Root (13 page)

I loped down the center of the main avenue of
the cemetery, heading for the gated entrance. Sprinklers advanced
row after row behind me.

***

Jeff Ohrenberger looked nice enough. He had a
sunny face and a kind, sympathetic manner. Wasn’t his fault I hated
lawyers. The foreclosure fiasco had only made it worse.

“
Jeff can see you now,” said his
assistant, opening the door to his cool and spare corner office.
His broad mahogany desk had a single folder on it with a pen laid
across, so different from the towering stacks of bills and lesson
plans that had always loomed over Mom’s desk.

He stood by his chair, a cautious smile
imprinted on his lips, a crown of rusty fuzz surrounding the dome
of a high forehead. He presented his hand and I gave it a quick
shake. His palms were slick and soft, like a surgeon’s.

He settled into his chair and waved me into
one across from his desk. “So how’ve you been doing? You hanging in
there?”

“
Yeah. I’m fine.”

“
You’re looking a little rumpled.
Everything okay?”

“
I’m fine.” I glared at him, anxious
to get to the nitty-gritty. “So what’s the deal? Can I have my
dad’s truck or not?”

He clasped his hands together. “Well, what can
I tell you? Things are finally getting sorted out.” He whistled
through his teeth. “But we had a few unanticipated expenses arise.
Your Mom, she had quite a few credit cards. Some we didn’t know
about. Accounts she never closed, never transferred the
balances.”

“
So what does that mean?”

“
It means it’s going to take a
little bit longer to sort out the estate.”

“
What about the truck?”

“
It’s got a lien on it. I’m afraid
it’s going to have to stay impounded for the time
being.”

“
No way. I … I’m going to need
it.”

“
I don’t see how that’s going to be
possible, James. I think it’s going to have to go up for auction.
Even that might not be enough to satisfy the creditors. They may
want to access the stuff you have in storage.”

“
They can have that shit,” I said.
“All of it. I just want the truck.”

“
I’m afraid that’s not gonna happen,
James. I’m sorry.”

But I had Ohio on my brain and would not be
denied. I got up and stormed off.

“
Hang on, we still need to talk
about the estate taxes.”

“
You deal with it,” I said. “You’re
the lawyer.” I walked out his door and kept on walking, twiddling
that spare key round and round in my pocket. It was only five
blocks to the county lot.

Chapter 15: County
Lot

Dad’s truck sat alone in the very back of the
lot, its dark blue finish gone hazy with sun damage and grime. My
heart fluttered at the mere sight of it.

Getting it out was going to be a feat. The
entrance was gated and locked. The exit was blocked by a chain and
manned by a guy in a check-out station, and that was the only way
out of the fenced compound.

I stood around and watched as a little red
Toyota pulled up to the exit booth. The driver handed over some
yellow form that the guard looked over and stamped before climbing
out of his booth and undoing the chain that blocked the
way.

Twirling the key in my hand, I went up the
front walk and entered the building. The place looked was kind of
sleepy. A wall of glassed-in counters separated the customer
service area from a sea of desks, most of them empty. Either half
the folks who used to work here got laid off in the government
cutbacks or they were out to lunch.

A lady with blonde curls and a pastel pants
suit strolled through the room. “Be with you in a sec,
hon.”

So I just stood there and twiddled my key.
Posters advertising auctions were pinned to a bulletin board. I
went down the listing, relieved to see no dark blue, 2003 Ford
F150s.

The lady sauntered over.

“
Alrighty. So how can I help
you?”

“
Yeah … um … my dad’s truck is being
released from probate. I’m here to pick it up.”

“
Name and license?”

“
Um … Moody. His name’s Roy. But it
was actually under my mom’s name … Darlene. The license plate is
YNG4VR”

“
And you are…?”

“
Me? I’m James. Their
son.”

She moused around and typed something on her
keyboard. She squinted at the screen.

“
Is it a Ford truck? Model year
2003? Dark blue pearl metallic?”

“
Yup. That’s it!”

She gave her head a quick shake, her eyes
turned down, a frown set like concrete. “Says here, it’s impounded
and going up for auction on the 17th.”

“
Well, that’s a mistake. I’m here to
pick it up.”

“
You got a DTTP? Can’t let you have
it without that.”

“
What’s that?”

“
A Decedent Transfer of Tangible
Property—the county’s new consolidated form. Replaces the old
affidavits.”

“
Uh. How do I get one?”

“
You should have already been given
one if it’s been released from probate. The court clerk should have
issued one after the ruling. I assume your case has been
heard?”

“
Uh … yeah … I … uh … told the
lawyer.”

She sighed. “I meant heard by the judge, as in
a hearing. I’m authorized to issue them here, but first I’d need an
order from the court.”

I shuffled my feet and looked towards the
door. “Yeah. Well, thanks anyway.”

She smiled sympathetically. “Probate takes
time. It really helps to have a good will. You’re never too young
to have one, I always say. Life is precarious.”

I walked away, but couldn’t bring myself to
leave the complex just yet, not with Dad’s truck just sitting there
in the lot. I cut though the shrubberies and made my way into the
back lot. It was packed with every kind of vehicle
imaginable—Chevys and Audis, Smart cars and Porsches—just sitting
out there, frying in the sun.

But I only had eyes for Dad’s truck. I admired
the way it stood out amongst the masses of vehicles, kind of the
way Dad did walking through a crowd.

I slipped the key out, thinking I’d sneak back
there and go sit in the cab a while, pay my respects the Shrine of
Roy. I was walking by the dumpster when I spotted some snatches of
yellow paper the same shade as the form the guy at the exit booth
seemed to be collecting.

The stuff was shredded as fine as Easter hay
and stuffed into clear plastic bags. I poked around the dumpster,
pulling out more bags of shreddings along with basic office waste
like Starbucks cups and Krispy Kreme cartons. I wondered why they
didn’t recycle all this paper.

I saw some sheets in the bottom of one bag
that had somehow escaped the shredder. Maybe the machine had jammed
and someone had just them in the bag intact. I ripped the bag open
and pulled out a handful of papers. It was a mishmash of stuff:
inventory and to-do lists but there were some forms as well, some
torn, some whole.

I rifled through them until I found a
multi-part form with green and pink and yellow sheets beneath the
top white sheet. Only the date was filled out and the first letter
of a first name—T—and that was all. The bold type at the top read:
Decedent Transfer of Tangible Property.

***

I dashed to the truck. It must have been a
hundred and fifty degrees inside the cab. I rummaged for a pen in
the glove compartment amidst glommed together Tic-Tacs, chewing
tobacco and unpaid parking tickets.

I found a Bic under the seat. The ‘T’ was easy
enough to turn into a ‘J’ and then it was a matter of filling out
the rest of the form in neat block letters, making up the stuff I
couldn’t answer.

The signature was the hard part. My name went
right above the authorization so I had to make them look like they
originated from different hands. I practiced on a scrap envelope
until I came up with a scrawl that was both alien and
indecipherable. The first name could have been Charles as much as
Claudia, and the last name was just a squiggle with a dot. It
almost looked Arabic.

I found another pen, blue ink to contrast with
the black, and put the final touches on my forgery. No chance this
was going to work, but I had to take a shot.

I leaned my head back, took a deep breath and
started the truck. Heart stuttering, I backed out of the space and
threaded my way through the other orphaned vehicles that were
strewn almost randomly across the lot. There was something sad and
creepy about knowing these were all the cars of dead
people.

I pulled up to the exit. A heavy chain dangled
in front of my bumper. My window was already rolled down. The guy
in the check-out booth looked bored or sleepy. His eyes were all
puffy and red. He chomped on an unlit cigar. He took the form in
one hand and inked his date stamp with the other. He lifted the
stamp from the pad, narrowed his eyes some more and
frowned.

“
Who signed this?” he said, peering
up at me, his stamp hovering.

“
I dunno.” I shrugged. “That lady …
inside?”

“
Christine? This don’t look like
Chris’s signature.” He looked up and blinked, studying me and the
truck. “Hang on.” He picked up a phone, put down the stamp and
drummed his fingers on a notepad.

I started to freak a little bit. This had been
a dumbass thing to pull.

“
Huh. She’s not picking up.” He
looked down at the form again, tracing his finger over it. “So … uh
… who’s this … James Moody?”

“
That’s me.”

“
Oh? Then someone filled out the
wrong section here. Unless that truck you’re driving is a
house.”

I smiled and shrugged. “Oopsie.”

The guy narrowed his eyes. “Say, how’d you get
that key? That should never have been released.”

“
It’s my key. It’s my
truck.”

“
Listen kid, turn off that vehicle
and step out. I want that key.”

“
No way. This is mine.”

“
Turn it off, son. We got issues to
work out.”

All I saw was a droopy chain between me and
the open road. I inched forward, pressing the bumper against the
links.

“
Oh no you don’t. Don’t you get any
ideas.” He reached for his door.

“
You got the form. I got the truck.
Sounds like a fair trade to me.”

I gave the gas pedal a nudge. The chain
stretched tight. A link cracked and the ends went whipping off to
either side. I roared out of the lot and down Constellation
Avenue.

***

I drove scared, making random turns, zigging
and zagging along the back streets, expecting to see a cop car
around every corner. What I had just done didn’t feel like a crime.
This wasn’t a stolen vehicle, it was my inheritance. Sure, I had
snapped a chain getting out of the lot, but that wasn’t exactly a
felony. They had needed a new one anyway.

I should have headed north immediately, but I
couldn’t leave town without making a few stops. First, I went by
the funeral home. It was risky, but I couldn’t leave mom’s ashes
just sitting in some stuffy closet.

My timing was good. They had just gotten Mom
back from the crematorium. She was still warm and waiting in a
brass urn way smaller than what I expected. That couldn’t have been
all that was left of her.

So I took her back to the old house. Screw the
cemetery. This house was where Mom would want to be. She had been
so proud of the place after we moved from Ohio. This was where her
heart resided, if not her soul.

Plywood nailed over broken windows. Damn kids.
The foreclosure notices were faded and peeling. It killed me to see
the grass so tall and the bushes unkempt. I wish I had time to tidy
up, but I had to keep moving.

So I scattered her ashes around the yard,
tossing a little extra around her precious roses. All that calcium
and potash and phosphorus, I’m sure those plants appreciated it.
Mom would become part of them now.

I tucked the urn under the eaves, with the lid
off so it would catch the rain. Maybe it would make a place for
something to live, even if it was only mosquitoes.

It was so hard to leave. This was my house,
and here I was—a stranger. I wanted to go inside and kick back on
the couch with a bowl of ice cream. I wanted to watch football with
Dad. I wanted Mom to make me waffles.

My nose got so stuffed up, I couldn’t breathe.
Tears warped my vision. I got back in the truck and drove to the
Handi-Stor—my last stop.

Gideon waved as I pulled in through the open
gate. I figured I’d load up with whatever seemed worth hanging
onto. My mattress, for sure. Maybe the little flat screen TV, and
even some of mom’s knick-knacks, not that they were valuable or
anything. But they would sure help whatever place I ended up feel a
little more like home.

I pulled up to the storage unit, unlocked it,
heaved open the door and surveyed my legacy. I hauled out my old,
battered twelve-speed with two flat tires and threw it in the
truck. Next I grabbed the cherry night stand that had been in my
bedroom ever since I could remember. I wondered what I could get
from the rest of the furniture if I staged some impromptu roadside
yard sale.