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I scoff, tearing open an envelope and reading the threats about my student loan debt.
“Good luck collecting,” I mutter.
The only remotely different thing we’ve received is a letter addressed to Pop. Sent by a man named Harold Lautner and embossed with a metallic silver seal.
I study it walking up the dusty path leading home.
The tiny bungalow house was once a gem when Mom and Pop bought it decades ago. Throughout most of my childhood, it had a bright green lawn and flower bed. Frilly curtains in the window and a fresh coat of paint.
These days, nothing but weeds and dirt greet you. Pop stopped giving a damn the moment Mom passed. The property hasn’t been cared for since.
I creak open the screen door and step inside the humid, dark space.
The only light in the room comes from the flashes of the TV. Pop lies passed out in his cracked leather recliner, snoring another afternoon away.
I flip on the ceiling fan to get some air circulating and open the curtains on the windows.
A routine I’m more than a little used to since I started caring for Pop. If I don’t… no one will.
He and Mom had no biological children.I’mwho they ended up with.
After collecting the crinkled candy wrappers and an empty bowl once filled with a chicken pot pie, I kneel beside the recliner.
“Pop,” I say gently. “Wake up. I’m off work.”
He grunts an unintelligible sound.
“I think I got fired today. I started a kitchen fire.”
Another grunt.
“You got this letter,” I say, presenting the envelope. “It’s from some guy named Harold Lautner.”
That does the trick waking him up. He tries to push himself up in the recliner, his eyes squinting and his body lurching like a sloth. I lean over to help him and accidentally knock over his cane propped up against the chair.
“Did you get your steps in today? Remember what the doc said. Daily walks if you’re ever going to heal from your surgery.”
He tries to reach for the letter, his arthritis-riddled hand failing to cooperate. “Lautner?”
I nod. “Who is he? Somebody from church?”
Pop doesn’t answer. He manages to tear open the letter, putting his second set of eyes on for a read.
I should give him privacy.
The house needs to be tidied up. The trash taken out. I can sit and sort through the rest of the mail we’ve received.
But what’s the use when unease ripples inside me watching him read his letter?
Lautner could be writing for any reason; he could be a bill collector or from the bank that owns the mortgage.
It wouldn’t be the first time Pop has let his finances fall out of order. Before I came to stay and took over his care, the house had been on the verge of foreclosure.
Not that we’re doing much better these days. I’m working odd jobs like the Sunny Side Up diner and bartending at night. I’m at least able to properly manage and stretch Pop’s disability and pension checks to cover most of the bills.
“Anything good?”
I’ve gotten up and plugged in the vacuum. He’s folded the letter and stuck it back into the envelope.
