The Squirrel Nest

“Don’t just stand there. Up you go. It’s yours!”

Sherrie stood at the wooden steps in front of her new house, both excited and fearful of the next chapter in her life. “I’m afraid it’ll come crashing down. It’s too surreal.”

“No … it’s fo-real. Now go!” her sister said with a gentle shove.

Sherrie stumbled up and onto the first step, then screamed with joy and bounced lightly. “It didn’t cave in!”

“Not yet, anyway. Come on. Contractors are on the way.”

“Shay,” Sherrie said and eyed the house, pausing at a broken window in the attic. “This old place is gonna be my castle. I feel it.”

“Not if you stand there all day.”

The next few weeks became a surge of structured chaos with contractors in and out at all hours. Sherrie focused on the living room first, which gave her a place to live while the rest of the house was ripped to shreds and thrown back pretty. Pipes were laid, windows replaced, and closets rebuilt. The floors would be last, and what a challenge they would be. The old planks wobbled and needed to be secured, sanded, and treated. She had the perfect stain picked out and could hardly wait to see the results. But she did wait. There were still too many boots with tools trekking in and out. The floors would be last. This was non negotiable.

The sisters set up shop in the kitchen, where a contractor placed a sheet of plywood over sawhorses for a makeshift worktable. There would be an island there soon, but for now it was a command center for invoices and contracts, product samples and paint charts. Sherrie sat with her face buried inside her little black book. It was her bible for checks and balances.

One sign of progress was the steady decrease in critters running amuck in her new home, which clearly used to be a squirrel nest. During the first week a squirrel had leapt from the kitchen counter more than once, looking to share the sesame noodles they’d ordered for lunch. Damn near scared the crap out of Shay. Sherrie laughed, knowing they’d soon be gone. And she was right for the most part. At least they’d stopped jumping on the table.

Sherrie went to the kitchen sink and slid a large cutting board aside. Underneath, deep in the white porcelain basin, was an envelope wrapped in one of her mother’s old dresses. She took the bundle to the table.

“I remember that dress,” Shay told her. “How did you end up with it?”

“I saved everything when she died. Take a look sometime, grab what you want.”

Shay dropped her chin.

“Hey, we’ve been over this. There was nothing anyone could do. Besides, this place will be the new family home. Thanksgiving … Birthdays … ”

“Sis … is it safe to keep that much cash around? I mean … there’s a lot of people in here.”

“Never leaves my side, Shay Shay. I even sleep with it.”

Shay nodded at the money. “You worked really hard for that.”

“It’s dwindling, but I think we’re on track.” After a quick count, Sherrie punched some digits on her phone. ‘Thirty grand spent, twenty thousand left. Enough for floors and the bank.”

Shay rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s it for me, kiddo. Gotta get the kids home and whip up some dinner. You all right in here alone?”

“I’ve been sleeping here for three and a half weeks, and I’ll be sleeping here till I die. I think I’m all right.”

“Nite, Sis,” Shay said and kissed Sherrie’s forehead. “I’m proud of you.”

A week later Sherri woke to the beeping of a work truck in reverse. She sprung from her air mattress and peeked out the window. Her sweats were lying on a chair so she slid into them and tied her hair back. She took her cash to the sink and covered it, then got coffee going for the crew.

This day was different; the workers were gathering tools and removing drop cloths, schlepping in and out at a furious pace. The General Contractor and Sherrie finished the walk though around 3:00 PM, at which time Sherrie went in the kitchen to grab a progress payment. She slid the cutting board aside and saw the dress in disarray. Her heart froze. She crept her hand in the sink and lifted the dress, only to find her cash was gone.

A blood-curdling scream brought the GC into the kitchen, and there he found Sherrie halfway under the sink, frantically digging. She crawled out and said, “I thought you did the plumbing!! What the hell? There are no pipes under this sink!”

The GC rushed over and shined his light under the cabinet. “You had me worried. It’s just the trap. That’ll take twenty minutes.”

“Squirrels!” Sherrie yelled and stood, then flung every cabinet door open and slammed it shut again.

“Relax. I’ll fix it before we do the floors,” the GC told her.

Sherrie flung the dress open in front of the GC. It had a hole the size of a basketball just below the left hip. There were other little holes with jagged edges here and there. She took demonic steps toward the GC and said, “Do these look like teeth marks to you?” She pointed at the sink. “Does that sink have a hole in it?” She crumpled the dress and threw it in the GC’s face. “A squirrel came up through the sink and got my money!”

“Just go to the bank. I’ll get it tomorrow when I finish up.”

“Get out! she screamed. “Get out! GET OUT!!!”

“Right on cue,” he said. “You broads always turn coo-coo about this time. He shook his head. “See you tomorrow. 10:00 AM.”

Sherrie and Shay spent the next three days searching the house, the yard, the closets, and every place in-between. Soon the bank was calling, as were the contractors. Legal letters arrived all to quickly and within a few weeks everything she’d worked for was moving toward foreclosure.

One month later Sherrie sat in the passenger seat of Shay’s car, watching the Marshall tape a sign on the house and padlock the door. Her beautiful, brown skin pale, her eyes as lifeless as her heart. Shay got behind the wheel and drove away.

***

“Okay, Mr. Egan. Last house on the list,” the realtor said as she parked on the street.

“Not too bad,” he said. “I’d like to go in, take a look.”

“Why? Your father just tears ‘em down. The land is worth more than this old thing.”

He opened the car door and said, “I’ll be quick.”

Once inside, the realtor raised her eyebrows. “Not as shabby as I thought. Someone lost their ass trying to fix ‘er up.” She faced Mr. Eagan. “Lucky for you.”

Mr. Egan took and interest in the home and said, “Mind if I look around? Alone?”

This wasn’t his first rodeo and he knew to focus on radiators and pipes, which, if bad, would mean foundation problems. In the back room he stepped near a radiator and it swayed. He slid a key between the rotten planks behind it, then lifted the skirting board.

Underneath was a squirrel’s nest filled with pencils and wire nuts. A little black book sat to the side and he reached for it, unaware it was banded to an envelope. “Oh yeah! Come to Papa,” he said when he found cash in the envelope.

“Find something you like?” the realtor hollered from another room.

He stuffed the cash in his jacket and opened the book. “Nah. Text. Deal closed across town.”

The black book was filled with names and numbers and dollar figures: Amounts paid and balances due. On the inside cover was the name, Sherrie Harris, with her address and phone number. He heard the realtor coming down the hall so he slid the book in his back pocket.

“Well,” she entered the room, “the bank just wants what they lost on this old place. Just a few thousand I hear. Especially for you. I’m sure they’ll take whatever your father offers.” She hugged her binder. “Of course my fee is market rate.”

“I thought the bank paid your fee?”

She threw her head back laughing.

Mr. Egan spent the next few hours making calls, and he soon got the lowdown on Sherrie Harris and realized what had happened. He tried to imagine losing that much money. His dad would disown him, probably sue his own kid. But Dad didn’t know he’d found twenty thousand dollars and he could do with it what he pleased. What an opportunity. He could get his ex-wife off his back and close this deal without his condescending father debasing him in front of others.

Perfect.

His next call went to the bank.

By law, Sherrie got wind of Mr. Egan’s call, which gave her a chance to counter offer.

***

The bank manager arrived at 9:00 AM to find Sherrie Harris and Mr. Egan waiting outside his building. Sherrie turned to Mr. Egan. “Please don’t do this. You can buy any house you want.”

“Yup, and I want this one.”

Seated at the bank manager’s desk, Mr. Egan said, “The title goes in my ex-wife’s name. Free and clear. My father will never get his slimy hands on it.”

“First,” the manager said, “Ms. Harris? Have you a counteroffer?”

“Since I’m back in the running,” Sherrie answered, “I’m asking for thirty days—”

“Look,” Mr. Egan interrupted. “She has no money. You’ve worked with my father for thirty years, and if you want to keep handling his money, you’ll push this paperwork through. Right now.”

Mr. Egan Senior blasted into the office. He faced his son. “Your secretary told me where you were. Had to see it with my own eyes. You’re buying that wretched woman a house with my money. How many others? Just how long have you been stealing from me?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“There will be no deals here today,” Dad told the bank manager. “Please excuse my imbecile son. God knows I’ve tried.” He looked Sherrie up and down. “Accessory, or call girl?”

“Look here, old man,” Sherrie said, and was about to say more, but was cut off by Mr. Egan, who faced the bank manager and said, “This deal goes through.” He pulled out a wad of cash and plopped it on the desk.

His dad lunged for the cash when the bank manager scooped it up—all too naturally.

“Is this your money, or your father’s?” he asked Mr. Egan.

“It’s mine!”

His father faced him. “Be very careful with your next move. I’ll do more than crush you.” He then eyed Sherrie. “And your latest choice in—”

“Enough!” his son hollered.

“Hello, creepy people. Not invisible here.” Sherrie said.

The manager rubbed his brow. “Mr. Egan Senior … Ms. Harris … the bank has no choice but to accept Mr. Egan Junior’s offer.” He faced Mr. Egan. “But I need your ex-wife’s signature by end of day. I suggest—”

“No problem. She’ll sign ‘em now. Her name is Sherrie Harris.”

Sherrie faced Mr. Egan with a seriously confused look.

Mr. Egan handed Sherrie her little black book.

“Where … ” Sherrie faced him, no doubt stunned. “You were gonna …”

“Of course I was. I was trained to. But it’s time I did something right.” He then faced his father. “Or I’ll end up like him. Broken.”

The bank manager shot Mr. Egan a glare. Yeah, pissed. This deal would definitely poison a healthy business relationship.

Mr. Egan eyed everyone in the room and said, “Not … a … word.”

Dad stormed out.

“Okay, Ms. Harris,” the manager said and clicked his ink pen. “Just sign here … and the house is yours.”