“How bad is it, Stan?”
He had a call with a few bankers this morning, one that he asked me to sit out so they could talk numbers plainly.
“You might want to have a seat.”
I plop down into a plush leather chair, trying to read the expression on his face. Nothing I see is promising.
“How bad?” I ask again.
“Bad.”
“It’s just a tiny line of credit. You can’t tell me that the building and the business aren’t enough collateral for fifty grand.”
My accountant clears his throat. “Your dad took out another mortgage on the building earlier this year.”
I blink twice as if that’s going to help me comprehend what Stan just said. “What? What mortgage? We own that building free and clear.”
Stan shakes his head. “No, you don’t. And I take it he never bothered to mention that fact to you.”
Slouching back in the chair, I lift a hand to my face and pinch the bridge of my nose. “How much?” I whisper.
“A hundred thousand.”
My mouth drops open and my hand hits my lap. “You’ve gotta be joking. What did he use it for? It sure didn’t go toward paying off his hospital bills, or any of the bar expenses. He lives in that senior community, whichIpay for. What else ...”
A thought dawns on me, one I’m afraid to give credence to by speaking it aloud.
He wouldn’t.
“You can’t think of anything else he would’ve used the money for? Booze? Gambling? Drugs?” Stan asks.
I’m not proud, but I answer, “I pay for the booze. As far as I know, he doesn’t gamble. He’s never done drugs beyond smoking the occasional joint.”
“So where would the money go?”
I reply with another question. “Has he at least been making payments on the mortgage?”
Stan’s expression turns rueful. “He was. But he stopped two months ago.”
When he asked for an extra $500 every month, and I told him I couldn’t spare it.
God, the hits keep coming.
“Is it ... is it already in foreclosure?”
Stan shakes his head. “No, I called the lender this morning, as soon as I got off the phone with the other bankers, and I did you a favor. I told them your dad has been having some issues and has become more forgetful, and the payments never got mailed. I paid them over the phone, Ripley. You’re current now, and they’re not going to foreclose as long as you keep writing them a check every month.”
“You can’t squeeze blood from a turnip, Stan. You’ve seen the numbers. My budget can’t handle another five hundred a month.”
Stan leans back in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. “I know.”
But he doesn’tknowknow. I doubt Stan has ever had to worry about where he could find an extra five hundred bucks, not when he slid right into Daddy’s profitable accounting firm where the vast majority of clients don’t have as much trouble paying their bills as the Fishbowl.
“What am I gonna do?”
“Look, you’ve got a few options.”
At the wordoptions, I sit up straighter. “Like what? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve considered every damn option I could have.”