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But Mr. Moses didn’t notice, and let out another gargantuan sigh.
“The bad news is that your dad left the property in debt,” he said solemnly, peering at me over his glasses. “Hundreds of thousands in debt.”
That wasn’t news. A lot of farms borrow money, it’s how we get by from season to season. The cost of running a working homestead is so high that you need someone else’s cash in order to survive. So I nodded slowly.
“Yes, I know,” came my words. “I mean, I know that Pa borrowed, but we’ve always paid our debts. We’ve always been on-time with our loan payments.”
But Mr. Moses shook his head sorrowfully this time.
“No Miss Jones, perhaps I was unclear. Your dad mortgaged this property to the hilt, and you’re way behind now. Six months behind, to be accurate. You’re technically in default already.”
I couldn’t move for a moment, all the blood draining from my face. Default? What did that mean? And six months late? I knew that we were late, after all, Pa had only just passed away. But six months? How could we have fallen so far behind?
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “But could you explain?” I asked, “Ever since Pa got sick, I’ve been up to my ears trying to manage this place. So if you could tell me a little more, I’d appreciate it.”
I didn’t want to sound pathetically helpless, but Mr. Moses treated me like a little girl anyways. He clucked and pulled a pen out from his briefcase, slowly drawing a diagram.
“See, this is your farm,” he said, sketching a picture of a house. “You owe money on it. And after you stop paying money,” he said, drawing a huge X emphatically through the home, “the bank then technically owns the property.”
“But he never told me,” I protested, heart beating fast. “Pa never said! He was sick towards the end of his life, and we were so busy trying to keep things afloat ….”
Wilfred nodded slowly again, his pen re-tracing the big black X.
“We know,” he said, “We know, but that’s not an excuse. The business still has to pay its bills or …. Zzzzzt!” he said, making the sign of a knife across his throat.
“What does that mean?” I asked, the panic rising in my voice, making it go louder and shriller. “What does that mean?”
Wilfred smiled sadly again.
“Foreclosure, my girl,” he said, tapping his pen against the table. “Foreclosure’s the name of the game.”
I stood up suddenly, the chair skidding across the worn kitchen tile. I’m not totally sure what foreclosure means, but it’s definitely not good. I’ve seen those properties in the past, desolate, abandoned sites with a sign across the front that said “FORECLOSURE” in big red letters.
“No,” I said swiftly. “No, there has to be a way. My family’s had this farm for generations, I can’t lose it now.”
But Mr. Moses just shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t make the rules. The bank sent me over to let you know that we’re beginning foreclosure proceedings.”
I shook my head furiously, lungs tight, trying to breathe.
“No,” I said tightly again. “There has to be another way. My dad was sick for a while, you have to understand. My dad passed away last month, and I only just inherited this business. Please, Mr. Moses. Please help me.”
Where’s Waldo took another sigh, mopping at his sweaty forehead again.
“Well, I suppose those are pretty tough circumstances,” he began.
“It’s more than tough,” I interrupted. “It’s insanely difficult, having your parents die and leave you with the responsibility. But I can do it,” I said with as much confidence as I could muster. “I’ve been working this farm since I was five years old, I know exactly how everything works. Just give me a little time,” I said, trying to keep the pleading note out of my voice. “Please, just a little time.”
Mr. Moses sighed again, this time wiping at his nose.
“Well, let me ask my manager,” he said slowly. “I’ll go back and talk with my boss, and we’ll see if we can get you an extension. Mind you, the interest will be accumulating, but I might be able to buy you a couple months.”
“Yes, please,” I said quickly. Again, I wasn’t sure what accumulated interest meant, but that was fine. Because all I heard was the promise of more time. “Please,” I repeated urgently. “Please make it happen.”
And the small man stood then, picking up his briefcase, shoulders stooped.
“Okay, I’ll give it my best shot,” he promised with a watery smile. “But no guarantees. In the meantime, call me if you have any questions, okay?” he said, sliding a small white card across the table. “Name’s Wilfred Moses over at the Bank of Kansas.”
I looked at the business card, trying to hide my reaction. The card stock was thick white with embossed letters, very fancy-looking. But my gut churned with nausea because it represented everything I hated at the moment. The bank was a bunch of corporate fat cats trying to take the only thing I had in the world away, ripping it from my hands.
