The telephone on my kitchen wall rang exactly three minutes before my toast popped up.
I lifted the heavy receiver and heard the rapid, familiar breathing of my cousin Raymond.
“Nancy, sweetie, I was just thinking about you,” Raymond said, his voice coming through the plastic speaker with its usual hurried bounce. “I was looking over some old family files last night, and I realized your landlord, Mr. Davis, hasn’t updated your lease agreement since the winter before last.”
I held the phone to my ear while I stirred a spoonful of white sugar into my mug of tea.
“My lease is a standard annual agreement, Raymond,” I said, keeping my tone measured and precise. “It does not require weekly review.”
“Of course, of course, but you know how these local landlords are once a tenant gets to a certain stage,” he said, and I could hear the faint, sliding sound of him adjusting his silk tie through the line. “They look at the pension numbers, they look at the rising property values, and they start finding excuses. I just want to make sure your bank accounts are properly structured to show you have the reserve funds if he decides to raise the rent. Which bank did you say holds your savings account now?”
My grocery bill the previous afternoon had come to sixty-two dollars, leaving my checking account thinner than I cared to admit.
“My financial arrangements are perfectly adequate,” I said.
“I only want to help you secure the place, sweetie,” Raymond said, his speech quickening. “A single woman of seventy-three shouldn’t have to carry these details alone. If you just send me a copy of the current lease and your latest bank statement, I can have my accountant look them over by the fifteenth of October.”
The fifteenth was only twelve days away.
“I will consider your offer, Raymond,” I said.
“Don’t wait too long, Nancy,” he said. “People lose their homes over smaller oversights than this.”
I hung up the receiver without promising him anything, but the air in my small kitchen felt suddenly small and cold.
