“It is a civil lawsuit,” I said, my thumb pressing against the heavy wire staple in the corner. “They are naming me as a co-defendant.”
“Why you?” Martha asked, looking at the street as the white sedan drove away. “You do not owe anyone for gravel.”
“Because of the wedding last month,” I said. “Because I signed the papers.”
Martha checked her wristwatch, her brow furrowing. “We need to call Gary before he leaves for court.”
We left the rakes on the lawn and went inside to the kitchen phone.
The lawyer’s office in the Oak Creek professional park was quiet when we arrived at two in the afternoon. The carpet in the waiting room had been worn down to the grey backing near the water cooler.
Gary took off his glasses and cleaned them with the wide end of his tie, pausing to inspect the lens before putting them back on.
“The wedding was thirty days ago,” Gary said, speaking slowly and pausing between his words for emphasis. “In the eyes of Ohio probate and debtor law, that makes you one household.”
“But those debts belong to his construction company,” I said, touching the cold edge of his mahogany desk. “My father built my brick ranch forty years ago, and my name is the only one on the deed.”
“Ben is the sole partner in Cole Construction,” Gary said. “Your marriage certificate means his creditors can argue your personal assets are now part of his net worth.”
“They want forty-eight thousand dollars,” I said.
“They want sixty-two thousand when you add the late penalties and court costs,” Gary said, looking down at his yellow pad. “And that is just the first creditor.”
“Are there more?” I asked, my fingers tightening on my purse.
Gary tapped his gold pen against his clipboard. “Two suppliers in Columbus filed notices of intent last week. They have been watching his personal accounts, waiting for him to marry or acquire property.”
“Can they take my house?” I asked.
“They can place a lien on it by the end of the week,” Gary said. “If the lien sits there, they can force a foreclosure sale to satisfy the debt.”
“I have eighty-five thousand dollars from my father’s estate coming on November fifteenth,” I said, my voice dropping. “Can they touch that too?”
“If those funds land in any account with Ben’s name on it, they will be gone in twenty-four hours,” Gary said.
“But the money is still in probate,” I said.
“We have exactly nine days before the automatic release,” Gary said. “If we do not sever the joint filing, the bank will transfer it.”
“I have to see him,” I said.
“Do not go alone,” Gary said.
“I have to look him in the eyes one more time,” I said.
The hospital smelled of institutional floor wax and overcooked green beans when I walked back into Room 312 at six o’clock. Ben was sitting up in bed, eating a bowl of orange gelatin with a plastic spoon.
“Dearest,” he said, setting the spoon down. “You missed the afternoon rounds. Dr. Paulson said my oxygen levels are still fluctuating.”
“Stop it, Ben,” I said, closing the heavy wooden door behind me.
“Stop what?” he asked, his hand moving to rub his left temple.
