Falling for June: A Novel

by Ryan Winfield

  I thought it was nice of him to offer, but I still told him no. I’d learned long ago to keep everything with me on these visits. You just never know when you’ll need to clear out in a hurry. I took a moment to look around the small house. All the visible walls were hung with watercolors in homemade frames and several windows had been covered with old stained glass, infusing the rooms with soft, colorful light. It sounds funny to say, but I thought the whole place kind of matched his sweater. Or maybe his sweater matched the house. Anyway, when he brought me into the living room, I thought it even more.

  The living room looked about as lived-in as a living room can, with rainbow-colored afghans draped over old leather chairs, a red sofa so faded it looked pink, and books and newspapers spread everywhere. There was an old tattered recliner parked in front of the TV, and I got the sense he spent most of his time there.

  “I’m glad you’re not that Ralph Spitzer fellow anyway,” he said, stepping over and switching off the TV. “Every time I get a letter from him his name reminds me of that man on CNN. Such doom and gloom. I don’t know why I even watch it, except maybe to remind myself that I won’t be missing much when I’m gone.”

  But I was hardly listening to him because I was looking at a brightly painted wooden rooster standing in front of a window bay—and not just any rooster either, but one that was five feet tall with a seat carved into its back. The old man saw me looking at it and smiled. Then he broke into a kind of tap dance right there on the living room floor—as best he could anyway for being so old and all—and as he danced he belted out a corny campfire refrain that went:

  We had an old hen that wouldn’t lay eggs, until that sly old rooster flew into our yard and caught our old hen right off her guard. But we’re having eggs now, soft-boiled and poached hard, oh we’re having eggs now, ever since that sly old rooster flew into our yard.

  The whole song-and-dance display really was strange, and I wondered if maybe he wasn’t quite right in his mind. I’d been on sits like that too, and they weren’t easy either. But then he finished the song with a laugh, as if it had been a perfectly ordinary thing to do, patting me on the arm and asking, “Can I get you some coffee or tea, young man?” When I told him coffee would be great, he said, “I actually don’t have any coffee. The doctor tells me I can’t drink it with the medicine I take. But I do have tea.” I told him tea would be just fine, but I was still wondering why he had offered me coffee when he didn’t even have any as he shuffled off toward the kitchen.

  When I was alone, I stepped over to inspect the rooster. It looked hand-carved and old as hell; the paint was all cracked. I love that sort of thing, though. Anything with history. I could have admired that rooster all day, but then the view outside drew my eye. The window was wet yet from the earlier rains, giving the backyard a watery, faraway appearance through the old leaded glass. The creek I had heard earlier came down from the mountain and turned and ran along behind the house. A narrow footbridge crossing it was covered with wisteria. It really was a great view. The land on the far side of the bridge was quite wild, of course, but a well-worn footpath was visible disappearing along with the creek up into the shaded wood. I wondered who used the path often enough to keep it clear. Surely not the old man.

  “I hope you didn’t have a big breakfast.” I turned at the sound of his voice and he handed me a steaming mug of tea. “Smooth Move,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s the only tea I have left. It’s supposed to loosen you up, but I’m sure it’s mostly marketing. The bathroom is just down the hall on your left, however, just in case you need it.”

  Perfect, I thought, since I’d had a bran muffin and a latte before driving out. He indicated that I should sit in an old leather chair, saying something about its being the most comfortable. But he must not have sat in it himself for a long time because I sank so low into the worn cushion I wondered how I would ever get up out of it again. The old man took quite some time getting himself settled across from me, and I sipped my tea and watched him with idle curiosity.

  After setting his mug on the end table, he turned the chair to face mine. Then he retrieved his cane from the corner and used it like a handrail to lower himself into it. When he went to retrieve his tea, however, it was just out of his reach, so he hoisted up the cane again and used its curved handle to hook the mug and pull it across the table toward him. I’m not sure why he went to all the trouble, though, because he lifted his tea and blew on it, and then set it back again without taking a sip. Then he sighed. We were easily six feet apart, with the book-covered coffee table between us, but I could clearly see that he was sizing me up in the silence. After a while, he reached into his sweater pocket and consulted his little notebook. Then he looked up at me and said, “Elliot Champ, eh?” I nodded and he slipped the notebook back into his pocket. “Is it chilly in here, Elliot? I can light the fire.”

  “No,” I replied, “it’s fine.”

  “Are you too warm then? I could hang your coat.”

  I told him I was actually quite comfortable—which wasn’t exactly true on account of being sunk into the damn chair so deep—and he just nodded and let another silence pass. Then he cleared his throat. “This is very embarrassing for me, you know.”

  Sometimes I ran into this on sits.

  “There’s no need to be embarrassed,” I said.

  “I’ve never failed to pay a bill in my entire life,” he replied, pausing to look down at the rug before adding, “I used to be an accountant, you know.”

  This was the part of my job I hated most—seeing this sadness, this shame. It was always the same. And the worst part about it was that the judgment was all theirs. No one I ever knew really cared two cream puffs whether or not anyone else could pay their mortgage. They were too damn busy working to pay their own. And I sure as hell wasn’t judging him. I was still in the habit of borrowing newspapers so I could save enough dough just to buy my first place.

  “Well, sir,” I said, “everyone falls on hard times now and again. No shame in that.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “I guess everyone does.” He was still looking at the floor, or maybe even through it, and his voice seemed to be as distant as his gaze. “But it’s not falling that’s hard,” he said, almost under his breath. “It’s holding on.”

  “Holding on, sir?” I asked, repeating him. “How do you mean?”

  He looked up at me and I saw that there was sadness in his eyes. I remember thinking at the time that it seemed like a deep and unreachable sadness, something altogether too heavy to be caused by losing just a home, even if it was the Center of the Universe. I wouldn’t find out until much later that day what his sadness was really about.

  “Sir, are you okay?” I finally asked.

  His head jerked slightly at my question, as if he had been jolted out of a trance. The melancholy seemed to drain from his eyes, replaced by confusion. It almost felt as if he’d forgotten that I was there and was surprised to see me, and I wondered if maybe he didn’t have a touch of dementia. He fished a hearing aid from his pocket and screwed it into his ear.

  “Should we move the chairs closer?” he asked. “I’m afraid I might be talking too quietly again.”

  “No, you’re talking fine,” I answered. Then I gestured to my own ears to make a joke and ease the tension. “I just have small ears is all.”

  “Your ears look fine to me,” he replied.

  But he was just being nice. I know because I really do have small ears. They run in my family.

  “But I will say you do have large hands,” he offered. “That’s my wife’s two-handed mug—she made it herself from Spanish clay—but it nearly disappears in your mitt.”

  I looked at the mug in my hand, really for the first time. It was glazed this beautiful deep blue that you could kind of see the brushstrokes in. Then, probably because I was looking at her mug, I was reminded of something he had written about his wife
in his letter.

  “This is probably none of my business,” I said. “And I don’t mean to pry. But you mentioned in your letter that your wife jumped off of a building . . .”

  I said it kind of gently because I was aware it might be a touchy matter, but I was not at all prepared for him to laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, opening the file in my lap to consult his letter. “I must have read your letter wrong. The handwriting was . . . well, I just must have read it wrong.”

  His laugh slowly worked its way into a nasty cough and he leaned forward in his chair, struggling to breathe. I attempted to rise to help him somehow, but I had my tea mug in one hand and the file open in my lap—plus, I had sunk so low into that damn chair cushion that I could hardly get out to save my own life. Fortunately, he held up his hand to halt me, anyway, taking deep, gulping breaths and waving me off.

  “Sit,” he said. “I’m fine. Just give me a moment.”

  I watched him with concern. It was quiet for a minute, the both of us just looking at one another and breathing. When he had finally caught his breath, he sighed and said, “Now, what were we talking about?” I didn’t answer right away. There was no way I was going to bring up his wife again. But then he must have remembered on his own because he said, “Oh, yes, June. My wonderful wife. She did jump off of a building all right. That’s how I met her. But that was nearly thirty years ago.”

  Now I was really confused, and once again, I opened the file in my lap. Did he just say thirty years ago? Then how had they both signed on to a loan in 2005? But then I remembered the wheelchair ramp, and I looked around at the uncluttered hallways, the wheel-worn hardwood floors. I panicked a little, thinking maybe his wife was crippled from the fall but was still around, that maybe she was there somewhere, in one of the bedrooms or something. That would really make my job harder. I was trying to think of a gentle way to ask him her whereabouts, but he beat me to it with his own rather personal question.

  “Do you get paid commission, Elliot?”

  I had been asked this before, so I gave him my customary answer. “I get a base salary.” I usually left it at that too, but then he raised one bushy eyebrow and looked at me kind of quizzically, so I added, “And I get commission, yes.”

  “How much commission?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s kind of a confidential matter.”

  “So says the man from the bank with my financial obituary in his lap. And one who just asked me about my wife jumping off of a building too.”

  I remember thinking right then that he was a sharp old dodger, and he sure did turn out to be. I warned myself to be on my game with him when it came time to negotiate. But for some reason I kind of liked him. Plus, I think I might have been in a good mood too—on account of being so far away from the city, and the fresh air, and it being my birthday and all. I decided to answer his question.

  “I earn about fifteen hundred for each deal,” I finally said. “Sometimes more if it doesn’t cost us too much to get the homeowner to leave.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate your honesty, Elliot.” And he did seem to genuinely appreciate it, but of course he hit me right away with another personal question. “And what will you do with mine, if you don’t mind my asking? Assuming I agree to leave.”

  “Your commission?” I said, knowing full well that’s what he meant, but asking it anyway to buy myself a minute. I briefly considered making up some worthy cause for the funds but decided instead to just tell the truth. It was usually easier. “Add it to my savings, most likely,” I said.

  “And what are you saving for?”

  I felt like the meeting was heading in the wrong direction, like our roles were reversed or something. Wasn’t I supposed to be asking the questions? Then again, it was nice to have someone taking an interest in my plans.

  “I’m saving a down payment for a condo in Miami.”

  He laughed so hard I worried he might start coughing again, but he didn’t. “Why of all the places on God’s green earth would you want to live in Miami?” he asked.

  It was a silly question, so I gave it a silly answer.

  “Because it’s the Sunshine State.”

  “Filled with crowded beaches,” he shot back. “And too much sunshine.”

  Now I was kind of getting irritated, I’ll admit it.

  “You can’t have too much sunshine,” I said.

  “Sure you can,” he retorted right away, obviously disagreeing with me just because he hated Florida for some reason. Then he doubled down. “The sun is nothing but a weapon without clouds and trees to shade you from it.”

  “If that’s how you feel, I guess,” I said.

  “I’m missing a chunk of my nose to prove it.”

  “That aside, you’d feel differently if you grew up in Belfair, where I did. I don’t think I knew what the sun was until I left town at nineteen.”

  “Well, forget about the sun for a minute then,” he said. “What about the bugs and humidity? They’ve got alligators down there too. And snakes that swallow dogs. And brain-eating amoebas. I’ve seen it all myself on cable news.”

  “Cable news. Geez. I’ll tell you what, if you keep crapping on my dream, maybe I’ll send your friend Wolf Blitzer down here to deal with your delinquent loan himself, instead of me, Mr. Hadley.”

  As soon as I mentioned the delinquent loan, he straightened a little in his chair and the twinkle sort of disappeared from his eyes. Suddenly everything seemed more formal between us than when I had first arrived even. Looking back, it really wasn’t fair of me to change the subject off of Florida by bringing up his loan. It was a cheap trick and I knew it. Sometimes I could be a jerk.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was out of line.”

  “No,” he said somberly, “I’d rather get it out of the way.”

  “Okay, let me just cut to the chase, Mr. Hadley. Peel it off like a Band-Aid, if I can. The bank will let me offer you up to three months’ worth of mortgage payments in cash, and no recourse if the property is sold for a loss. And all you have to do is sign a deed in lieu of foreclosure and move out within the month. How does that sound?”

  He nodded, as if it was about what he had been expecting.

  “Is that the deal you offer everyone?” he asked.

  I had been on hundreds of sits, and this was always the part where they tried to get a little more money. Usually I started lower and held out longer, but as I’ve said, I kind of liked this old guy.

  “For you, I’ll make it four months’ worth of payments,” I offered. “But that’s the best I can do. The absolute best. It really is.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Actually, for you, I’ll sweeten it a little on my own,” I said, cutting him off. I couldn’t stand to let him beg. I just couldn’t. “As I said I get a flat commission of fifteen hundred. I’ll kick you back a thousand of it, since we’re being so personal and all. That should at least help with the moving expenses, yes?”

  “What I wanted to ask you,” he said, once I finally allowed him to get a word in, “is how much do you need to get that condo you’re saving for in Miami?”

  “Miami? I thought you said I’d be foolish to move there.”

  “I never said that. There never was a fool who followed his dream, even if it does lead him somewhere as silly as a swamp. How much do you need?”

  He was hard to peg, this old dodger. One moment he looked almost senile, kind of lost in his own thoughts, and then the next he’d have a keen twinkle in his old watery eye, as if he were leading me along the whole time. But how could you not like someone with a wooden rooster in his living room and a song and dance to go with it? I decided to answer his question.

  “All told, I need about twenty thousand more dollars. And at the rate I’m saving I’ll be able to buy in six to nine months.”

&nb
sp; He put his reading glasses back on, pulled his notebook and pen out again, and wrote something down.

  “What are you writing in there?” I asked.

  He grinned at me over his glasses. “You have your file; I have mine.” Then he took the glasses off and tucked them away along with the notebook, back in his big sweater pocket, before swelling up in his chair. It’s hard to explain what I mean exactly, but he inhaled a deep breath and straightened his back and about twenty years seemed to drop off of him. He smiled like he was about to solve the winning question on Jeopardy!. “Elliot, my new friend,” he said, “I’d like to make you a proposition.”

  “A proposition?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  This was not the first time a homeowner had attempted to lay some outlandish scheme on me to save their property, but I decided to humor him and play along.

  “Okay, sure. I’m listening.”

  “What if I offered you a deal that would net you the twenty thousand you need to get your place in Miami in just a couple of weeks?”

  “Twenty thousand’s a lot of money.”

  “Yes it is,” he replied.

  “Two weeks, you said?”

  “Give or take.”

  “What would I have to do to earn it?”

  He shrugged, rather coyly, but in a masculine way. “Nothing illegal.”

  “That’s fairly vague for someone who used to be an accountant,” I said.

  I swear I saw him smile, but I couldn’t tell whether it was because of the accountant comment or because he knew I was taking the bait.

  “So, you would be interested, then, I assume,” he said.