Chapter 8 - The Velvet Curtain Falls
I walked back to the head of the table and took my seat. David stood behind me, turning pages on his legal pad with crisp, rhythmic snaps.
“Let’s review the terms of our relationship,” I said, looking directly at Arthur. “You owe Platform Seven four hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars, including accrued penalties, back property taxes, and municipal enforcement fees. The sheriff’s auction on Elm Crest Drive is scheduled for Tuesday morning at ten o'clock. The opening bid will be set at five hundred thousand dollars. Platform Seven will enter a credit bid. No one will outbid us.”
Arthur swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Ethan... son... you can’t throw your own mother into the street. Where are we supposed to go? We don't have savings! We don't have anywhere else!”
“You have each other,” I replied evenly. “And as Dad so eloquently put it twenty years ago, it will build character. Let’s see if you can survive on your own.”
Margaret reached across the table, knocking over her water glass. The cold water spilled across the white linen, soaking into the edges of the foreclosure documents. “Ethan, we were joking! It was just a joke! We were going to come back for you! We went to Chicago and realized you weren't on the train, but we couldn't turn back because of Claire’s dance competition! We thought you’d get on the next train! It was an accident!”
“You stood behind the glass door and waved,” I said, looking into her eyes. “Claire pressed both hands against the glass and laughed until she doubled over. Dad yelled through the window. And when I called from the station booth, shivering in thirty-degree weather with twelve dollars in my pocket, you told me to stop being dramatic.”
I signaled to David. David pulled out a tape recorder and pressed play.
Arthur’s voice, digitized and sharp from the old transit security archive tapes Arthur the security guard had saved for me, filled the dining room:
“Stop being dramatic, boy. Find your way home. Or don’t.”
Then came Mom’s voice, ringing with shrill, carefree laughter:
“Your father says this will build character!”
Then the click of the disconnect.
Arthur stared down at his plate, his face turning an ashen gray. Margaret buried her face in her arms, sobbing hysterically. Claire covered her ears, tears streaming down her makeup.
“You didn't forget me,” I told them. “You discarded me because you thought I was worthless. You thought I was weak, soft, and easy to break. You spent twenty years telling yourself a comfortable lie so you wouldn't have to face the fact that you committed a felony against your own child.”
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“What do you want from us?” Arthur croaked, looking up with broken, defeated eyes. “You want us to beg? I’ll beg, Ethan. I’m on my knees. Don't take the house. Don't ruin Claire’s kids.”
“I don't need you to beg,” I said. “Begging is cheap. I want accountability.”
