still manage to keep the counters clean,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cA can of formula is thirty-two dollars now, Jason,\u201d I said, pointing down at the bottles floating in the sink.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe tub in the cupboard is totally empty, and the final shutoff notice for the electric bill came in this afternoon\u2019s mail.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI work sixty hours a week framing houses to keep a roof over this family,\u201d he said, stepping over a stack of folded cloth burp rags on the linoleum.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t come home from a job site to get grilled about every last nickel.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWe don\u2019t have thirty-two dollars for another tub of formula,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd the credit union called twice before noon.\u201d<\/p>\n
He picked up his ceramic mug of lukewarm instant coffee off the counter, took a single gulp and dumped the rest down the drain over the dirty rubber nipples.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you going to help me wash these bottles or aren\u2019t you?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey have to be sterilized before the eight o\u2019clock feeding.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m heading upstairs to pack,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I carried both girls down the narrow hall into the master bedroom, where the one bare bulb in the ceiling threw long yellow shadows over our unmade bed.<\/p>\n
The green canvas duffel bag lay wide open across the foot of the quilt, its heavy steel zipper pulled all the way back to the corner seam.<\/p>\n
Jason stood at the oak dresser, taking out three pairs of thick gray wool socks and dropping them into the bottom of the bag.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s the green duffel for?\u201d I asked, laying Hannah down gently in the center of the mattress while keeping Nora against my chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cMiller and the guys from the framing crew are driving down to the Snake River,\u201d he said, lifting a folded flannel shirt out of the second drawer.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Snake River?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cOn Tuesday you told me you were working overtime on the Fairview framing job this weekend to make up for the short paycheck.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m taking four days,\u201d he said, smoothing the flannel flat over the open mouth of the canvas bag.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can\u2019t take four days,\u201d I whispered, my voice trembling as I rubbed the skin of my left wrist again.<\/p>\n
\u201cHannah threw up her medicine an hour ago, and there are no baby drops left in the bathroom cabinet.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m taking four days away from this house,\u201d he said again, never once looking at the bed where Hannah was wriggling on the quilt.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow are you paying for a four-day fishing trip?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe credit union sent an urgent yellow ledger notice Monday about the home equity line.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jason yanked the heavy steel zipper shut across the green canvas bag in one hard pull that sounded like a saw ripping through dry pine.<\/p>\n
\u201cI earned my time off,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t need your permission to take a break.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour daughters are sick, Jason,\u201d I said, moving closer to the bed.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re running fevers of thirty-eight degrees.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019ve got a cold, Ellen,\u201d he said, throwing a pair of heavy rubber boots into the corner by the closet.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou panic over every tiny sniffle.\u201d<\/p>\n
He lifted the green duffel by its webbed handles and slung it over his shoulder, his heavy elbow bumping the nightstand where the silver baby monitor sat charging.<\/p>\n
The corner of a yellow ledger folder stuck out from under the bedside lamp, but he swept right past it without a glance.<\/p>\n
He marched straight out into the front hall, his heavy work boots thudding on the oak floorboards while cold autumn rain pattered on the single-pane window next to the front door.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Hannah began crying in the bedroom behind us, a thin, piercing sound that bounced off the bare plaster walls of the hall.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen leave me your truck keys,\u201d I said, stepping right between him and the brass front doorknob.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd leave some cash on the hall table.<\/p>\n
I have to pick up baby acetaminophen at the grocery store before eight.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jason laid his right hand on the deadbolt.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy wallet\u2019s staying in my pocket,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s no cash at all in my purse, Jason,\u201d I said quietly, my thumb digging into the blue vein on my left wrist.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou quit putting money into the joint household fund three months ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYour mother lives just down the road,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy mother is fifty-eight and lives on a fixed pension from her bookkeeping job,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe doesn\u2019t have spare cash lying around to buy nursery supplies while you go off fishing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe can loan you twenty bucks,\u201d he said, jingling the truck keys in his pocket.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy car\u2019s gas tank is empty because you spent the last five-dollar bill on your work truck,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow am I supposed to get to the clinic if their fevers spike tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Jason pulled the front door open four inches, letting a harsh blast of wet Boise air drive cold rain right across the hardwood threshold.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou wanted to be a mother so badly, so start acting like one,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
He shouldered the outer screen door open, stepped out onto the porch into the dark and the rain and pulled the heavy oak door closed behind him.<\/p>\n
The click of the latch rang through the dark front hall.<\/p>\n
Hannah gave a high, ragged whimper against my left shoulder.<\/p>\n
I shifted her weight and rested her hot cheek against my neck while I held Nora in the bend of my right arm.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The hall clock ticked over to two ten.<\/p>\n
I walked three slow laps around the linoleum, stepping lightly so the creaky board by the refrigerator wouldn\u2019t wake Nora all the way.<\/p>\n
The pile of mail Jason had shoved aside when he dropped his truck keys six hours earlier was sitting on the kitchen table.<\/p>\n
A gray window envelope poked out from under a hardware store flyer.<\/p>\n
I sat down in the wooden chair, balancing both babies across my lap.<\/p>\n
With my right hand, I worked the letter loose and pulled the page out through the torn edge.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
It was a notice from First Idaho Credit Union, dated three days before.<\/p>\n
The printed line at the top showed a $30 penalty for insufficient funds.<\/p>\n
Our joint household checking account had a balance of negative twelve dollars and forty cents.<\/p>\n
I read the date a second time.<\/p>\n
On Sunday, Jason had told me he\u2019d deposited his $4,000 draw check from Vance Framing into that very account.<\/p>\n
I ran my thumb across the inside of my left wrist, feeling the tiny tap of my pulse.<\/p>\n
I put the letter down and drew last month\u2019s statement out of the pile.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The back page of it was gone.<\/p>\n
The staple in the top corner had been straightened out and bent flat against the paper.<\/p>\n
I grabbed my phone from the counter to check the credit union app.<\/p>\n
The screen stayed dark, flashed a red battery symbol and then shut off for good.<\/p>\n
The morning sun struck the windshield of our station wagon in the parking lot of St.<\/p>\n
Luke\u2019s Clinic on Idaho Street.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The cold autumn rain had thinned into a fine, biting mist that covered the side mirrors.<\/p>\n
Hannah had slept for forty minutes in her car seat, but Nora\u2019s forehead still felt like a warm brick under my hand.<\/p>\n
I unbuckled both carriers and held one handle in each hand as I shoved through the heavy glass front doors.<\/p>\n
Dr.<\/p>\n
Miller looked in their ears, listened to their lungs and wrote out a mild prescription for infant fever drops.<\/p>\n
He smiled, patted my arm and told me first-year teething always seemed worse at night than it really was.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At the checkout desk, the clinic receptionist glanced up from her computer screen.<\/p>\n
She was a woman in her fifties whose round silver glasses hung from a blue lanyard.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour co-pay today is twenty-five dollars, Mrs.<\/p>\n
Vance,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I took our blue plastic credit union debit card out of my coat pocket and passed it over the counter.<\/p>\n
She ran the card through the little black machine next to her keyboard.<\/p>\n
The machine let out three quick, high beeps and showed a yellow light.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease try it once more,\u201d I said softly, lowering my voice.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThe chip reader\u2019s been acting up all month.\u201d<\/p>\n
She swiped it a second time, more slowly.<\/p>\n
The screen blinked red.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s being declined for insufficient funds,\u201d she said quietly.<\/p>\n
She kept her eyes on her monitor and her voice steady so the mothers in the waiting room behind us wouldn\u2019t overhear.<\/p>\n
I unzipped my wallet and counted the cash.<\/p>\n
There was a five-dollar bill, two ones and eighty-four cents in loose quarters.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve got seven dollars,\u201d I said, laying the bills on the counter.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cCould I pay the rest Monday?\u201d<\/p>\n
The receptionist took the five and the two ones and entered the payment in her system.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll put down a partial payment of seven dollars, but the system will send out a reminder notice in five days.\u201d<\/p>\n
By four that afternoon, rain was pounding against the single-pane kitchen windows.<\/p>\n
The back door swung open, letting in a wet draft and the smell of exhaust.<\/p>\n
My mother, Ruth Miller, came into the utility room with two paper grocery bags from WinCo.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She put them down on the laminate counter without taking off her wet beige coat.<\/p>\n
\u201cI brought two cases of liquid formula,\u201d my mother said, lifting a blue container from the top of one bag.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s thirty-two dollars apiece now.<\/p>\n
The price went up three dollars since last Tuesday.\u201d<\/p>\n
She set her purse on the table, opened it and took out a yellow ledger folder with neat metal tabs.<\/p>\n
My mother had spent thirty years keeping books for a timber yard in Nampa, and she never went anywhere without a black ballpoint pen tucked in her sweater pocket.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere are the girls right now?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThey finally went to sleep in their cribs twenty minutes ago,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI turned on the hot shower in the bathroom to steam up the air.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother went straight to the table and picked up the pile of unopened mail.<\/p>\n
She didn\u2019t ask first.<\/p>\n
She sat down, unbuttoned her coat and started sorting the envelopes into three neat columns.<\/p>\n
\u201cHas Jason called from the river?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me he\u2019d be out of cell range by the dam until Sunday night.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
My mother pulled a flat bundle of white envelopes out from under a thick stack of old local papers on the bottom shelf of the telephone stand.<\/p>\n
She slipped her fingernail under the flap of the first white envelope, took out the letter and spread it open on the Formica.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe didn\u2019t forget to pay these, Ellen,\u201d my mother said, her voice dry and precise.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe deliberately quit opening them.\u201d<\/p>\n
She laid out three notices stamped in red side by side next to my mug of cold instant coffee.<\/p>\n
The letters came from First Horizon Mortgage.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The top one was dated sixty days earlier and showed an unpaid balance of two thousand four hundred eighty dollars.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is the third late notice,\u201d my mother said, tapping her index finger on the bold type near the bottom.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf this amount isn\u2019t paid by November 15, they\u2019ll start formal default proceedings.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat can\u2019t be right,\u201d I said, leaning on the edge of the counter.<\/p>\n
\u201cJason pays the mortgage out of the framing company account.<\/p>\n
He writes the check on the first of every month.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother opened the yellow ledger folder and wrote down the loan number, the date and the exact dollar figure in blue ink.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe wrote the checks, Ellen, but he never sent them,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook at the postmarks on the envelopes.<\/p>\n
They bounced twice for non-sufficient funds before the bank gave up trying to run them.\u201d<\/p>\n
I picked up the third letter.<\/p>\n
The paper was stiff and dry, printed with a box demanding immediate payment of three thousand dollars to cover the arrears and late fees.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere\u2019s the company ledger?\u201d my mother asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe one he keeps for Vance Framing?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe keeps all his job receipts out in the garage,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cIn the metal cabinet next to his chop saw.\u201d<\/p>\n
The garage had no heat and smelled like damp cedar sawdust, motor oil and old cans of paint.<\/p>\n
One bare bulb dangled from a pull chain over Jason\u2019s wooden workbench.<\/p>\n
My mother stood by the inside door holding Nora, who was quietly chewing on a yellow rubber teething ring.<\/p>\n
I walked past Jason\u2019s rusty blue lawnmower in the corner and pulled open the bottom drawer of his tool cabinet.<\/p>\n
The drawer was crammed with plastic boxes of framing nails, half-used rolls of blue painter\u2019s tape and tossed-aside tape measures.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Under a heavy steel square, I found a clear plastic pouch stuffed full of paper receipts.<\/p>\n
I emptied the pouch out onto the flat top of the workbench.<\/p>\n
Receipts from gas stations along Interstate 84 tumbled out with little pink slips from the lumberyard.<\/p>\n
Close to the bottom of the pile was a carbon-copy withdrawal slip from the downtown branch of Idaho State Bank.<\/p>\n
The slip was dated October 14, three weeks ago to the day.<\/p>\n
It recorded an over-the-counter cash withdrawal of eight thousand dollars from our house savings account.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The signature on the bottom line was scrawled in thick black ink.<\/p>\n
I held the slip up under the bare bulb.<\/p>\n
The house savings account was the money we\u2019d put away over three years to replace the roof and buy matching cribs for the nursery.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is it?\u201d my mother called from the doorway.<\/p>\n
She came across the concrete floor, keeping Nora bundled snugly in a wool blanket.<\/p>\n
\u201cEight thousand dollars,\u201d I said, passing her the carbon slip.<\/p>\n
\u201cIn cash.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He emptied the savings account three weeks ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother held the receipt between two fingers and checked the date, then the teller\u2019s stamp in the bottom corner.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe didn\u2019t pull out eight thousand dollars in cash to buy lumber, Ellen,\u201d my mother said quietly.<\/p>\n
\u201cA framing subcontractor pays his suppliers on thirty-day invoice accounts.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOn Monday he told me there was six thousand dollars left in that fund,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
My thumb rubbed back and forth over my wrist.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me that when I asked about getting a double stroller.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo where did the money go?\u201d my mother asked.<\/p>\n
I looked at the bare spot on the workbench where Jason normally kept his heavy aluminum tool belt.<\/p>\n
The belt was missing, and so were his framing nailer and his own socket set.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe took his main tools,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe said he was taking fishing rods and a sleeping bag.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother didn\u2019t reply.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She turned and went back into the warm kitchen, her flat shoes tapping on the linoleum.<\/p>\n
I gathered up the bank slip, the mortgage notices and the overdraft letter from the credit union and carried them back into the light of the house.<\/p>\n
My mother sat at the laminate table, smoothing out the edges of the papers and lining them up inside her folder.<\/p>\n
She laid her pen down next to her half-finished cup.<\/p>\n
The yellow ledger folder sat open on the laminate counter next to the cold instant coffee.<\/p>\n
By nine Saturday morning, I was on Gail\u2019s green living room couch holding Hannah while Gail held Nora in her lap.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The credit union withdrawal slip sat on the coffee table between two cold mugs of instant coffee.<\/p>\n
Gail clicked her ballpoint pen against her index finger, three quick clicks every time her eyes moved down a line of numbers.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe took eight thousand dollars out of the nursery account on October twelfth,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you put your initials next to the teller\u2019s stamp?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t even know there was still eight thousand dollars in that account,\u201d I said, rubbing the inside of my left wrist with my right thumb.<\/p>\n
Gail put her pen down on the coffee table and raised Nora higher on her shoulder to burp her.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI saw Jason\u2019s white pickup in front of the real estate office on Fairview Avenue last Thursday at eleven in the morning.\u201d<\/p>\n
I turned to look at her.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me he was framing a roof in Meridian all day Thursday.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe wasn\u2019t in Meridian,\u201d Gail said, her voice quick and blunt.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe was coming out the front door of First Realty with a thick yellow folder under his arm.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hannah stirred in my arms, her skin still warm from the morning\u2019s fever.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy on earth would he be at a real estate office?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s what people do when they\u2019re trying to lease commercial space or buy property,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe sat in his truck in their parking lot for twenty minutes reading through paperwork.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI brought you this,\u201d I said, digging into my coat pocket and sliding our spare brass garage key across the glass table.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf I\u2019m stuck at home with the girls, I need somebody who can get to the freezer shelf or the workbench.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gail picked up the key and threaded it onto her ring without a second thought.<\/p>\n
\u201cA man who frames houses fifty hours a week doesn\u2019t take four unpaid days unless he\u2019s got some other plan going,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She looked back down at the slip, resting her thumb on the line where two letters were scribbled in shaky black ink.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhose initials are these?\u201d Gail asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI have no idea,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not my handwriting.\u201d<\/p>\n
At noon I carried the girls back across Birch Street, their small heads resting against my sweater as the cold autumn rain began easing into a steady drizzle against the single-pane windows.<\/p>\n
At one thirty, Marcus Vance pulled his gray work truck into our driveway.<\/p>\n
He climbed out holding a rusty iron trailer hitch in his thick leather work gloves.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I went out onto the porch, pulling my cardigan closed against the damp while the twins napped in their cribs inside.<\/p>\n
\u201cI came by to change out the hitch on the utility trailer,\u201d Marcus said, stopping at the foot of the wooden steps.<\/p>\n
\u201cMarcus, how many paid vacation days did Jason still have on the company books?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Marcus cleared his throat, a long, rough noise like gravel churning in a bucket.<\/p>\n
He looked off toward the street, shifting his heavy work boots on the wet gravel walk.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe didn\u2019t use paid vacation for this river trip, Ellen,\u201d Marcus said after a long silence.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThen what did he use?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe took four days of unpaid leave,\u201d Marcus said.<\/p>\n
He turned the iron hitch over in his gloved hands.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe asked my office manager for unpaid personal time two weeks ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stood on the top step, looking down at my father-in-law.<\/p>\n
\u201cA can of formula costs thirty-two dollars,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s thirty-two dollars left in our joint account, total.<\/p>\n
Why would he take four days off without pay when we can\u2019t even buy groceries?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Marcus cleared his throat again, twice as long this time.<\/p>\n
He backed up a step toward the bed of his truck.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t get between a man and his wife over household money,\u201d Marcus said.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you pay his quarterly framing crew bonus on the first?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cOr did that check get deposited somewhere else?\u201d<\/p>\n
Marcus went still.<\/p>\n
His face hardened, his jaw clenching under his gray beard.<\/p>\n
\u201cI came over for a trailer hitch, Ellen,\u201d Marcus said, his voice sinking into a rough rasp.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t come here to be put on trial by my son\u2019s wife.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m trying to keep his daughters fed while he\u2019s off on the Snake River,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Marcus tossed the iron hitch into the back of his truck with a heavy clang of metal and got into the cab without answering.<\/p>\n
I watched his truck turn onto Fairview Avenue before I went back inside to check the temperature in the nursery.<\/p>\n
My mother showed up at six with two plastic grocery bags holding milk, bread and two cans of baby formula at thirty-two dollars apiece.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
We sat at the laminate kitchen counter with two big stainless steel pots bubbling on the stove, filling the tiny room with warm steam while we sterilized the bottles.<\/p>\n
Mom folded a white paper napkin into a crisp triangle, pressing the fold flat with her thumbnail until the point was sharp.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe electric bill is two hundred forty-six dollars,\u201d Mom said, reading off a lined yellow notepad she\u2019d set next to her purse.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe water bill is eighty-four dollars.<\/p>\n
They were both due ten days ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me he paid them on his phone from the job site,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe didn\u2019t,\u201d Mom said, her voice calm and low.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThe credit union sent back two automatic payments for non-sufficient funds.<\/p>\n
That tacked on sixty dollars in bank fees.\u201d<\/p>\n
Out in the hall, the metal flap of the mail slot in the front door clattered open, and two letters dropped onto the rug.<\/p>\n
Mom got up, went down the dark hallway and brought the mail back to the kitchen counter.<\/p>\n
She laid one letter face up between our teacups.<\/p>\n
Stamped across the front of the window envelope in bold red ink were the words final disconnection notice.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019ve scheduled the power to be cut off Tuesday morning,\u201d Mom said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHow much will it take to stop them?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThree hundred ninety dollars, counting the payment penalty and the reconnection deposit,\u201d Mom said.<\/p>\n
She folded a second napkin into a perfect triangle and set it right next to the first.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere did the missing eight thousand dollars end up?\u201d I asked, staring down at the red ink.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe credit union opens at nine on Monday,\u201d Mom said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll stand at that counter until the teller pulls the original paper slip.\u201d<\/p>\n
By eleven that night, both babies were coughing with heavy congestion in their chests that woke them every ten minutes.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I hauled the electric steam vaporizer into the hall between their bedroom doors and plugged it in, letting the warm mist float into their dark room.<\/p>\n
Hannah finally settled, her tiny hands curled against her blanket, but Nora lay in her crib pulling at her ear and crying softly.<\/p>\n
I sat on the hall floor with my back to the baseboard, holding the silver baby monitor in my lap so I could watch the sound lights while I rocked Nora\u2019s crib with one hand.<\/p>\n
The little green light on top of the monitor started blinking yellow, flickering three times and then going dark.<\/p>\n
The monitor\u2019s screen went completely dead.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I pushed the power button four times, but nothing happened.<\/p>\n
The two AA batteries inside had run all the way down.<\/p>\n
I got up, went into the nursery closet and searched the top shelf behind the spare receiving blankets and empty cardboard boxes.<\/p>\n
There wasn\u2019t a single spare battery in the whole house.<\/p>\n
I went into the bedroom and checked the leather purse on the dresser.<\/p>\n
The coin pouch held four dollars and twelve cents in change and two folded five-dollar gas receipts from three weeks earlier.<\/p>\n
A four-pack of AA batteries at the corner gas station cost six ninety-nine plus tax.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I carried Nora down the dark stairs to the kitchen to wet a warm washcloth to hold against her hot cheek.<\/p>\n
The house was cold and silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator motor in the corner.<\/p>\n
On the laminate counter, next to the stack of sterilized bottles, lay the envelope Mom had brought in from the hall.<\/p>\n
The red final-notice stamp seemed to glow under the fluorescent kitchen light.<\/p>\n
I tucked the notice into my handbag next to two empty formula scoops and drove to the corner market on Fairview Avenue at eleven on Sunday morning.<\/p>\n
Cold autumn rain beat against the windshield, and the windows of my sedan steamed up at every red light.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The coin pay phone bolted to the wet brick wall beside the ice machine swallowed three quarters before the line clicked through.<\/p>\n
Jason\u2019s fishing buddy Wayne picked up on the fourth ring, his voice booming over the roar of rushing river water and an outboard motor.<\/p>\n
\u201cPut Jason on the phone,\u201d I said, rubbing the inside of my left wrist with my right thumb.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s up on the rocks on the bank rigging lines,\u201d Wayne shouted over the whine of the engine.<\/p>\n
\u201cGo get him and put him on right now, Wayne,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A whole minute went by with the line humming with cold wind and river noise before Jason picked up the heavy receiver.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s so urgent, Ellen?\u201d he asked, his voice short and flat.<\/p>\n
\u201cHannah and Nora both have fevers of a hundred and two, and the power\u2019s about to get shut off,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have to come home today.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re making up an emergency because you can\u2019t handle four days on your own,\u201d Jason said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re throwing up their formula,\u201d I said softly, dropping my voice to a murmur as two shoppers walked by carrying grocery bags.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s no cash left in the house,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThen quit buying thirty-two-dollar cans,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not cutting my river trip short because you freaked out over teething babies.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMarcus told me you took four days of unpaid leave for this trip,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou told me it was vacation time you\u2019d earned from the company.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI took four days off because I\u2019d earned a little peace,\u201d Jason said.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t call this number again.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJason, just listen to me,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
The line cut off with a hard click of metal before I could get the rest of the sentence out.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I hung up the cold receiver and counted the coins left in my hand, three quarters and two dimes.<\/p>\n
A crumpled five-dollar gas receipt lay in the bottom of my purse next to two unused bus tokens.<\/p>\n
I stood under the metal hood of the phone while a delivery van idled in the lot, its diesel fumes drifting over the wet asphalt.<\/p>\n
He hadn\u2019t walked out Thursday night because there were twelve dirty bottles floating in the kitchen sink.<\/p>\n
He\u2019d picked that sudden fight over washing bottles to give himself an excuse for taking four unpaid days off without having to explain what had become of his weekly framing pay.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
By three on Sunday afternoon, Gail Henderson was out in my gravel driveway helping me tip the heavy double stroller into the trunk of my sedan.<\/p>\n
She kept clicking her ballpoint pen with her right thumb while she leaned into the back seat to buckle Nora into her rear-facing car seat.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you turn up the credit union equity records in his desk?\u201d Gail asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI found a thirty-dollar fee notice stuck inside the yellow ledger folder,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
A white city utility truck pulled up to the curb before I could push the trunk lid down.<\/p>\n
A man in orange canvas coveralls climbed out holding an aluminum clipboard and a yellow plastic meter seal.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you live at 412 Birch Street?\u201d he asked, coming up the gravel drive.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, I do,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs something wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNotice of electric service shutoff,\u201d he said, turning to the glass meter box on the side of the garage.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis account is sixty-one days past due.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy husband takes care of the utility bills,\u201d I said, stepping right between him and the glass meter cover.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe gets back from his trip tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe shutoff order came through Friday afternoon,\u201d the worker said, tapping his thumb on the edge of the clipboard.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019ll take two hundred forty dollars in past-due payments to keep the service on.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gail walked up to the edge of the driveway, her pen clicking against her yellow legal pad.<\/p>\n
\u201cGive her until nine tomorrow morning,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s got two sick six-month-old babies in that house.\u201d<\/p>\n
The utility worker glanced at the double stroller sitting in the open trunk, then down at the yellow plastic seal in his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cNine a.m.,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf the past-due amount isn\u2019t posted by nine, the shutoff tag goes on the box.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He went back to his idling truck, leaving a bright orange warning slip wedged under the frame of the garage door.<\/p>\n
Five minutes later I went out into the cold garage while Gail stayed in the kitchen with the girls.<\/p>\n
The rusty blue lawnmower sat in the corner next to three empty gas cans and a pile of warped plywood.<\/p>\n
I pulled open the long middle drawer of Jason\u2019s wooden workbench, pushing aside a rusty handsaw and a fistful of framing nails.<\/p>\n
Beneath a thick coat of sawdust was the original utility default notice from three weeks before, stamped in dark red ink across the top.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Tucked right under that notice was a receipt from a sporting goods store in Nampa for four hundred ten dollars, paid in cash on Thursday morning.<\/p>\n
He\u2019d taken the cash that was supposed to cover sixty days of electricity and spent it on high-end river waders before he\u2019d even set foot on the Snake River.<\/p>\n
By eight thirty Monday morning, I was standing in the cold gravel lot of Vance Framing off Industrial Way.<\/p>\n
Marcus Vance was leaning into the bed of his blue pickup, sliding eight-foot two-by-six studs into a tidy pile.<\/p>\n
\u201cHello, Marcus,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He turned around slowly and cleared his throat three times before resting his hands on the tailgate.<\/p>\n
\u201cEllen,\u201d Marcus said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should be at home looking after those girls.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJason took four days of unpaid leave while our electric bill went into default,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere are the wages he\u2019s missing?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJason puts in fifty hours a week framing houses for this company,\u201d Marcus said, clearing his throat once more.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe needed a break.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe pulled eight thousand dollars out of our joint nursery account three weeks ago,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cTake a look around this yard, Ellen,\u201d Marcus said, waving a hand at the tall piles of spruce framing lumber.<\/p>\n
\u201cLumber prices went up twenty percent this quarter.<\/p>\n
If Jason took out cash, it was to pay his own job-site costs.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe city\u2019s coming to shut off our power at nine,\u201d I said, letting my voice fall to a soft murmur.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou spend too much on baby things,\u201d Marcus said, laying his heavy leather work gloves on the tailgate.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou bought two of everything instead of having them share.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re twins,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cJason is out framing walls in freezing mud to keep a roof over your head,\u201d Marcus said.<\/p>\n
\u201cQuit leaning on him every time a utility bill comes due.\u201d<\/p>\n
He grabbed his metal tape measure and walked into the corrugated office trailer without a backward look.<\/p>\n
I drove home to Birch Street and sat on the bench on the front porch, watching the hands of my watch creep past four.<\/p>\n
At four thirty, Jason\u2019s white Ford pickup rolled into the driveway, sending dry leaves skittering across the dead lawn.<\/p>\n
He climbed out of the driver\u2019s side in clean jeans and a fresh plaid shirt, looking rested and tanned.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He unhooked his green canvas duffel from the back seat and came up the three wooden porch steps.<\/p>\n
\u201cLights are still on, I see,\u201d he said, walking past me into the front hall without slowing down.<\/p>\n
I followed him into the kitchen, where twelve baby bottles stood washed and upside down on a clean linen towel next to two dry glass bowls.<\/p>\n
Jason laid his hand flat on the laminate counter and ran his thumb slowly across the clean surface.<\/p>\n
\u201cSee how quick you cleaned this place up once you quit waiting on me to do your job?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHannah had a fever of a hundred and two Saturday night,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Jason checked his watch without actually looking at the glass.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou did just fine,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cA little pressure was all it took to get you organized.\u201d<\/p>\n
He took his green canvas duffel into the living room, unzipped the main pocket and took out his leather wallet.<\/p>\n
He let the dusty duffel drop onto the living room rug with a pleased smirk.<\/p>\n
At nine Tuesday morning, I was sitting in the little back room across Birch Street where Gail Henderson did her legal work.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Gail clicked her ballpoint pen against her thumb four times before laying her hand next to her black laptop.<\/p>\n
\u201cI searched the Ada County land records under Jason\u2019s name,\u201d Gail said, swinging the bright screen around so I could read the blue header.<\/p>\n
\u201cLast Thursday he downloaded a draft quitclaim deed from an online legal forms site,\u201d Gail said, her pen clicking again in a quick, steady rhythm.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt puts the Birch Street house in his name alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
I rubbed the inside of my left wrist with my right thumb as I stared at the bright words on the screen.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs he able to file a quitclaim deed without my signature?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cNot legally, no,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut if he gets a notary to stamp a page with a forged signature, the county clerk records the deed before anybody notices the mistake.\u201d<\/p>\n
She printed two copies of the deed on her desk printer and passed them to me across the laminate desktop.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid he say anything about seeing a real estate agent while he was supposedly away fishing?\u201d Gail asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me he was out on the Snake River with his framing crew,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cA man who frames houses fifty hours a week doesn\u2019t take four unpaid days unless he\u2019s got some other plan going,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
She clicked her ballpoint pen nonstop as she watched me fold up the printed pages.<\/p>\n
\u201cHave you looked in the drawer under his workbench in the garage again?\u201d Gail asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot since Sunday night,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cGo check it,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s getting ready to pull the equity out from under you before you can file a response.\u201d<\/p>\n
Twenty minutes later I stepped off Gail\u2019s front porch with cold rain soaking through the shoulders of my coat.<\/p>\n
I crossed back over Birch Street with the printed deed pages pressed flat against my side under my arm.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
My mother opened the front door with Nora in her arms while Hannah slept in her crib in the nursery.<\/p>\n
Ruth put baby Nora in her high chair and sat down at the laminate kitchen counter.<\/p>\n
She took a paper napkin out of the glass holder and folded it into an exact triangle.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe power company truck was sitting right at our curb when I pulled into the driveway,\u201d Ruth said.<\/p>\n
I stopped in the kitchen doorway with my fingers on the wet buttons of my coat.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid the technician cut off our electric meter?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Ruth reached into her coat pocket and put a green paper savings certificate on the table next to a white paper receipt.<\/p>\n
\u201cI cashed in my five-thousand-dollar emergency savings certificate at the bank downtown this morning,\u201d Ruth said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe eight-hundred-twelve-dollar utility balance has been paid in full.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMom, I can\u2019t take your emergency savings,\u201d I said, my voice falling to a quiet murmur.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s already been paid, Ellen,\u201d Ruth said, running her thumbnail along the sharp folded edge of the napkin.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe man from the power company took the shutoff tag off the meter twenty minutes ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
She pushed the rest of the cash and the official bank receipt across the laminate counter to my side.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s four thousand one hundred eighty-eight dollars left,\u201d Ruth said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re taking every cent of it to a lawyer.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll take this only as a loan for a legal retainer,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll pay back every dollar with interest as soon as the court freezes our accounts.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll keep a precise ledger of every penny,\u201d Ruth said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNow go call the office downtown.\u201d<\/p>\n
By ten Wednesday morning, the storm had moved through, leaving a pale sun over the parking lot at St.<\/p>\n
Luke\u2019s Clinic.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I wheeled the heavy double stroller through the glass front doors while my mother walked next to me carrying the diaper bag.<\/p>\n
Dr.<\/p>\n
Miller checked Hannah first, pressing the cold stethoscope to her chest before he looked at Nora\u2019s throat and ears.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe fever\u2019s gone completely,\u201d Dr.<\/p>\n
Miller said, jotting two lines on the chart.<\/p>\n
\u201cHer ears look clear, and Nora\u2019s doing every bit as well.\u201d<\/p>\n
I smoothed Hannah\u2019s yellow cotton sleeper across her tummy while she reached up to catch my fingers.<\/p>\n
At the checkout desk, I gave the receptionist thirty-two dollars in cash for the visit co-pay.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The receptionist stamped the form with a red paid seal and gave me the yellow carbon copy.<\/p>\n
I looked down at the red stamp on the page and then over at my mother, who was tucking Nora\u2019s blanket around her in the stroller.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d gotten both sick babies to their checkup, paid their medical bill and kept the lights on in the house without asking Jason for a thing.<\/p>\n
My hands were perfectly steady as I released the stroller\u2019s wheel brakes and steered us out to the car.<\/p>\n
At three Wednesday afternoon, I was sitting in a tall leather chair on the fourth floor of the Idaho Building downtown.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Attorney Phelps pushed his wire-rimmed glasses into place and set three yellow legal pads out on his polished oak desk.<\/p>\n
\u201cGail Henderson phoned ahead this morning with an outline of your documents,\u201d Attorney Phelps said.<\/p>\n
I took the yellow ledger folder out of my canvas bag and laid it on the desk next to the printed copy of the quitclaim deed.<\/p>\n
\u201cThree weeks ago Jason took eight thousand dollars out of our house savings,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe left us with no grocery money while our twin girls were running teething fevers.\u201d<\/p>\n
Attorney Phelps lifted the credit union statement and read the printed line that showed the eight-thousand-dollar cash transfer.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHas your husband given you any accounting of where that money went?\u201d Phelps asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe said it went toward paying off household bills,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut our electric bill was three months behind and the mortgage was in default.\u201d<\/p>\n
Attorney Phelps wrote a brief note in blue ink across the top line of his legal pad.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you know what\u2019s in the locked self-storage unit out on Fairview Avenue?\u201d Phelps asked, raising his eyes from his notes.<\/p>\n
I stopped rubbing the inside of my left wrist and stared straight at his desk lamp.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat storage unit are you talking about?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cGail\u2019s public records search turned up an automatic monthly rent payment from his personal account to a self-storage place on Fairview Avenue,\u201d Phelps said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI had no idea he was renting a storage unit,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Phelps pushed the printed retainer agreement across the polished desk toward my chair.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe full retainer for filing an emergency asset freeze and a formal petition with the court is three thousand five hundred dollars,\u201d Phelps said.<\/p>\n
I reached into my bag, took out seven stacks of five hundred dollars each from my mother\u2019s certificate money and laid them on the desk blotter.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI want that freeze petition filed today,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Attorney Phelps picked up his pen and signed his full name on the attorney\u2019s line at the bottom of the agreement.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis filing will block your husband from moving equity, refinancing the mortgage or recording that quitclaim deed,\u201d Phelps said.<\/p>\n
I wrote my full name on the line labeled Client Signature.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re putting a legal lock on every door he thought he could sneak through without anyone noticing,\u201d Attorney Phelps said.<\/p>\n
He lifted the heavy brass filing stamp from the corner of his blotter.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He slammed the heavy stamp down on the top margin of the freeze petition, leaving a bright red seal over the county filing number.<\/p>\n
I drove home from the courthouse through the cold fall rain with the stamped petition lying flat on the passenger seat under my purse.<\/p>\n
By six, Jason\u2019s truck was in the driveway.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t kick off his dirty boots at the door like he normally did.<\/p>\n
He went straight into the dining room carrying two heavy paper bags from the pricey Italian place down by the river.<\/p>\n
He put the bags on the dark wooden table and took out clear plastic containers of chicken parmesan, chopped salad and garlic bread.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI figured we\u2019d earned a real dinner tonight,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
He laid two plastic forks next to the paper napkins on the counter.<\/p>\n
He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fat roll of twenty-dollar bills wrapped in a thick blue rubber band.<\/p>\n
He peeled off three, put them next to his glass and stuffed the rest back into his jeans.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere did that roll of cash come from?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
He popped open the dressing container without looking at me.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI earned it, Ellen.<\/p>\n
I framed a two-car garage out in Kuna on my own time.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere are four past-due utility notices sitting in your workbench drawer,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
His plastic fork clattered sharply onto his plate.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m trying to make things right here, Ellen, but you\u2019ve got to quit acting like an accountant,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe electric bill goes into default tomorrow,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI brought home dinner,\u201d he said, lowering his voice to the soft murmur he used when he was furious.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cCan we sit down for ten minutes without you keeping a ledger on me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere\u2019s the money for the utility bill?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
He picked up his napkin, wiped his hands and headed for the back hall without eating a bite.<\/p>\n
By eight thirty, both girls were crying in the nursery, their cheeks hot and red from the back teeth pushing through.<\/p>\n
Jason came into the bedroom with a warm bottle of thirty-two-dollar formula.<\/p>\n
He lifted Hannah out of her crib and sat down in the oak rocking chair next to the window.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cSee?\u201d he said, holding the nipple to her mouth.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe just needs somebody who knows how to hold her.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hannah took three fast swallows, jerked her head back and spat formula all down the front of his clean gray work shirt.<\/p>\n
Jason shot to his feet and laid Hannah back in her crib on her tummy before her feet were even on the mattress.<\/p>\n
\u201cI only just put this shirt on,\u201d he said, wiping his sleeve across his chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s got a teething fever, Jason,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cShe did that deliberately,\u201d he said, stepping around the rocker toward the door.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou deal with it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s six months old,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t reply, ducking out into the hall and pulling the nursery door shut behind him until the latch clicked.<\/p>\n
At seven Friday morning, the smell of burned coffee hung over the downstairs.<\/p>\n
Jason stood by the front door in his heavy work jacket with a slip of paper pinched between his fingers.<\/p>\n
\u201cHere,\u201d he said, holding it out to me.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cDeposit this when the bank opens.\u201d<\/p>\n
I took the check and looked down at the blue safety paper.<\/p>\n
The name printed in bold ink in the top left corner wasn\u2019t Vance Framing, and it wasn\u2019t our joint household account.<\/p>\n
It said Miller River Guide Services, drawn on a business account at Idaho First Savings.<\/p>\n
The check was made out to cash for nine hundred dollars and signed with a sloppy, sprawling signature.<\/p>\n
\u201cMark Miller doesn\u2019t owe us any nine hundred dollars,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe owed me for some cedar decking,\u201d Jason said, checking his wristwatch without looking at the face.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust take it to the credit union.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs this check any good?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s real money, Ellen,\u201d he said, reaching for the brass handle on the front door.<\/p>\n
\u201cQuit asking questions about where every dollar comes from.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMark\u2019s guide business got an equipment lien filed against it last month,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cDeposit the check,\u201d he said, and walked out onto the porch into the fog.<\/p>\n
My mother got there at two with her leather tote and her folding reading glasses.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She put her handbag on the laminate counter, sat down at the table and took out the yellow ledger folder.<\/p>\n
\u201cI spent my lunch hour on the phone with the supervisor at the credit union,\u201d she said, folding a paper napkin into a crisp triangle.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid they track down the withdrawal slip from three weeks ago?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, they did,\u201d she said, laying her reading glasses on the table.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe clerk pulled the paper original out of the vault in Meridian.\u201d<\/p>\n
She pushed a clear plastic sleeve across the counter.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Inside was a photocopy of a line-of-credit draft for eight thousand dollars.<\/p>\n
On the line for the secondary account holder, two little letters were printed in a crooked hand: E.V.<\/p>\n
\u201cI never approved that transfer,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know you didn\u2019t,\u201d my mother said, her voice calm and even.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe wrote those initials himself.<\/p>\n
The credit union\u2019s auditor flagged the stroke on the E.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe faked my name on the equity line,\u201d I said, rubbing the inside of my left wrist with my thumb.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe needed cash in hand before the branch shut for the weekend,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She picked up the nine-hundred-dollar check Jason had left on the hall table and held it up to the fluorescent light overhead.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere did he get hold of this?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe gave it to me before he left for the job site,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe said it would take care of the household bills.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother tapped the edge of the check against her palm.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe state revenue department froze Mark Miller\u2019s business account forty-eight hours ago.<\/p>\n
If you take this to the drive-through, the teller will hit your account with a thirty-five-dollar returned check fee before dark.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe knew full well that account was frozen,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe knows it takes the system two business days to bounce a bad check,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe wanted you to believe the bills were covered through Sunday.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy only through Sunday?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
She took her cell phone out of her sweater pocket and called the credit union\u2019s main desk, laying the phone flat on the counter on speaker.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is Ruth Miller,\u201d she said to the representative.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m calling with Ellen Vance about account number four-one-two.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, Mrs.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Miller,\u201d the teller said over the little speaker.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve got the account flag pulled up.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAre there any electronic transfers pending for midnight?\u201d my mother asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, there are,\u201d the woman said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s an automated clearinghouse draft scheduled for 11:59 p.m. to take nine hundred forty dollars out of the checking balance.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere is that money supposed to go?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe payee listed on the transfer order is Fairview Storage and Rental,\u201d the teller said.<\/p>\n
My mother tapped the red button on her phone screen and hung up.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She pressed the paper napkin flat on the table until the corners lined up perfectly.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s draining the last of the cash before he gets served with the court order,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I turned to look at the dining table, where the cold Italian takeout box was still sitting next to the uncashed check.<\/p>\n
At five to ten Saturday morning, Gail pulled her gray sedan onto the gravel apron at Fairview Self-Storage.<\/p>\n
The air smelled like cold rain and wet pavement.<\/p>\n
I sat in the passenger seat holding the brass key ring I\u2019d taken from the drawer of Jason\u2019s workbench three days earlier.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Unit 404 was at the very end of the third metal row, tucked under a rusty tin overhang.<\/p>\n
Gail put the car in park and turned off the engine.<\/p>\n
She picked a black ballpoint pen out of her cup holder and began clicking it nonstop against her thumb.<\/p>\n
\u201cI pulled the commercial lease filings at the courthouse yesterday,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
\u201cUnit 404 has been rented in his name since August.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me the garage key was for his job-site lockbox in Nampa,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
My right thumb started rubbing the smooth skin inside my left wrist.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I got out of the car and stepped over a wide puddle of muddy standing water.<\/p>\n
The brass padlock hanging from the latch on the unit was heavy and covered in a thin film of grease.<\/p>\n
I fit the small key into the lock and turned it to the right.<\/p>\n
The lock sprang open with a hard metallic snap.<\/p>\n
I unhooked the steel shackle, lifted the handle of the corrugated door and shoved it up into its overhead track.<\/p>\n
The cold shadows pulled back as the morning light spread over the concrete floor.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Inside were the oak dining chairs from our spare set, four sealed wardrobe boxes and the headboard from our guest bed bundled in moving blankets.<\/p>\n
Behind a rusty blue lawnmower lay the taken-apart frame of our second white nursery crib, its spindles stacked in a tidy bundle wrapped with masking tape.<\/p>\n
Hannah\u2019s extra high chair stood by the back wall next to a box labeled kitchen appliances.<\/p>\n
Gail came up to the doorway beside me, her pen tapping her palm in a steady rhythm.<\/p>\n
\u201cCheck the date on those strips of tape, Ellen,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I knelt down on the cold concrete and tugged at a loose flap on the closest box.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Inside were our spare toaster, three stainless steel stockpots and the silver microwave from our pantry shelf that had disappeared two weeks before the babies got sick.<\/p>\n
A yellow carbon receipt from Fairview Management Services was taped to the top box.<\/p>\n
It listed a two-bedroom unit on Fairview Avenue rented to Jason Vance as the only tenant, with a lease start date of November 1.<\/p>\n
Gail quit clicking her pen and pointed at the printed date on the receipt.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe never went fishing, Ellen,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe moved half your house across town while you were holding sick babies.\u201d<\/p>\n
I got up and stared at the pile of crib rails leaning against the concrete wall.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Those four days on the Snake River hadn\u2019t been a getaway with his work friends.<\/p>\n
He\u2019d spent those four days clearing out our spare room, hauling our things across town and setting up a second home while I counted out pennies for formula.<\/p>\n
At eleven thirty, I stepped into the carpeted lobby of First Federal\u2019s main branch on Idaho Street.<\/p>\n
It was warm inside and smelled like polished wood and fresh paper.<\/p>\n
Mr.<\/p>\n
Davis, the senior branch manager, met me at his corner desk and drew out a heavy oak chair for me.<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Vance,\u201d he said, sitting down.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour mother called this morning to make sure I\u2019d have your file ready.\u201d<\/p>\n
I sat and laid my folder with the signed copy of the house deed on the edge of his desk.<\/p>\n
My thumb rubbed the inside of my left wrist while Mr.<\/p>\n
Davis keyed our joint account number into his computer.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need a full record of every change made to our home equity line since August,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Mr.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Davis pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses and studied the screen for a long moment in silence.<\/p>\n
He tapped three keys on his number pad and printed out a two-page report on the laser printer behind his chair.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe eight-thousand-dollar withdrawal on October twelfth went through as an electronic transfer,\u201d Mr.<\/p>\n
Davis said, passing me the page.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid that transfer need my signature?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cUnder the equity terms set up three years ago, either primary account holder could approve draws of up to ten thousand dollars,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
I looked down at the transaction code printed in small black type.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The money had gone straight into an escrow deposit account belonging to Fairview Apartments LLC.<\/p>\n
Mr.<\/p>\n
Davis cleared his throat quietly and swiveled his monitor four inches toward my side of the desk.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s one more filing here you should know about, Mrs.<\/p>\n
Vance,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat sort of filing?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cOn September fourteenth, your husband filed an administrative request to take your name off the title to the house,\u201d Mr.<\/p>\n
Davis said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I stared at the scanned copy of the form on his screen.<\/p>\n
My printed name on line four had a thin black line drawn through it.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy didn\u2019t it go through?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe county recorder flagged it because there was no notarized quitclaim deed signed by you,\u201d Mr.<\/p>\n
Davis said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWithout your own signature in front of a notary, the title change couldn\u2019t move forward.\u201d<\/p>\n
He printed the form and handed it to me along with the transaction records.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe tried twice,\u201d Mr.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Davis said softly.<\/p>\n
\u201cOnce in September and again on the morning of October tenth.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe deadline to catch up is still November fifteenth,\u201d Mr.<\/p>\n
Davis went on.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf three thousand dollars isn\u2019t deposited by five that afternoon, foreclosure proceedings on the loan start automatically.\u201d<\/p>\n
By two, I was driving through the chain-link gate of Vance Framing on Chinden Boulevard.<\/p>\n
Piles of golden pine lumber rose eight feet high along the gravel drive, smelling of fresh sawdust and sap.<\/p>\n
Marcus Vance was standing by the cut saw in a heavy canvas jacket, checking measurements on a yellow notepad.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He turned around when my car door slammed, and his face set into a hard, guarded mask.<\/p>\n
Marcus cleared his throat four times before laying his notepad on a stack of two-by-sixes.<\/p>\n
\u201cEllen,\u201d he said, after a long pause.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should be at home taking care of those girls in weather like this.\u201d<\/p>\n
I crossed the damp sawdust path, pulled the signed copy of the house deed out of my tote bag and held up the yellow apartment lease receipt from the storage unit.<\/p>\n
I lowered my voice to a quiet murmur so the two framers by the flatbed couldn\u2019t hear.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cJason took four days of unpaid leave to move his things into an apartment,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you write him a payroll advance for the lease deposit?\u201d<\/p>\n
Marcus stared down at the yellow paper in my hand.<\/p>\n
He cleared his throat over and over, a dry, rough sound.<\/p>\n
He looked off toward a lumber truck turning in from the main road.<\/p>\n
\u201cJason told me you two were splitting up,\u201d Marcus said gruffly after another long silence.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe said you wanted him out of the house.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe left me with forty-two dollars, six-month-old twins with fevers and a notice that the power was getting cut off,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Marcus shifted from one work boot to the other.<\/p>\n
He reached up and rubbed the back of his thick neck with a rough hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cThree weeks ago he came to me asking for an emergency advance,\u201d Marcus said quietly.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe said the babies had clinic bills your insurance wouldn\u2019t pay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow much did you hand him, Marcus?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cFifteen hundred dollars from the company payroll reserve,\u201d Marcus said.<\/p>\n
He looked me in the eye for the first time, his gray eyes narrowing with sudden doubt.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe swore to me on his mother\u2019s memory that the money was going straight to St.<\/p>\n
Luke\u2019s,\u201d Marcus said.<\/p>\n
I held out the bank printout showing the escrow transfer to Fairview Apartments.<\/p>\n
Marcus took the page, his thick fingers gripping the edge until the clean white sheet crumpled in his hand.<\/p>\n
He cleared his throat once again, but he didn\u2019t make any more excuses for his son.<\/p>\n
I turned onto Birch Street at five as the sky darkened to a bruised purple over the neighborhood.<\/p>\n
Jason\u2019s white pickup was backed up to our garage door with the tailgate down.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He was throwing his heavy framing nailers and an aluminum extension ladder into the bed of the truck when I shut off the engine.<\/p>\n
He paused with his hands on a wooden toolbox and checked his watch without looking at the face.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m clearing my work gear out of the garage so you\u2019ll have room to park,\u201d Jason said, his voice short and dismissive.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t have to stand there watching me.\u201d<\/p>\n
I got out into the cold fall drizzle, my right thumb digging into the flesh of my left wrist.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were never at the Snake River with your buddies,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Jason grabbed a black rubber tie-down strap and hooked it onto the side rail of the truck bed.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t have time for another never-ending interrogation about my schedule, Ellen,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI spend fifty hours a week hauling framing studs so you can stay at home.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou spent four days hauling our nursery furniture and kitchen appliances into unit 404 on Fairview,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Jason went rigid.<\/p>\n
His hand stayed locked on the rubber strap, his knuckles white against the black plastic hook.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t ask how I\u2019d found the storage unit.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t ask about the key or the yellow receipt in my coat pocket.<\/p>\n
He turned around slowly and looked at me over the tailgate.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou griped about every dish in the sink,\u201d Jason said, his voice flat and unconcerned.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou wanted this place so badly, so now you can run it by yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou took eight thousand dollars out of our daughters\u2019 fund to pay the deposit on your apartment,\u201d I said softly, keeping my voice down.<\/p>\n
Jason snorted and yanked the cab door open.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI earned that money,\u201d he said, climbing into the cab.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou start acting like a wife again, and maybe we\u2019ll talk about bills.\u201d<\/p>\n
He slammed the truck door and started the engine.<\/p>\n
The pickup backed out of the driveway, its red taillights shining through the thickening rain before they vanished down Birch Street.<\/p>\n
I stood on the wet concrete at the end of the driveway, looking in through the open garage door.<\/p>\n
Inside, the corner where our spare crib frame and extra nursery dresser had stood for six months was completely bare.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The lock on unit 404 had snapped open five hours earlier, but the full weight of his leaving only hit me now, cold and final under the dark sky.<\/p>\n
By nine Sunday morning, Jason was standing by the couch with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.<\/p>\n
His father, Marcus, stood three feet behind him by the front door, frowning hard at the scuffed floorboards.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m taking my name off the joint accounts by noon,\u201d Jason said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe credit cards have already been canceled.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hannah let out a little squeak from her swing in the corner.<\/p>\n
I stayed where I was on the rug, holding Nora on my hip while I looked Jason square in the face.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ve got two six-month-old babies,\u201d I said, letting my voice fall to a quiet murmur.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe formula alone costs thirty-two dollars a can, and we\u2019re down to two tins in the cupboard.\u201d<\/p>\n
Marcus cleared his throat twice, a harsh rasp that filled the silent living room.<\/p>\n
He tugged at his shirt collar and gazed out the front window at the rain gutters, refusing to meet my eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy lawyer drew up the papers yesterday,\u201d Jason said.<\/p>\n
He took a folded white document out of his inside coat pocket and laid it on the oak coffee table.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re listing this house right away.<\/p>\n
We split the equity, or whatever\u2019s left after the mortgage arrears, and we each go our own way.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou quit paying into the house account three months ago,\u201d I said, rubbing the inside of my left wrist over and over with my right thumb.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere\u2019s the money for the girls supposed to come from?\u201d<\/p>\n
Jason checked his watch without looking at the face.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve got seven days to sign the listing agreement, or my lawyer takes this to court for a partition sale,\u201d Jason said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cDoes your dad know you signed a lease on an apartment over on Fairview Avenue two weeks ago?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Marcus cleared his throat once more, longer now, and shifted his weight heavily from one boot to the other.<\/p>\n
\u201cSign the papers by Friday, Ellen,\u201d Jason said.<\/p>\n
He spun around toward the front hall.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not paying one more dime for a house I don\u2019t even live in.\u201d<\/p>\n
Marcus hung back a moment by the doorway, his wide shoulders hunched.<\/p>\n
He looked over at the swing where Hannah was watching him, opened his mouth as though he meant to say something, then turned and followed his son out into the morning.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The latch clicked shut behind them, and the house went completely still.<\/p>\n
By noon, my mother was at the kitchen table with a cup of lukewarm instant coffee.<\/p>\n
She had three yellow legal pads lined up side by side, along with a pile of bank statements taken out of the yellow ledger folder.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe equity line is completely frozen,\u201d Ruth said, her pencil hanging over a column of red numbers.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe called the credit union at eight thirty this morning and said the main card was lost.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stood at the laminate counter with Nora on my shoulder, rocking her in slow, steady circles.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd the debit card for the nursery account?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cDeclined,\u201d my mother said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat account has four dollars and twelve cents in it right now.<\/p>\n
He took out the last eighty-five dollars at an ATM on Fairview Avenue at midnight.\u201d<\/p>\n
She took a paper napkin and folded it into a neat, sharp triangle, pressing the crease flat with her thumb.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe didn\u2019t leave a penny of room for groceries,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
My phone buzzed on the laminate counter next to the silver baby monitor.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A black notification banner slid across the top of the screen.<\/p>\n
The text came from our cell phone carrier.<\/p>\n
It said service on the primary account had been suspended for nonpayment and that my phone line would shut off at midnight.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe cut off the phone,\u201d I said, turning the screen face down beside the cold coffee cup.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s trying to starve you into signing that listing agreement,\u201d my mother said, her voice slowing into a careful, deliberate rhythm.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe figures if you can\u2019t call a lawyer or buy milk, you\u2019ll go along with whatever terms his attorney lays out.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ve still got your emergency savings certificate,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat certificate pays Attorney Phelps tomorrow morning,\u201d she said, folding a second triangle and carefully lining its point up with the first.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot one cent of that five thousand dollars is going to pay off Jason\u2019s defaulted electric bills.\u201d<\/p>\n
The silver baby monitor gave a short, tinny chime as its battery light blinked red and went dark.<\/p>\n
At ten Monday morning, I was sitting on a hard vinyl chair in the billing office at St.<\/p>\n
Luke\u2019s Clinic.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The little room smelled like disinfectant and old paper files.<\/p>\n
Hannah was asleep in her infant carrier on the linoleum by my feet, while Nora sat in my lap tugging at the metal snap on my coat.<\/p>\n
Behind the glass window at the counter, a billing clerk named Mrs.<\/p>\n
Gable brought up our record on her screen.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m looking at the insurance verification for Hannah and Nora Vance,\u201d Mrs.<\/p>\n
Gable said, straightening her silver reading glasses.<\/p>\n
\u201cLast week the doctor said they\u2019d need their follow-up teething check and their booster shots today,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Mrs.<\/p>\n
Gable hit three keys, paused and leaned in toward the monitor.<\/p>\n
\u201cVance Framing ended the family dependent coverage Friday afternoon,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe primary policyholder sent in a life event change form taking both children off the company plan.\u201d<\/p>\n
The buzz of the fluorescent light overhead seemed to get louder in the tiny room.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe took his own six-month-old daughters off their health insurance?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe cancellation went into effect November first,\u201d Mrs.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Gable said, pushing a thick blue paper packet through the slot under the glass.<\/p>\n
\u201cAs of right now, neither child has active medical coverage under that policy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey need their shots today,\u201d I said, keeping my voice low.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf we bill this out of pocket today, it comes to six hundred forty dollars for both visits,\u201d Mrs.<\/p>\n
Gable said.<\/p>\n
I looked down at Nora.<\/p>\n
Her cheek was still warm from that morning\u2019s fever.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat choices do I have?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Mrs.<\/p>\n
Gable rapped a fingernail on the blue packet.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is the emergency state children\u2019s health bridge application,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you fill out sections one through four and attach proof that you have no personal income, we can get temporary state coverage processed within forty-eight hours.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHand me a pen,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
By four Monday afternoon, I was sitting on the wooden front porch steps on Birch Street.<\/p>\n
The fall sky was gray, and a cold rain was beginning to dot the concrete walk that led out to the street.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Gail came across the street from her place with a thick legal accordion file under her arm.<\/p>\n
She stepped up onto the porch and moved two empty plastic baby bottles over on the little wicker side table to make room for her papers.<\/p>\n
\u201cI saw Jason\u2019s truck in front of his lawyer\u2019s office downtown at two,\u201d Gail said, sitting down next to me on the wet step.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe handed me a listing demand yesterday morning,\u201d I said, watching a raindrop roll down the porch rail.<\/p>\n
Gail took a blue ballpoint pen out of her coat pocket and clicked it three times against her thumb.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cA letter from Jason is nothing but talk,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis here is an actual court filing.\u201d<\/p>\n
She opened the accordion file and pulled out a stapled white document with a heavy red time stamp in the upper right corner.<\/p>\n
\u201cHis lawyer filed a fast-track petition for a partition sale at the county courthouse this morning,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re claiming financial hardship and asking the court to order an immediate sheriff\u2019s sale of this house.\u201d<\/p>\n
I took the document from her.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The black type on the first page named me as the only defendant.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow long do I have to respond?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe summons gives you seven days, exactly, to file a formal answer,\u201d Gail said, her pen clicking fast as she looked me right in the eye.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf Attorney Phelps doesn\u2019t file an emergency motion by five next Monday, the judge signs a default order forcing the sale.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe thinks I\u2019ll fall apart because I can\u2019t afford to fight him in court,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe knows you can\u2019t afford it,\u201d Gail said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s why he cut off the health insurance, the phone and the bank cards all on the same weekend.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked down at the summons sitting on the porch table beside the two empty baby bottles.<\/p>\n
I picked the summons up off the porch table and slid it right into my tote bag next to the yellow ledger folder.<\/p>\n
By nine Tuesday morning, I was sitting across from Attorney Phelps in his third-floor office on Main Street.<\/p>\n
He smoothed out the pictures I\u2019d taken of the storage unit on Fairview Avenue, then picked up the credit union statements.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told everyone you were broke while he was carting crib parts across town,\u201d Phelps said, sorting the papers into two tidy piles on his desk.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to know where the eight thousand dollars from the nursery savings ended up,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
My right thumb kept working at the inside of my left wrist.<\/p>\n
\u201cDown to the last dollar.\u201d<\/p>\n
Phelps tapped a yellow pencil on his desk calendar.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe bank\u2019s audit records came in forty minutes ago on our preliminary request.<\/p>\n
On October fourth, eight thousand dollars left your joint account.<\/p>\n
Six thousand eight hundred went straight to a seller in Nampa for a quarter share of a jet boat.<\/p>\n
The other twelve hundred covered the first month\u2019s deposit on the Fairview apartment.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe bought a share of a boat while my daughters were burning up with fever and the shutoff notice was on the door,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe figured you\u2019d never check the transfer routing numbers,\u201d Phelps said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe counted on you reading his partition notice, panicking over the seven-day deadline and signing the house away.\u201d<\/p>\n
Phelps took a fresh blue legal folder out of his top drawer and started writing on the cover page.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy mother\u2019s emergency savings certificate gave us five thousand dollars for your retainer,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo what comes next?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cNext, I file an emergency motion for a financial audit subpoena,\u201d Phelps said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe subpoena the Vance Framing payroll ledger, Marcus Vance\u2019s payout records and every account in Jason\u2019s name.<\/p>\n
We drag him into court Friday morning at nine thirty.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDoes he know we\u2019ve got the pictures from the storage unit?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe thinks you\u2019re sitting at home on Birch Street waiting for him to tell you what to do,\u201d Phelps said, signing the bottom of the petition in one heavy black stroke.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe has no clue we\u2019re auditing his father\u2019s company books.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd the draft quitclaim deed Gail turned up in the county records?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s completely void without your notarized signature,\u201d Phelps said, putting the cap back on his pen.<\/p>\n
\u201cBy Friday afternoon, we\u2019ll have a temporary order freezing every asset he\u2019s laid a hand on.\u201d<\/p>\n
By two Tuesday afternoon, the sky over Boise had turned the color of wet slate, though the rain had let up.<\/p>\n
My mother and I stood in the cold draft of the Birch Street garage with the side door propped open.<\/p>\n
Ruth set up a folding card table beside the rusty blue lawnmower and took a yellow notepad out of her purse.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She pulled a paper napkin from her coat pocket and folded it into a tight, exact triangle before laying it next to her pen.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe list every piece of equipment in here,\u201d Ruth said.<\/p>\n
\u201cModel numbers, serial numbers and condition.<\/p>\n
If it\u2019s part of the marital estate, it goes on the legal schedule.\u201d<\/p>\n
I walked past Jason\u2019s old workbench toward the back wall where he stored his heavy framing equipment.<\/p>\n
A thick gray canvas tarp hung over two wooden crates beside the water heater.<\/p>\n
I took hold of the corner of the tarp and yanked it back.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Under it were three black plastic tool cases, still wearing the bright yellow price tags from a supply house in Meridian.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s in those?\u201d Ruth asked, her pen poised over the page.<\/p>\n
I flipped the latches on the biggest case.<\/p>\n
Inside was a brand-new pneumatic framing nailer and two coils of heavy air hose.<\/p>\n
Stuck in the pocket of the lid was a duplicate receipt from three weeks earlier for thirty-four hundred dollars, stamped paid in cash.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me framing work had slowed down,\u201d I said, holding the receipt up under the bare bulb.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe paid thirty-four hundred dollars in cash for new job tools and let our utility bills at home go into default.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Ruth wrote the amount on her pad in a firm, careful hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cPut it on the inventory.<\/p>\n
Every single thing he tried to hide weakens his case in front of that judge.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you think Marcus will lie for him if we bring up the business accounts?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cMarcus is a tough man, Ellen, but he\u2019s an honest contractor,\u201d Ruth said, pressing the edge of another napkin flat against the table.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe won\u2019t perjure himself to protect his son\u2019s boat share.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe docked Jason\u2019s pay three weeks ago over materials that went missing from a job site,\u201d I said, eyeing the new tool tags.<\/p>\n
\u201cMarcus already knows something isn\u2019t right.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen we let Attorney Phelps hand Marcus that subpoena in open court,\u201d Ruth said, laying her folded napkin neatly next to the finished inventory page.<\/p>\n
At seven on Wednesday evening, Gail\u2019s dining table looked like a war room.<\/p>\n
The silver baby monitor sat on a wooden coaster between two piles of bank statements, its little green light shining steadily as the soft sound of Hannah and Nora breathing filled the room.<\/p>\n
Gail sat with her laptop open, clicking her ballpoint pen nonstop as she checked the credit union withdrawal slips against Jason\u2019s bank records.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cTake a look at the signature on the joint equity line withdrawal,\u201d Gail said, pushing an enlarged copy across the wooden table to me.<\/p>\n