Chapter 1 - The First Stop at the Courthouse
The hum of the Honda’s engine was the only sound cutting through the thick silence on Route 31. My knuckles were white against the steering wheel, the leather grip slick with sweat. My father—the man who coached my Little League team, who taught me how to change a tire, who had always played the role of the dependable, slightly overworked patriarch—had just dumped his own mother like an expired library book.
Grandma Eleanor sat beside me, her posture straight as an iron rod. She hadn’t flinched once during the three-hour drive back from the nursing facility, and she wasn't flinching now.
“Turn left on Maple Street,” she said, her voice dry and steady. “We’re making time before they realize their phones aren’t ringing.”
“Dad’s going to notice eventually,” I said, checking the rearview mirror. Every passing sedan looked like a cruiser. “If he finds out we went to the courthouse—”
“Let him find out,” Eleanor interrupted, her gaze fixed on the asphalt ahead. “Arthur thinks because I’m eighty-two that my brain is as soft as oatmeal. He forgot who taught him how to balance a ledger.”
The Decatur County Courthouse loomed ahead, a hulking structure of red brick and limestone pillars built in the late nineteenth century. Finding a parking spot took three agonizing passes, but Eleanor refused to let me drop her off at the steps.
“We walk together,” she insisted, unbuckling with a sharp click. “In broad daylight. Where people can see us.”
Inside, the cool air smelled of floor wax and old paper. Eleanor marched straight to the Records and Deeds office with the purposeful stride of a woman on a mission. The clerk behind the counter, a middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses named Gary, looked up and blinked.
“Mrs. Mercer? I thought you were settling into the Glenview facility over in Dayton?”
Grandma didn’t blink. “Plans changed, Gary. My son had an administrative emergency. Now, I need to look at the active registry for Parcel 402, specifically any quitclaim deeds filed within the last thirty days.”
Gary frowned, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. “You know I can’t just hand over—well, you’re the owner of record, so technically—”
“Technically nothing,” she leaned over the counter, tapping a manicured fingernail against the wood. “Look it up. Now.”
It took Gary four minutes. The silence in the office was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic, mechanical clack-clack of his keyboard. When the screen finally illuminated his face, his expression curdled into something uncomfortably apologetic.
“Oh, Eleanor,” he whispered.
“Read it, Gary,” she demanded.
“It was filed Tuesday morning,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “A quitclaim deed transferring ownership of your homestead on Elm Street... to Arthur and Linda Mercer. It’s fully executed. Notarized down in Marion County.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. My parents hadn't just abandoned her; they had stolen her roof.
Grandma Eleanor didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She reached into her handbag, pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook, and wrote down the filing number with a gold Cross pen.
“Thank you, Gary,” she said smoothly, turning on her heel. “Keep this conversation between us. If Arthur asks, you haven’t seen me since Sunday.”
May you like
As we walked back out into the blinding afternoon sun, she slipped the notebook back into her coat pocket.
“Next stop,” she said, looking me dead in the eye. “The bank. Let’s see how much of my life savings they managed to liquidate before they got tired of waiting for me to die.”
