Though he never said anything about it, her constant praying made Stephen incredibly uneasy. It wasn’t so much his wife’s new spiritual focus, which he assumed was a temporary response of Rebecca’s passing, but when Sarah said she would pray, Stephen felt absolutely certain she would. Each time her words left him feeling uncomfortable, as if he should be doing more to contribute as well. Stephen was struggling with a deep sense of guilt. Not just guilt born out of his failed responsibilities, this particular guilt came from a sense that his wife was doing something to help them on another level and he wasn’t even trying to be a part of it. All the while, Stephen was left frustrated and confused while his wife seemed confident and encouraged.
He had felt comfort in working out a plan to handle the house with Sarah. However, once the envelope arrived, the comfort left and his confidence crashed with him deep into the recliner. He held the sealed dry white envelope in his fingers. The recliner was uncomfortable. In the ten years they had owned the chair Stephen had never been quite as aware of the pressure points of the seat. The left side was firmer than the right. It caused an unnoticeable but absolutely distinct decline towards the right armrest. The more he thought about the decline the more it pushed back. The throw cushion in between Stephen and the armrest released a terrifying shrill as its seams were stretched from the pressure of the armrest and his unmovable body. Stephen dramatically ripped the cushion out from under his thigh and forcefully flung it across the room with the maturity of a baby’s tantrum. He sat there overturning the envelop several times before mustering the courage to tear open the seam and extract the legal-sized paper that would be his financial ruin. Not bothering to look at the paper, he glanced at his father who was fast asleep in the couch on the opposite side of the room.
Stephen knew what the letter would say. The problem began when they had refinanced their home several years before at the suggestion of the bank lender. When all the signatures were complete they had reduced their monthly mortgage payment by several hundred dollars and received a check that covered almost all of Hailey’s outstanding medical bills. At the time, it was the breathing room they had needed. In truth, it just helped them stay afloat longer while pushing the problem back a few years. Having no intentions of moving, Stephen had not been overly panicked as the value of their home declined with the bursting housing bubble being experienced by the entire nation. But the call he received from the bank nearly a year before had given him an outright shock. Apparently, when they refinanced the home someone had made an error in the tax calculation. As a result, the Lantz’s monthly payment was severely under funding their escrow account, the money which banks hold for the payment of taxes and insurance. In a nightmare version of Monopoly, the bank error did not absolve Stephen of their situation. Their monthly payment was required to be increased to meet the necessary gap in the escrow account. Stephen disputed and complained about the near doubling of their monthly payments but even the supportive pleas of the bank’s management couldn’t squeeze an ounce of sympathy from a financial institution that was vainly doing everything it could to keep from going out of business. The new bank that acquired their mortgage note from the failed lender was a faceless giant cranking out delinquent notices by bulk.
Stephen opened the envelope to read the bold letters at the top of the page, ‘Notice of Intention to Foreclose.’ He skipped past all the details of his obligations that he painfully knew by heart. He saw the lateral signature, seemingly scripted by the approving bank officer at the bottom of the page. It was tilted at an angle that wasn’t perpendicular with the piece of paper. Next he noticed the entire text of the page was tilted at the same angle. It was as if the signature was an electronic copy which had been printed along with the document but the paper hadn’t fed through the printer properly.
“Wow,” Stephen whispered aloud, “they’re cranking out so many of these they’re having the computers take your home away.” Depression set in as Stephen struggled to understand why he and Sarah never seemed to have a chance to catch their breath.
Forfeiting the battle with the recliner, Stephen rose to leave the room when he realized his father was awake and looking right at him. It was apparent that Tom knew exactly what the letter was for. Stephen walked to him with his head bent to the ground, ashamed to meet his father’s gaze. Stephen’s eyes could only reach Tom’s shoulders.
Dropping to his knees at the base of the recliner, he confessed, “I’m sorry, Dad. I wish I could make this work. I really don’t have any idea what else I’m supposed to do now.”
Stephen struggled to keep his emotions together and maintained a low, firm voice. “I’m sorry,” he said again realizing he knew no other words to release. He didn’t know how to encourage his father. The man had no choice but to rely on his only son. A son who was struggling with an obligation to explain that he had failed to take care of his family once again.
“Dad,” recognizing the pointlessness of excuses, Stephen’s voice cracked and he turned away from his father’s face, “I don’t think I’m strong enough for this.”
Tom stared at him and raised the one arm he could until it rested on his son’s shoulder. He tried to catch Stephen’s eyes but the broken man kneeling before him turned his head, refusing to look at Tom. Stephen rose to his feet and walked out of the room. Opening the front door, he stepped into afternoon sun, the stale air unmoved. Despising the beauty of the perfect spring day, Stephen stood on the front porch trying to think of a way to tell his wife that her prayers weren’t going to be enough this time.
Mile 21
The prospect of losing their home weighed heavy and made Stephen’s head feel flush. Sarah wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours and his thoughts scampered uncontrollably through his mind like cats locked in a room with a sprinkler. He was burning up, confirmed by a touch of the cheek. Temperatures must have been around the mid-eighties, nothing particularly stressful but the flushness of his skin swelled from an inner heat. He looked about at the empty neighborhood road. Not a car in sight. No children playing basketball in the street. Without encumbrance from the wind, the oversized oak tree in the front yard, overdue for a pruning, held its form as if ready to be framed. Tossed lazily at the bottom of the front porch were his running shoes. With no possibility of herding the thoughts in his mind, Stephen rushed down the porch stairs, took off his loafers and placed his running shoes over the worn cotton socks.