Robert’s voice came through the speaker while Jessica stared at the deed in my hand.
“Mom?” he said.
“Why are you calling this early?”
I kept my eyes on his wife.
“I’m standing in my garage,” I said.
“Your wife has put my clothes, my wedding photograph, and half my personal belongings into garbage bags.
Yesterday she told me there was no room for me in my own house.
I spent the night in a hotel.”
There was a pause.
Jessica recovered first.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she snapped toward the phone.
“Robert, don’t let her make this dramatic.
We told her the house was full.
She chose to leave.”
I said nothing.
Silence can be useful when someone is determined to bury themselves with their own words.
Robert exhaled heavily.
“Jessica, what is she talking about?”
“What do you think I’m talking about? You said we could use the Malibu house whenever we wanted.”
“I said you could ask Mom about using it.”
Jessica’s face changed.
Only slightly, but I saw it.
“That is not what you said.”
“It is exactly what I said.”
The room seemed to shrink around us.
Jessica looked at me, then back toward the phone as if Robert could somehow see her expression.
“We’re already here,” she said.
“Everyone came.
Mom, Veronica, the boys.
What was I supposed to do when Eleanor suddenly showed up?”
“Her house,” Robert said.
“You were supposed to let her into her house.”
I had expected anger from him, perhaps embarrassment, perhaps even the cowardly middle ground people choose when they are afraid of conflict inside their marriage.
I had not expected those words.
Jessica’s mouth opened.
Then closed.
Behind us, footsteps approached.
Veronica stopped at the garage entrance.
Jessica’s mother appeared behind her, wrapped in a robe.
They had clearly been listening.
I lifted the deed.
“Robert, I want one thing made absolutely clear.
Did you ever tell Jessica that you owned this house?”
“No.”
“Did I ever transfer any ownership interest to you?”
“No.”
“Did I ever give you permission to move my possessions into garbage bags?”
“Of course not.”
Jessica threw up both hands.
“This is ridiculous.
You’re interrogating your own son because of a weekend misunderstanding.”
I looked at the black bags beside my feet.
“My wedding photograph is in a garbage bag.”
Nobody answered.
I picked it up carefully.
The frame had a fresh chip in one corner.
