David stood on the porch in a dark wool coat, snow settling on his shoulders. Behind him stood two Westchester County sheriff’s deputies under the porch light. The American flag beside the door snapped sharply in the wind.
“What is this?” my father demanded.
David held up a thick manila folder.
My father started talking. I couldn’t hear all of it through the camera’s tiny microphone, but I heard enough. His lease, his rights, the people he knew. “Do you know who I am? I’ve been a member of Fenway Golf Club for thirty-one years. I know the county executive.”
David let him finish.
Then he opened the folder to a page with my father’s own signature on it.
My mother stepped into view behind Richard. Natalie came halfway down the stairs and stopped. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Mr. Barrett,” David said, “I represent the owner of this property, Hollis Lane Holdings LLC. The owner has asked me to remind you that you signed this lease, including the section on authorized occupants and guests, and the section on material breach.”
My father laughed once, short and sharp. “What breach?”
“Two people that the owner specifically authorized as permanent guests in this house were ordered to leave tonight. A woman and a four-year-old child, forced out into a snowstorm. And the owner has been informed that two additional people are moving in without the owner’s written permission.” David glanced up at the stairs, at Natalie and the suitcases. “Both of those are serious violations of your lease.”
“Then get the owner on the phone. I’ll straighten this out.”
David looked up at the security camera mounted above the front door.
“She’s watching,” he said.
On my laptop screen, I saw my father slowly look up at the camera.
His cigar stopped halfway to his mouth.
