CHAPTER SIXTY: Criminals!

Giselle called me the next morning, shortly after I arrived at work.  “I’m on the corner, and I’ve just been talking to Wim on the phone," she said. "I thought you should know.  Someone’s been raped ... either in your #house, or behind it.”

“What!”

“Yeah. It happened last night.  The cops were  all over it.  You know, Stace, there’s probably crack dealers and dope dealers goin’ in and out all the time, now the house is empty.”

For a moment I was at a loss for words. “Shit, I left the back door open for the electric company to turn the gas back on so the pipes wouldn’t freeze.”

“Yeah, well, they're gonna get in anyways,” Giselle proclaimed, knowingly.

“And I was planning on going there tonight to turn the pilot lights on.”

“Don't go at night," Giselle warned. "Too dangerous.” 

“Believe me, I'd rather not," I said. "Hey, where are you living now? Can Wim get his stepladder back?"

“Yes he can. I told 'im he can fetch it any time.” Giselle rattled off her new address.

“Thanks. Well, er, goodbye then. Keep in touch,” I said, as people do without meaning it. I wouldn’t mind receiving a large overdue-rent check from her, though.

I called Shirley to get the neighbor’s eye view.  She told me that a naked girl had been seen running across the street to the house opposite mine, and someone had called the police. 

“They came and searched the area behind all the houses,” she told me. “Then the cops went into your house to take a look around.”

“My house? How did they get in?”

“The front window was wide open."

"Shit. Really?"

"Yeah. We told the police the house is supposed to be closed up, so they said they had to check it out.  They dove right in through the window.”

“Did they find anything?”

“To be honest, Stace, I don’t know.” Shirley sounded disappointed that she wasn't in the know.  “You’ll have to find that out from the police station.”

Feeling emotionally drained, I stifled a yawn. “Okay, Shirley. If anything else happens, keep me posted, will you?” 

“Okay,” she chirped brightly, thriving on being the bearer of bad news. 

I called Wim and he answered on the first ring.

“You spoke to Giselle?” I said.

“Yah. Some girl got raped, but I don’t know if it was in the house or not.  Whatever, it’s got nothing to do with you.  I’ll go up to there this afternoon and check things out.”

A little while later, a man called from the Electro utility company.  “We’re headed for 51 Manson Street now,” his gravelly voice informed me.  “Is anyone home?”

“It’s vacant,” I told him, “but I left the back door open for you.”  I neglected to warn him that the place might be swarming with cops.  I didn’t want to put him off, now I finally had a live utility worker on the phone.

“I’ll turn the pilot lights on too, okay?” the man said.

“Great. I was going to ask you if you could do that. Thanks so much.  I really appreciate it.”

The unexpected fervency of my gratitude prompted a kind of awkward silence, then the man grunted something and hung up.

An hour later, he called again.  “I’ve turned the gas on and lit all the pilots.  They’re on low.  Where’s the second water heater, though?”

“Up in the attic.”

“Oh. Well, did you know you’ve got a leak downstairs in the basement? I noticed one upstairs too, in one of the bedrooms.”

“Damn," I said glumly, visions of burst pipes and patches of mold dancing in my head. "I knew about the upstairs leak, but I didn’t know about the one in the basement.”  

“Yeah, you should get it checked out.  I’m just telling you.” The Electro man hung up before I could be over-effusive in my thanks again. At least he hadn’t mentioned cops.

That afternoon, Wim went over to Schemmerhorn, half-expecting to find a window broken. I couldn’t remember whether Shirley had said the police dove or stove through the front window.  Apparently, they dove because Wim found no evidence of breakage.  He checked the pilot lights, did a spot of soldering in the basement and upstairs bedroom, and locked the place up tight. This was probably a useless precaution since someone had almost certainly pocketed the keys Giselle claimed she had left on the kitchen counter but were nowhere to be found.

The next day, Wim and a burly African American worker from one of his other jobs went to the house and put all the remaining furniture and junk onto the street for the garbage man.  We planned to go back later in the week to blow the remaining water out of the pipes, turn off the gas again, and board up the first-floor windows.  Meanwhile, I called the #mortgage company to find out the status of things.

“Everything’s going as scheduled,” a woman told me.  “The papers have gone out to our attorneys. You'll be notified any day.” 

That day couldn’t come soon enough, as far as I was concerned.

Wim went back to Manson Street the next week to blow out the pipes and found that the locks had been changed.  A notice nailed to the front door stated that the building had been foreclosed and was the property of the bank.  When I called the mortgage company to tell them we'd been planning to blow out the pipes, a woman confirmed that the house did now belong to the bank and, what's more, had officially belonged to the bank for the past few weeks!  This meant that I, Wim, Wim's burly helper, even the man from the utility company, had, in effect, been trespassers! We were criminals!

“We appreciate your continued care of the property, though,” the woman hastened to assure me when I complained about not being notified. 

On December 10th, I cheerfully signed a bargain-and-sale deed to the effect that:

. . . Anastasia Scuttlebutt, party of the first part, and Attractive Mortgages, party of the second part, witnesseth, that the party of the first part, in consideration of Ten Dollars and other valuable consideration paid by the party of the second part, did hereby grant and release unto the party of the second part, the heirs or successors and assigns of the party of the second part forever, all that certain plot, piece or parcel of land, with the building and improvements thereon erected, situate, lying and being in the City of Schemmerhorn . . .

Of course, I never did receive the ten dollars.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE: Just Give it Back

House Account: $352.41

* * * * * * * * * * 

September arrived but rental payments from Giselle and her upstairs friend did not.

Needless to say, I wasn’t really surprised when two weeks later the #mortgage company's bank rejected Jerry and Shirley’s application to buy the #house.  Apparently Jerry earned too little to take on another mortgage.

After commiserating with Shirley about the bad news, I sought out Head Honcho for some commiseration of my own.

“I really don’t want to declare #bankruptcy,” I lamented in his office. “It seems like such a drastic measure. But what am I to do? I just can’t take this anymore!” 

How many times over the past five years had I uttered that last sentence? 

“I don’t have the energy or the money to keep taking people to Court,” I continued plaintively.  “It’s like every other minute I’m sending threatening letters to my #tenants by certified mail, I’m up to my ears in subpoenas, income executions, petitions, motions, warrants ... I'm paying umpteen filing fees and service fees ... I’ve got no #rent coming in ... I’m down to my last cent ... and it’s not like I haven’t tried to sell the house.  I had it on the market for eighteen months, and no one wanted to buy it, except for my tenant and a neighbor, but the bank turned them both down.  Don’t they know how hard it is to sell a house in Schemmerhorn?”

“Whoa, kiddo, calm down,” soothed Head Honcho in his usually calm manner.  “There's no need to declare bankruptcy.  Just do a deed in lieu of #foreclosure.”

“What’s that?” I gulped, blowing my nose and mopping at my running mascara.

“Give the house back to the bank.”

“I can do that?”

“Yes. Call the bank, tell them you want to do a deed in lieu of foreclosure, they’ll send you the paperwork, you fill it out, send it back ... and that’ll be that.”

“Hm.”  I couldn’t really believe it was that simple.  “What will happen to my credit?”

“You might find it difficult getting a new credit card for a while, but foreclosure’s not considered as bad as a bankruptcy.  If you wait seven years, your credit will be clear again.”

I could live with that.  It would be so worth it not to have the aggravation all the time.  I determined to call the mortgage company that very day when I went home for lunch.             

And it really was that simple.  I couldn’t believe it! 

Attractive Mortgages had sold my mortgage some time ago to a company called Southwest Mortgage Company.  Pleased that I didn't have to deal with Un-Attractive Mortgages, who'd pissed me off royally when I first bought the house, I called Southwest Mortgage Company and told them I could no longer take the strain of being a #landlord and didn’t have enough money to continue paying the mortgage. 

"And," I declared to the gentleman who'd answered the phone, "since you've turned down every prospective buyer I’ve introduced to you, I am now forced to either request a deed in lieu of foreclosure or commit myself to a mental hospital!" 

The man took my mild display of histrionics in stride, merely stating that he was sorry to hear about my situation and would send out the paperwork that very day.  

And that really was that! 

Of course, then I started wishing I’d done this earlier and not waited until my bank account was almost exhausted.  I always was a willing casualty of buyer’s remorse.

“Is there anything I should be doing to the house?” I asked.  “Like giving my tenants notice, painting and stuff?”

“We'd obviously appreciate it if the #premises was left in as good condition as possible,” the man answered rather formally. “And with no tenants in residence. But you don’t need to paint if you don’t want to.”

I drove back to my office in a euphoric mood, wondering if Head Honcho would grant me permission to kiss his feet.

Speaking of kissing, I still hadn't received September’s rent from Giselle, or her nameless friend. And now that I had to give them notice, I could probably kiss all past-due rents goodbye too. 

I called Giselle and told her I was giving the house back to the bank and that she would have to move out.  When I intimated, rather forcefully, that the main reason I was in this predicament was because of all the unpaid rents, she spun me some tale about the electric company mixing up her account ... Social Services ... etc., etc. I think her mother’s death played a part in it somewhere as well. 

“And now," Giselle added, "how’m I supposed to pay you, when I gotta pay a deposit on another apartment?”

She then proceeded to recite a litany of accusations: 

"You don’t know what it's like living paycheck to paycheck." 

"You don't understand what it's like to be poor like me." 

"You don't know how lucky you are to have a good payin' job, wit' savings in the bank. We got nutt'n." 

All I could do was listen. 

Eventually, Giselle ran out of steam and I managed to extract a promise from her that she would go down to Social Services the next day to seek help with her overdue rent.  I also urged her to try and collect some rent from her upstairs friend.

On September 25th, I followed up with a letter:

Dear Giselle:

As you know, the bank is making arrangements to #repossess the house.  You are asked to vacate the premises by October 31st.  Please leave the apartment in as neat and clean condition as you can.  I am also giving your friend upstairs notice to move out.  You have still not sent me September’s rent.  Please do so immediately.  Also, by the time you get this letter, it will be just about time for October’s rent too.  As we discussed, please see your caseworker at #DSS about helping with the $1,100.00 you still owe me for June and July plus two Augusts ago.  You can tell her you are being evicted and show her the enclosed letters I have sent you about the overdue rents.  I’m sorry it has come to this. 

                                                                  Yours truly,

                                                                 Anastasia Scuttlebutt

           

A form arrived from the mortgage company.  It consisted of one xeroxed sheet of paper and contained several typos:

the information requested below is very important each point is needed to consider you loan for a voluntary conveyance of the deed in lieu of a foreclosure suit.  Consideration for a deed in lieu of foreclosure will be based on the fact that each point is answered below if any points are unanswered your request for a deed in lieu of foreclosure will be denied . . . 

The form went on to request the reason for the default and why it could not be cured. 

I wrote: “Difficulty collecting rent from tenants, who either refuse to pay or pay late.  Numerous lawsuits, evictions and judgments.”

I answered a few more questions about resources I'd exhausted in trying to keep my loan current; tenants in residence, if any; monthly income and expenses; and whether the property had ever been listed for sale. I gleefully appended Wally’s listing agreement and notices of failed showing appointments, signed on the dotted line labeled “Borrower,” and mailed the form back to the mortgage company.

Giselle soon found a place to live and moved out in mid-October.  I was happy to give her a reference just to get rid of her.  Apart from occasionally not paying rent, she had been a reasonably good tenant.  The upstairs friend, on the other hand -- whose name I never did discover -- very kindly performed a moonlight flit, having paid not one cent in rent.

I cleaned the house as best I could, turned off the utilities, contacted Greatest Pest Control to cancel the monthly maintenance, and didn’t look back as Wim and I cheerfully drove away from 51 Manson Street for what we thought was the last time. 

A week later, the weather turned very cold, and I began to worry about freezing pipes.  I was also visualizing the last line of the xeroxed form from the mortgage company, which stated: “The property must not be damaged in any way for Southwest Mortgage Company to complete the Deed in Lieu of Foreclosure.”  

After several phone calls to the utility company, I managed to get the gas turned back on. The pilot lights could warm the apartments a little until Wim had time to blow out the pipes.

            I hung up the phone, thinking that this was the end of my sorry tale. 

Not so. 

To the long list of evictions, vandalism, suspected drug trafficking, prostitution, murder threats, and bug infestations, rape was about to be added to the list.  

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT: Neighborly Nonsense

"I shouldn't really be bothering you," Shirley said, apologetically, "but I thought you should know.  Giselle just threatened to kill me."

This statement rendered me temporarily speechless.  "Wh-what?" I finally managed.

"She threatened to kill me," Shirley repeated.  "Giselle and Diane's sister were outside with their bratty kids.  Giselle's son, Richard, got into a fight with my son, and then Giselle and them all got involved. They started threatening me and saying they was going to burn down my #house an’ stuff."

"Oh, wow!  I'm sure they wouldn't actually kill you, though."  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe I’d said such a stupid thing.  “They were probably just trying to scare you, don’t you think?” I added.

Shirley didn’t appear to to have noticed my assinine statement.  "Maybe.  It is scary, though.  Jerry works nights now, so I'm here by myself.  I called the cops but they said they can't do anything.  Not until someone actually gets hurt."

“Isn't that ridiculous?” I sympathized. “I guess I don't know what to say, Shirley.  I'll have a word with Giselle, but I really can't afford to have her move out right now.  I need the rent."

"I understand," Shirley assured me. “I just thought you should know, seein' as it's your #property."

"Thanks," I said. "I appreciate it, and I will get in touch with Giselle and tell her to cool it.  By the way, did you get the stuff I sent you?"

"Yes we did.  Jerry's working on it now, gettin' all the papers an' everything."

"Good. I do need him to sign that letter requesting the assumption packet, so the bank can send me a new packet of forms.  Then I'll type them all out nicely, once you've filled in the copies you have now. They'll look more professional that way."

"Yeah," Shirley agreed.  "We'll put the letter in the mail to you tomorrow."

When I got home that night, I wrote to Giselle, asking her if she was making any progress with paying off the $1,100.00 she still owed me. I added the following paragraph: “I’ve had complaints from the next door neighbors that you threatened to kill Shirley!!!  Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?  Shirley obviously thinks so because she told me she called the cops on you.  What’s the deal?”

Giselle never replied.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN: Clause Confusion

Shirley called me a few days later to ask if there was any news about Marvin and Giselle being approved to buy the #house.  I distinctly remembered telling her that I probably wouldn’t hear anything for about a month. However, I restrained myself, very nicely told her not yet, and reiterated my promise to let her and Jerry know as soon as I knew.

Meanwhile, I was still awaiting the signed order from Judge Grazziano authorizing the #warrant for Charmayne’s #arrest.  I wrote to him and enclosed another copy in case he’d lost the first one. 

Two days later the City Clerk called me.  "Judge Grazziano has looked over your Order, and everything looks fine," she said.  "He just wanted me to tell you that before he can sign it, you have to include a clause about perjury."

This didn’t make any sense whatsoever. "Perjury? What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

"The judge said it’s standard language for Orders of this type," the Clerk replied. "As I said, it's about perjury."

This shed no more light on the matter.  "Can you tell me where to find this language?" I asked.

"I'm looking at an example right now."

"Can you read it to me?"

"No.  We're not allowed to give legal advice."

"Okay. Well, I did leave some room at the bottom of the Order in case the judge wanted to add anything," I said. "I've often seen judges do that with Supreme Court Orders.  Can't Judge Grazziano do that?"

"I don't know about Supreme Court, but it's different in this Court," was the reply.  "Again, it's not our job to give legal advice."

"But I still don't understand." I complained.  “Perjury means to lie under oath. It doesn't make ...”  

A thought suddenly struck me.  "Oh, do you mean purge?  Like the respondent has to have a chance to purge herself of the charges?"

" ‘swat I said.  Perjury."

I gave up.  "Okay, I'll add some language to the Order and resubmit it.  Are you sure everything else is all right?  Even the part about the respondent being arrested?"

"Everything's fine.  It's just that one phrase he needs."

With a slightly lighter heart, I turned to Friendly Lawyer Number Two for advice.  She actually called the Clerk’s Office to try to get some clarification but eventually hung up, none the wiser. When a spot of legal research failed to reveal any type of standard clause such as the Clerk had mentioned, Friendly Lawyer Number Two kindly drafted a few sentences herself. I added them to the Order and resubmitted it to Judge Grazziano for his signature. 

I received the signed Order back from the Judge two weeks later. Charmayne had until August 30th to purge herself of the contempt charge, at which point the Sheriff would be directed to arrest her. 

I served the Order upon Charmayne by unmarked mail, care of her mother, and filed an affidavit of service to that effect with the Clerk’s Office.  By this time, I didn’t even care about the money Charmayne owed me.  Rather, it was the principle of the thing.

My next project was to go after Diane for her unpaid #rent.  Lord, give me strength!

                                                             * * * * * * * *

My contract with Wally was due to expire on August 1st.  By then, the house at 51 Manson Street would have been on the market for four hundred and ninety-seven long days. 

Wally called to ask me if I wanted to renew the listing.

I listened to the obvious lack of enthusiasm in his voice.  “No, let’s drop it," I told him. "My #tenants are actually thinking of buying the house.”

“Oh.”  Wally’s voice perked up a little.  He was undoubtedly relieved to be ridding himself of such a hopeless listing.  “Well, thank you for your business . . .”

“. . . or lack thereof, don’t you mean?”

“Yeah, well . . . No, no, it’s tough being a #landlord.  I hope the deal with your #tenants works out.  If I can be of any assistance in the future, you know where to find me.”

“Sure do. Thanks.”

                                                             * * * * * * * *

That night, I received a phone call from Giselle.

"The bank called," she said in a belligerent tone.  "How come you told us you was in trouble wit your #mortgage?  They say your #loan is up to date and you ain't in no trouble.  Why'd you say dat?"

"Wh-what?”  I stammered, taken aback. Since when did banks divulge such confidential information to a third-party? Even though Giselle was trying to buy the house, it didn’t seem right. 

“I think I told you I would be in trouble if you didn't start paying rent again,” I protested.  “Why'd they call you, anyway?"

"They said we don't earn enough, 'specially with Marvin bein' out on disability. They said if Marvin gets a job, they'll consider us again in six months."

“Shit,” I swore glumly.  " I don't want to wait six months!  I wanna be rid of the house now."

"I know," Giselle said.  "Diane's movin' out.  She's upstairs cleaning. Seein' as we ain't getting the house yet, a friend of mine wants to move in upstairs.  What’s the rent up there?"

"Four seventy-five," I told her. "Same as yours.”

"Okay.  Well, she can only afford four hundred a month to start with ‘til she gets on Social Services. Marvin and I plan to fix up the place an’ do some paintin'.  At least you'll have something coming in for upstairs but you'll have to wait ‘til September to get it."

“Hm,” I said, dubiously.  “You mean like retroactive rent?”

“Yeah. Just until she gets her benefits sorted out, though.  Then she’ll probably pay you more to make up for it.”

"I guess that would be okay.  How's it going to work? She pays you and then you pay me ..."

"Yeah.  She'll give me a hundred dollars each week. Then I'll send you the whole thing at the end of the month."

When I put down the phone, I turned to Mummy and told her the news.  She thought the whole arrangement sounded fishy. 

“You know, I really don't want to wait 'til Marvin's been employed six months,” I said.  “Even then, the mortgage company could turn him down again.  I think I’m going to tell Jerry he can buy the house.  I'm tired of being Mr. Nice Guy."

"Darn right," my mother agreed.

I called Shirley. She was pleased to hear the news.  I told her I would mail a set of forms to Jerry to start working on so that we could get a head start.  They were blank copies of the forms that the bank had sent to Giselle and Marvin.  Meanwhile, I needed Jerry to sign and return the letter I was mailing out to him, so that I could request another #assumption packet from the mortgage company.

To my relief -- albeit a few days late – the rent for August arrived from Giselle.  Her friend, who turned out to be Diane’s sister, moved in upstairs, but I was so busy that I never made it over to Manson Street to get a #lease signed.  I never even found out what her name was.  I guess this was a sign that I just didn’t have the energy to care anymore.  For better or for worse, I had a feeling that this unpleasant phase in my life was finally coming to an end.

Shirley called me mid-August.  "How long are Giselle and Co. gonna stay next door?" she demanded brusquely.

"I don't know," I said.  "I've no plans to evict them. Of course, when Jerry owns the house, he can do what he likes.  Why?"

"I shouldn't really be bothering you with this," Shirley started, apologetically, "but I thought you should know.  Giselle just threatened to kill me."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX: Statistics Stink!

With no #rent coming in from upstairs and still no rent from Giselle, I was getting pretty desperate.  Seeing as her mother was dying or dead, I hated to do it but felt I just had to write a stern letter to Giselle, demanding that she pay the rent and either fill out the assumption papers, or I would be selling the #house to somebody else. 

“I just don’t have the energy for this anymore,” I complained to the ever-sympathetic Allen. We were sitting at the dining room table, which was littered with masses of papers covered in incomprehensible formulas.  “And," I continued, "on top of trying to get rid of the house,this summer statistics course is killing me!"

It was July 4th.  While others were outside in the warm sunshine, enjoying sociable barbecues, I was stuck indoors, sweating and straining feverishly over statistics problems.  I was pretty much clueless about what was going on in the course. To make matters worse, the statistics teacher was a Russian doctoral student named Yuri, who didn’t speak English very well and was incapable of explaining concepts in a way that his confused students could understand.  He only succeeded in confusing us more than ever. 

One night, while he was sternly berating the class for doing poorly on a quiz, I couldn't take it anymore. I leaped up out of my seat, stormed out of the room, and started crying in the hallway. 

Yuri hastily followed me.  “What’s the matter?” he asked in his Russian-accented English.

“I just can’t do it,” I sobbed. “It’s not fair, you shouting at us.  I spend hours every night doing the homework and trying my best, but I just don’t understand.  Lots of us don’t.  And I need to get at least a C in this class, or I won't be allowed to to transfer the credits.  I’m going to fail!”

“You won’t fail,” Yuri said.  “Come back inside and I’ll try to explain things better.”

Red-eyed and sniffing, I followed him back into the room. My fellow classmates, half of whom were more than a decade younger than I was, shot me smiles of sympathy. We were all wallowing in the same boat.

“Now,” Yuri addressed the class.  “Whenever there is something you don’t understand, please stop me and I’ll try to explain better.  Before we go on, are there any questions about what we’ve covered so far?”

No one put up their hand.  We all felt so confused that we didn’t even know what it was we didn’t understand, or what questions to ask.  Each night after class, I’d show Allen the chapter we’d covered that day, and he would teach it to me.

So, anyway, here I was on the 4th of July,  struggling as usual to comprehend the material. My brain felt sluggish, like I was floundering in a persistent fog that refused to clear. Only with the aid of my eminently-brilliant and amiable chemistry-professor-boyfriend, Allen, did an occasional ray of sunshine break through.  

Even with his help, however, it took me seven long hours to work through the latest chapter. Engulfed in a state of dismal despair, I alternated between torrents of sobs as I acknowledged how stupid I was, or jags of maniacal laughter as Allen patiently tried to explain to me yet another totally incomprehensible concept for the umpteenth time. 

I think it's called hysterics.

“When I’m a grad student, I’m going to do my thesis on math anxiety,” I declared.  “Been there, done that.”  

I sped home after the final exam and ceremonially burned my notes, vowing never again to take another statistics class.  Later that night, still rejoicing in the fact that the horrific six weeks of statistics was finally over, I jotted down a couple of poems in my journal:

            Mathematically Challenged

            If there were a hell on earth,

            it would be an endless statistics class

            A Builder’s View of Math

            You begin with the foundation

            A big, deep hole beneath level zero

            Where negative integers live like ants.

            Massive blocks of concrete obstruct your view.

            You climb endless scaffolds,

            Only to slip back down.

            Girders give way beneath your grasp.

            You slap mortar between bricks

            But it soon crumbles.

            A helpful crane occasionally boosts you up

            To the upper level where you can almost see . . .

            Until the wrecking ball smashes the inkling.

                                                             

I couldn't believe it when I received a B in the course. Yuri must have performed an immense curving of grades.

* * * * * * * * * *

Marvin and Giselle met with a lawyer and signed a contract, and I went over to Schemmerhorn that night to help them fill out the forms.  They wanted to start things moving as soon as possible and were full of ideas about things they wanted to do with the house and the upstairs apartment.  We worked on the forms for a bit, and I decided to type them up at the office, since their handwriting  -- Marvin’s especially – wasn’t very legible.  I also informed Giselle -- if she didn’t already know it -- that I was evicting Diane once and for all.  Although they were cousins, Giselle confided in me that she, herself, was growing tired of Diane's four bratty kids spoiling everything. Once she became Diane's landlord, she wasn't going to trust her to pay the rent either, especially since she was family. 

I typed out the forms and took them over to Schemmerhorn a few days later for Giselle and Marvin to sign.  We’d arranged to meet at 6:00 that evening but no one was home when I arrived at 51 Manson Street. Shirley was sitting on her porch next door watching her son playing, so I went over to sit with her and wait for Marvin and Giselle. I wanted so badly to sell the house and to get the hell out of the landlording business that I was prepared to wait.  They’d probably show up sooner or later.

"You sellin' the house to Giselle?" Shirley asked. 

“Yes, I am."

"Jerry's really interested in buying it if it doesn’t go through. Let us know, will you?"

"Sure," I said.  "I'm hopefully sending the papers to the mortgage company tomorrow. I guess it takes about a month to approve them. I'll let you know as soon as I know."

Shirley proceeded to bend my ear about all the goings-on next door: the noise, the terrible kids, the dogs, the trash, the language, on and on, until Marvin's old beaten-up brown car rattled up the street.

"Sorry to keep you wait'n," he called as he got out of the car.  Giselle and the kids erupted out the other side.

"You're half-an-hour late," I called back.  

Shirley gave me a meaningful look as I got up and followed Giselle and co. into their apartment.  Once inside, Giselle informed me that Diane had found another place to live just down the street. She'd be out of the apartment by July 31st.  Giselle and Marvin were looking forward to refurbishing and renting it out. 

"What happens if you do all the decorating and then the mortgage company doesn't approve you?" I asked.

Giselle gave me a reassuring smile.  "Don't worry, we'll still make it nice.  This house really doesn't need much done to it.  It won't take long to fix it up. There's nothing major needs doing."

I stifled an impulse to remind her of all her ranting and raving about cracking beams and walls and Wim’s apparently shoddy maintenance record.

"What about the rent you owe me for June and July?" I asked.  "I'm really hurting financially, Giselle, what with no rent coming in from upstairs and none from you these past two months."

Marvin leaned back in his chair, awkwardly favoring his bad back.  "Yeah, we're sorry ‘bout that. Seeing as we're buyin' the house, we was thinking we don't need to pay rent no more.  I guess we forgot you still have to pay the mortgage while we're wait'n.  Giselle's mom dyin', havin' to go over there all the time … it's bin hard, you know."

“Sure,” I said with a nod and paused for a moment to express my sympathy before continuing. 

“You also still owe me rent from August two years ago.  Giselle worked off a hundred bucks cleaning the fridge and painting when Charmayne moved out, and I got an extra two hundred when D.S.S. upped your payment last August, but that still leaves a hundred and fifty dollars.  Add that to the outstanding rents for June and July, and you owe me eleven hundred dollars.”

"Sure adds up quick,” Giselle said. “We ain't got it right now, but we'll pay this August's rent on the first of the month. I'm goin' to see about gettin' a loan so we can pay you the eleven hundred dollars, plus have some extra money to fix this place up.  We figure about five thousand should do it."

                                                             * * * * * * * *

It was exasperating.  Giselle and Marvin signed the application forms for assuming the mortgage but didn’t have their other papers ready, such as tax returns and wage statements.  Also, for some reason, Marvin never did begin employment at the Post Office.  He was still on disability, which hardly paid anything.  This fact certainly wasn’t going to help their case any.  They also refused to fork out $40.00 for a credit report. Instead, they wanted to try and get a  free one, which would take time. 

It was like trying to get blood out of a stone, but the two of them eventually managed to come up with some reasonably-recent pay stubs, one tax return for Giselle, and copies of their licenses and social security cards.  I put everything in an envelope and sent it off to the #mortgage company.  In my cover letter, I explained that additional papers would be following under separate cover and expressed the hope that the mortgage company could get started on what I had sent them so far.