Chapter 3 - The First Silent Domino
By Tuesday afternoon, the rain had settled into the bricks of Elm Street, turning the red clay into a slick, dark purple.
Inside Apartment 404, Eleanor was polishing the brass handles of the sideboard in the dining room. She used a square of old flannel dipped in cream polish, moving her arm in broad, rhythmic circles that made her gold bangles clink against her wrist.
Karla sat at the kitchen island, a cold latte in a paper cup sitting beside her laptop. She had her phone pressed to her ear, her face twisted into a scowl that made her nose look sharper than usual.
"It's not going through, Mom," Karla said, slamming her phone face-down onto the quartz counter. "The app says 'Transaction Declined by Originating Financial Institution.' I called the customer service line, and they said the recurring draft was canceled by the account owner on Sunday night."
Eleanor didn't stop polishing. "Call her then. Tell her she typed the wrong routing number when she did her weekly transfer."
"I called her five times," Karla spat. "It goes straight to voicemail. No tone, no ring—just 'The party you are calling is unavailable.' She blocked my number."
"She's being dramatic," Eleanor said, turning the flannel square over to use the clean side. "She’s sitting in some dirty motel room right now, looking at her credit card balance and realizing that baby milk costs four dollars a carton. Give her until Thursday. When she realizes she can't pay her phone bill, she'll come back with her head down."
Arthur came out of the back bedroom, his grey trousers held up by suspenders that had lost their elasticity. He was carrying his medicine organizer—a grey plastic box with seven compartments marked for morning and evening.
"Eleanor," he said, his voice raspy from fifty years of unfiltered cigarettes. "The prescription for the diltiazem isn't at the pharmacy."
"What do you mean it isn't there?" Eleanor asked, her hand finally pausing on the brass handle. "I told you to pick it up yesterday."
"The girl at the counter said the auto-refill was canceled," Arthur said, holding the empty plastic box out like a dry leaf. "She said the card on file was declined. The three-month supply is four hundred and twenty dollars out of pocket without the insurance co-pay."
"Well, use your card," Eleanor said irritably.
"My card is at the limit from the radiator repair on the Buick," Arthur muttered. He sat down at the head of the dining table, where his newspaper lay unopened. "Where is Laura? She usually picks it up on her way back from the editor's office on Mondays."
"Laura is playing the martyr," Karla said from the kitchen, her fingers clicking furiously against her keyboard. "She thinks because she left her old clothes in the second bedroom, we're going to call her and beg her to come clean the kitchen. She took her little trunk and went to stay with some poor friend from her college days."
A loud, sharp knock echoed through the hallway.
It wasn't the soft, timid double-tap that Laura used when her hands were full of grocery bags. It was a heavy, official three-beat thud that made the glass panels in the sideboard vibrate.
Arthur frowned. "Who is that? Is the super here about the leak in forty-two?"
"Go check," Eleanor said, wiping her fingers on her apron. "And tell him if he doesn't clean the stairs properly this week, I'm withholding the maintenance fee again."
Arthur walked to the door, slid the brass chain off the latch, and pulled the heavy door inward.
A young man in a dark blue windbreaker stood in the hall. He had a yellow leatherette folder tucked under his arm and a small black tablet in his left hand.
"Arthur Vance?" the young man asked.
"Yes," Arthur said, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. "If you're selling the cable upgrade, we're not interested. My daughter handles the account."
"I'm not selling cable, Mr. Vance," the man said smoothly. He reached into his folder, pulled out a thick document bound with a grey paper backing, and handed it across the threshold. "This is a Notice of Intent to Evict and Summons for Unlawful Detainer, served on behalf of the property owner of record, Laura Vance."
Arthur didn't take the paper. He looked at it as if it were a wet rag someone had dropped on his porch.
"What are you talking about?" Arthur sneered. "I've lived here for twenty-six years. I own this apartment."
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The process server didn't argue. He laid the thick document gently on the small mail shelf beside the door frame, tapped the screen of his tablet twice with his thumb, and turned toward the stairs.
"Service completed at twelve-fourteen PM," the server said into his collar microphone. "Have a good afternoon, sir."
