Ascension of Larks

by Rachel Linden

  Maggie was helping Gabby into her booster seat, but she paused when she heard Lena’s tone.

  Lena listened for another moment, her face the picture of growing confusion. “No, I’m sure there’s been a mistake. We don’t have any outstanding debts.” She listened for another long moment. “Yes, my husband is . . . was,” she corrected herself, flustered, “Marco Firelli. But there’s been a mistake somehow. We have excellent credit.”

  Maggie could hear the person on the other end, his tone of voice strident and demanding. Lena raised her chin. “Well, I suggest you check your records again. This just isn’t possible. Good-bye.” She disconnected the call.

  “What was that?” Maggie asked.

  Lena put her hands on her hips and frowned. She was still holding her pink rubber gloves. “Someone claiming Marco’s defaulted on debts, but there must be some mistake. We don’t have any debts, other than the mortgages for this place and the New York house, of course. But I’m sure we’re current on our payments.” She paused, considering. “I think I’d better call our accountant to straighten this all out.”

  While Ellen dished up eggs and crispy strips of bacon, Lena placed a call to their accountant back in New York, but was unable to get through. She left a voice mail message explaining the situation.

  The next call from creditors came barely an hour later. The third before lunch. The accountant had not yet returned Lena’s call. She tried again to no avail. By the fourth call, at two in the afternoon, Lena’s brisk assurance was beginning to wilt.

  “I-I don’t know,” she stammered into the phone, shooting a helpless look at Maggie. “I’m sure there’s been some mistake.”

  Fed up, Maggie snatched the phone from Lena’s hand. “Listen,” she snapped into the receiver, “you are badgering a woman who has done nothing wrong and who just lost her husband. If you call again, I will personally report you to the police for harassment. If you have a problem with Mr. Firelli’s finances, I suggest you take it up with his accountant. Stop calling this number.” Maggie disconnected the call and handed the phone to Lena.

  “Don’t answer any number you don’t recognize,” she said grimly. “And keep calling the accountant until you get through.”

  When the accountant finally returned Lena’s calls midafternoon, Lena explained the situation as best she could. She listened for a few minutes, hmm-ing into the phone in agreement.

  Finally she gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you, George. That puts my mind at ease. I knew it must have been a mistake. But you’ll check on it just to be sure? Anything to make these calls stop. They’re so upsetting.”

  When she hung up, she turned to Maggie, who had been aimlessly flipping through one of Lena’s gardening magazines while eavesdropping.

  “Well, that is a relief,” Lena said. “George says he knows nothing about any outstanding debts, and there must be a mistake somewhere. He says when people . . . pass, it can often cause a little chaos in their personal affairs until everything is straightened out. He’s going to check everything and call me back tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Maggie said.

  “I’m sure he’ll get it straightened out,” Lena said with confidence.

  When George called midmorning the next day, Lena and Maggie were leisurely drinking coffee at the dining table, enjoying a moment of peace. Ellen had shooed the children outside to play in the sunshine and was sitting with her knitting on the back deck where she could keep an eye on them.

  Lena checked the number and picked up the phone. “It’s George,” she whispered to Maggie. Her expression brightened for a moment when she heard his voice, but within a few seconds her look changed to one of disbelief.

  “George, what do you mean?” She sounded genuinely shocked. Without another glance, she rose and disappeared down the hall into the front parlor, leaving Maggie alone at the table, nursing the last of her espresso.

  Maggie waited for Lena, but when she hadn’t reappeared after twenty minutes, Maggie went to check on her. She knocked softly on the parlor door.

  “Come in,” Lena said. Something in her tone sent a chill through Maggie. Alarmed, she opened the door. Lena sat wilted on the chaise lounge, clutching a tissue in her hand although her eyes were dry. The phone lay on the side table nearby.

  “What’s happened?” Maggie asked, crossing to Lena and taking a seat on the sofa.

  Lena shook her head. She looked up at Maggie in bewilderment.

  “It’s gone. They were right, the creditors. It’s all gone.”

  “What’s gone?” Maggie asked warily.

  “Everything.” Lena blinked, looking stunned. “More than everything. How could this have happened? I thought everything was fine. I left the finances to him. We hired George to make sure everything was in order. Marco made enough money. I didn’t realize . . .” She lifted one hand and let it drop into her lap, a gesture of futility. She looked completely lost.

  “What did George say?” Maggie prompted gently, though her mind was racing.

  Lena looked down at her hands, crumpling and uncrumpling the tissue. “He said we’re in debt, that Marco took out loans, as much as he could borrow. He also maxed out two credit cards I didn’t know anything about. Neither did George. He found out when he looked into it.”

  Maggie sat back, shocked. “Marco did this?” It seemed impossible. “What did he do with the money?” she asked. A dozen sordid scenarios sprang to mind. Gambling. Drugs. A mistress. But no, not Marco. It wasn’t possible.

  Lena shook her head again, as though trying to clear it. “It wasn’t anything terrible. It was all legitimate expenses. The children’s school tuition, our family vacation last year. He used most of it for his business, to finance projects. That was the biggest chunk, George said. He financed projects I thought he was being paid for.” She spread her hands. “He even charged the diamond earrings he got me last year for our anniversary.” She shook her head, looking glazed. “I thought we could afford our life, but we’ve been living on borrowed money.”

  Maggie cleared her throat, trying to think logically. “How much is the debt?”

  “Almost two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Lena said flatly, “not counting our mortgages, of course.”

  Maggie sat back, shocked by that many zeroes. How could Lena possibly dig out from a hole that deep? Her mind raced, flying through some quick mental calculations. Maggie made a good income, but she had nothing like that amount of money lying around. She knew Lena’s parents had suffered financially during the economic crash of 2008 and lost most of their retirement savings, so they were not in a position to help much.

  “Did Marco have life insurance?” Maggie asked, grasping at any slim possibility.

  Lena made a small sound, between a moan and a whimper, and shook her head. “He told George he was going to take care of it when we got back to New York in the fall. He had a life insurance benefit when he was with the firm, but when he left the firm to go independent last year, that was gone . . . Marco was always so healthy, we didn’t think . . . No one thinks this will happen.”

  She plucked at the tissue in her hand. “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” she said plaintively. “I can’t work and take care of the children at the same time. I’ve never had a real job, anyway. What would I do? But I can’t lose our homes. We have to have somewhere to live. And the children . . . I don’t want everything in their lives to change.” She was beginning to sound panicked as the reality of the situation started to set in. “And what do I do about their school? And the debts? How can I possibly pay off the debts? Oh, I can’t believe this.” She buried her face in her hands.

  “What do you have to pay right now?” Maggie asked, trying to get her to focus, to calm down so they could think. “How much is due now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Lena shook her head, overwhelmed.

  “What did George say?” Maggie asked gently. “Did he say what’s due right now? Why were the collection agencies calling?”r />
  Lena glanced up at her and struggled to come up with the answers. “Marco missed some of the last payments,” she said finally, shakily. “George says we need nine thousand dollars just to get caught up on the loan and credit card payments.”

  Maggie stared at Lena in stunned silence for a moment. Lena looked back at her, the number sitting between them large and stark.

  “Do you have access to any money, anything in savings?” Maggie asked.

  Lena shook her head and grimaced. “I thought we did, but the account is empty. I just have the few hundred I keep in my household account for incidentals. Oh, Maggie, I trusted him to handle everything, and now it’s all gone. What am I going to do?” Lena pressed her hand to her breastbone hard, holding it there as though to keep her heart from breaking out of her chest.

  Maggie bit her lip, trying to come up with something reassuring to say. Lena’s eyes were wide and she was breathing fast. She looked panicked. “Lena.” Maggie took Lena’s hand and gripped it hard, feeling the slender bones beneath her fingers. “It will be okay.”

  Maggie’s mind was whirling, trying to grapple with the problem. It seemed massive. What had Marco been thinking, to put his family in this predicament? Obviously he hadn’t anticipated dying so soon and leaving behind a gaping financial black hole, but Lena and the children could lose everything. They could lose this house. The thought stopped Maggie in her tracks. The idea of losing this place, more of a home than anything else she had, felt like a sucker punch to the gut. She couldn’t let it happen. They had to think of something.

  Maggie sat for a moment, trying to formulate a plan, but her mind was a blank, white slate. No grand plan occurred to her.

  “I’ll lend you the nine thousand dollars,” she said finally. “I’ll have it wire transferred to your account today.”

  Lena glanced up, doubt on her face. Her mouth trembled. “I can’t let you do that, Maggie.”

  “Of course you can,” Maggie said briskly. “You would do the same for me. You know you would. So call George back and we’ll tell him the money is on its way. Let’s take it one step at a time. First we’ll handle the back payments and then we’ll worry about the rest of it later.” It was a sound plan, a sensible first step, but Maggie felt a cold, sinking dread deep in her stomach. How could they possibly make this all come out okay?

  Lena just looked at her with wide, frightened eyes as the magnitude of the predicament sunk in.

  “Oh, Maggie, I can’t do this,” she whispered. Her pupils were large and unfocused. Shock, Maggie thought. She’s in shock. She’d seen it before in her line of work. She gripped Lena’s hand hard, trying to communicate a strength and confidence she didn’t feel. Instead, she sat across from Lena in the prim floral parlor, fighting to maintain her equilibrium, to not feel overwhelmed by this new, disastrous revelation. Their lives felt suddenly more precarious than ever before.

  “We’ll think of something,” Maggie said, trying to sound strong and reassuring. “You don’t have to do this alone.” She squeezed Lena’s hand, but Lena didn’t respond. Already Maggie could feel Lena shutting down, slipping away to some far, solitary place.

  Lena looked away, out the front bay window to the wide green sweep of lawn. Her expression was so lost. “It makes so much sense now,” she murmured. “If he had just told me . . .” She shook herself slightly, for a moment coming back to the present. “Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything,” she said with a slight, wistful smile, “but at least I would have known.”

  Puzzled, Maggie opened her mouth to ask what Lena was talking about, but Lena had already moved on, her eyes on the far horizon and her thoughts a million miles away.

  Chapter Nine

  MAGGIE WOKE LATE THE NEXT MORNING TO THE rattling of jars. Blearily, she sat up in a wash of midmorning sun, trying to get her bearings. She’d fallen asleep well after midnight, kept awake by the financial problem, turning various ideas over in her head. Earlier she’d talked to George, transferred the necessary funds, then sat Ellen down and outlined the extent of the problem as well. “Oh dear,” Ellen sighed. “What a pickle. We’d love to help, but even with Ernie’s pension and both our Social Security checks, we’re just making ends meet.”

  The financial disaster was held at bay, at least for a few weeks. It would give them breathing room, a bit of time to work out a good solution—if they could come up with a good solution. Otherwise . . . it did not bear thinking about. They would just have to make something work.

  Maggie yawned and squinted at the bedside alarm clock. Almost ten. Sifting up through the floorboards came the muted tones of a cartoon on the TV in the family room and an unholy racket coming from the kitchen. What was going on down there? After a quick trip to the bathroom, she hastily pulled on her clothes from the day before, tugged her hair into a messy ponytail, and went to investigate.

  At the foot of the stairs, Maggie stopped short, staring at the scene before her in the kitchen. She felt as though she’d just wandered into a beehive, buzzing with energy. Lena was at the stove stirring a vat of bubbling fruit. Ellen was elbow-deep in a sink full of bobbing red strawberries. Canning jars were stacked in cardboard boxes on the floor, and rows of full jars gleamed like jewels on trays on the counter. The air was thick with sugar and steam. Lena’s favorite Doris Day CD was playing in the background, Doris’s voice as bright and happy as sunshine.

  “What’s going on?” Maggie asked, going into the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Maggie. We’re canning,” Ellen informed her, rolling her eyes toward Lena, who was peering into the pot of fruit and stirring vigorously.

  “Canning strawberries?” Maggie yawned, trying to get her brain to function. She needed an espresso, maybe two, strong enough to feel like a kick in the teeth. She wasn’t ready for this level of activity so soon after waking.

  “Strawberries, and whatever we can get our hands on, apparently,” Ellen said, adding in a low voice, “These are strawberries from all three markets. She had me buy every pint on the island.”

  Maggie looked around, trying to gauge the mood in the room. It felt as though the events of the previous day had never happened, as though all the worry and fear of financial ruin had been swept under the rug, replaced by a current of high energy and productivity. It was eerie, as though she had awakened in an alternative universe where nothing bad could touch this level of domesticity. Maggie had seen Lena behave like this before, throwing herself wholeheartedly into a project, completely unrelated to whatever personal crisis was looming in her life. Maggie remembered the last time.

  Faced with the reality of her beloved Grammy’s failing health, Lena had organized a campus-wide hat-and-mitten drive at Rhys the fall of their senior year, collecting over two hundred sets of cold-weather hats and mittens for the local homeless shelter. It was a good cause but completely unrelated to the real crisis Lena was facing. Hats and mittens had not slowed Grammy’s decline.

  The doorbell rang just then, and Lena nodded toward the mudroom. “Could you get that please, Maggie?”

  Maggie opened the mudroom door to find a rotund man in a John Deere baseball cap and overalls standing on the step. He touched the bill of his cap by way of greeting. “Paul Young from down the road. I got the load of plums I promised Miz Firelli. They’re not real ripe, but she said she wanted them now.” He shrugged, indicating that it was not his problem if they should turn out to be less than satisfactory. “So where do you want ’em?”

  Maggie followed him to the driveway and peered into the bed of his Ford pickup. “All of these?” she exclaimed, staring at the round fruits, some dusky purple but most tinged with pink and green. “There must be a hundred pounds here!”

  “Yup,” he agreed complacently. “So where do you want ’em?”

  “The garage?” Maggie guessed, feeling at a loss to make an intelligent decision. She didn’t really understand what was going on.

  Paul nodded. “Right-o.”

  The canning continued unabated
throughout the morning. Apron firmly tied around her waist, face flushed from the fragrant steam, Lena canned with a zeal that bordered on mania. She seemed almost unaware of her surroundings, entirely focused on the task at hand. The children stayed in their pajamas and watched cartoons until lunch. Lena never let them watch cartoons more than a half hour a day, but she was concentrating so fully on canning that she forgot to feed them, let alone monitor their television consumption. At noon Ellen made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and carrot sticks and apple slices and fed the kids at the table on the back deck, the only flat surface untouched by the canning.

  Maggie was roped into helping with several batches of jam, but she began to feel claustrophobic in the confines of the kitchen. She was smothered in equal parts by the steamy fruit vapors that had turned the kitchen into a sauna and by Lena’s refusal to engage reality. Lena’s forced cheer and manic productivity grated on Maggie’s nerves. At some point Lena would crack—Maggie had seen it before and knew it was only a matter of time—but until she did, it was like living with a robot, a Stepford wife, her mask of perfection firmly in place.

  Maggie lasted until early afternoon, but after the third repetition of Doris Day’s upbeat crooning of “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” she was done. Catching a glimpse of the children, who were wearing similar looks of worry as they peered through the French doors from the deck, she decided enough was enough. She had to get out. She grabbed her camera on impulse and told Ellen they were leaving. Taking car keys from a hook in the mudroom, she loaded the kids and Sammy into Lena’s Volvo and drove to Friday Harbor.

  “Okay,” she said, pulling into a space at the Dairy Dee-lite, a small, red wooden shed with a giant rotating plastic ice cream cone attached to the roof. Tucked away on a side street near the ferry dock, the ice cream stand was often crowded with tourists in the height of summer, though there was usually a picnic table free if you knew to come between ferry arrivals. She’d been bringing the kids here since they were each old enough to walk, spoiling their suppers with hot fudge sundaes covered in sprinkles or with butterscotch-dipped cones.