“I do pull my weight, Dad,” I said. “I have never missed a single month.”
“Jason says he is the one coordinating with the bank,” my father said, turning his back to me to open the wooden cupboard where the dry goods were kept. “He says they are barely staying ahead of the foreclosure warnings.”
“Jason told you we are in foreclosure?” I asked.
“He is the one putting his name on the line,” my father said, his voice dropping as he reached for a box of tea. “He says the household account is empty by the fifth of every month.”
“That is impossible,” I said.
My father did not answer. He closed the cupboard door with a soft click and stood there, staring at the wood.
The autumn air was cool enough to make me wish I had grabbed my sweater, but the screen door had already clicked shut behind me. Jason was leaning against the wooden railing of the back porch, the red ember of his cigarette glowing in the dark.
“We need to talk about the water bill, Jason,” I said, stepping onto the concrete patio.
He did not turn around, his eyes fixed on the dark shape of his Dodge Ram parked in the gravel driveway. “What about it?”
“Dad is worried about eighty-four dollars,” I said. “And Melissa is making it sound like you are funding the whole house out of your own pocket.”
“We are the ones living here full-time with the kids, Claire,” Jason said, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke toward the fence. “We see what comes in and what goes out of that joint account.”
“I live here too,” I said. “I have the back bedroom.”
“You have a roof over your head and you do not pay a dime of the property tax,” Jason said, tapping his cigarette against the wooden railing. “You just show up for dinner and expect Melissa to handle the rest.”
