love in the air for our single Sammy?
Bill FitzSimmons: Has anyone seen my Velcro pants? I can’t remember the last place I ripped them off.
18
Sunday, December 22
* * *
Ryan rolled out the kinks in his shoulders and slid the chair back from the kitchen table to survey the progress. It was late morning. His eyes were bleary. His ass was sore from sitting on a goddamn horse the day before.
In between fantasies of what would have happened had he taken Dr. Sammy Ames up on her offer, he’d eaten half of a vegetable korma casserole he’d found in Carson’s freezer for breakfast and methodically picked his way through nearly every single shoebox, ruthlessly organizing, scanning, and tallying as he went.
His weapons of choice were a laptop with spreadsheets, highlighters—yellow for important, red for essential—a three-hole punch, and a now-empty pot of coffee.
Great-Uncle Carson had saved every grocery store receipt from 1983. He’d also used his tractor loan statements to write out shopping lists.
Organizing as he went, Ryan banded the receipts together and put them back in the shoebox now labeled Potentially Sentimental Paperwork. Property tax paperwork went into one binder. Farm equipment statements and manuals went into another. There were seven years of recent tax filings rolled up and secured with blue rubber bands. He’d found nothing of interest in the taxes. No mention of mortgage interest. No late fees or back taxes due.
He’d moved on to the paper statements from Blue Moon Bank. Opening each one, scanning it with an app on his phone and uploading them to the cloud before stashing the originals in yet another binder. He raised his eyebrows at the current account balances. He’d assumed that his elderly great-uncle living in a shabby farmhouse eating casseroles supplied by his neighbors was living Social Security check to Social Security check.
However, the six figures in CDs and $50,000 in savings told a different story.
Something wasn’t adding up.
It didn’t make sense that the man had saved coupons for dish detergent for the better part of two decades but hadn’t managed to hang on to loan documents or any of the ensuing late notices. Of course, he’d recently claimed to be flying through an air tunnel on his way to a fetlock surgery so it was possible, Ryan mused.
If his uncle wasn’t of sound mind, there might be a valid argument for buying more time for the balloon payment or having the lender held up to a review.
On an impulse, he picked up his phone and dialed his mother. While it rang, he popped the lid off another shoebox. Inside was a treasure trove of old photos.
“Ryan!” she said. “You made me think it was Tuesday.”
Lisa Sosa kept a strict schedule of weekly phone calls. Ryan and his sister Tina were Tuesdays.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m face-deep in Uncle Carson’s paperwork. How sharp would you say he is?”
“Well, we only talk once a week on Sundays,” his mom began. “But honestly, Ryan, the man is more with it than I am.”
That was saying a lot. Lisa Sosa’s walk-in closet was organized by season, color, and last time worn.
He picked up a black-and-white photo with crimped edging. Uncle Carson and Aunt Midge stood on the steps of a courthouse. Carson had a flower tucked into the front pocket of his overalls. Midge’s dress flared out over a petticoat. She was clutching a small bouquet of daisies. They were beaming at each other like they couldn’t wait to start the adventure.
“I’m finding cash in his accounts, every piece of paper he’s touched in the last forty years, and nothing but a vague letter from the bank about an overdue balance on a loan and a foreclosure.”
“Do you want me to try to get him on the phone? Maybe he can clear some of this up,” Lisa offered.
“Couldn’t hurt. He hasn’t responded to any of the voicemails I left him. Maybe you’ll have better luck.” He picked up the next photo. A group shot from one of the Shufflebottom family reunions. Ryan was perched on his father’s shoulders. In the next, the cousins, all twenty of them, had formed a sloppy class picture-style pose on the grass.
There he was again, eight years old, hanging upside down by his knees from the jungle gym on the playground. His skinny arms dangled toward the ground. Where had his parents been? He was lucky he hadn’t fallen and landed on his head. That was a spinal injury waiting to happen.
To make himself feel better, Ryan turned