After My Husband Passed Away, I Sent His Mom $200 Every Month
There was a silence on the other end.
“The one on the south side? I got a friend in the security company that installed them. Why? Did something get stolen?”
“Yes, something like that. I think I dropped my wallet on the stairs. Is there any way you can get me the files from the camera on the stairs between the fourth and fifth floor for the last 3 months?”
“I’ll ask tomorrow and let you know.”
“Please, Dante, it’s very important.”
I hung up with my palms soaked in sweat. The arrow had already left the bow; I had just started my search for the truth.
The next afternoon I met Dante on the patio of a hidden coffee shop down a side street. He arrived on time and pulled a laptop out of his backpack.
“Kesha, what’s wrong with you? You’re so tense; you look bad.”
He looked at me with concern. I forced a smile.
“How’s it going? Did you get anything?”
Dante nodded.
“You got lucky. The system saves everything to the cloud; my friend passed me the files. What day do you say you lost the wallet?”
“Put on the fifth or sixth day of every month between 1 and 3 in the morning.”
Dante typed in silence.
“Here it is. Day six of last month. Look at this.”
He turned the screen toward me. The image was grainy black and white.
The camera focused from the fourth floor landing up toward the fifth. The hallway was deserted.
The clock marked 1:45 a.m. and 20 seconds. A shadow appeared coming up the stairs.
I felt my heart stop. The man was wearing a baggy jacket and a cap pulled down that hid half his face; he was wearing a mask.
“Stop. Put it in slow motion.”
My voice sounded strange. Dante pressed a key.
The man climbed the steps—first the right foot, then he dragged the left with a slight limp. His left shoulder dipped a little when he put weight on that leg.
That walk. I covered my mouth to suppress a sob.
It was unmistakable: it was Marcus. I stared at the screen.
The man arrived at door 504. He didn’t knock; he put his hand in his pocket, took out a ring of keys, chose one with skill, and inserted it into the lock.
Click. The door opened; he slid inside and closed it very carefully.
“Do you recognize someone?”
asked Dante with caution.
“Put on the previous month.”
Dante obeyed. The sixth day of the previous month at the same time, the same person, the same stealth, and the same ease opening the door.
I watched the three videos of the last three months in a row. The pattern didn’t change.
The night after I handed over the money, he appeared. Suddenly I felt nausea.
Who had I been paying for 5 years? I was paying the very man who was hiding there, who had cruelly allowed his wife and son to suffer for a fake debt.
“Dante, copy all this onto a USB for me, and not a word to anyone please.”
Dante saw the seriousness in my face and nodded.
“Relax, I won’t say anything.”
I grabbed the USB, squeezing it in my hand. This was huge, bigger than if the sky fell.
I got up and ran out of the shop. Marcus was alive and he together with his parents had staged this farce to exploit me to the bone.
When I got home I locked my bedroom door and let myself fall to the floor. The laptop played the video over and over again.
I remembered the jacket he was wearing; it was one I myself had given him before he went to North Dakota. Marcus wasn’t dead.
Why fake his own death? Why use the excuse of a debt to force me to pay?
I remembered the day we received the terrible news. My in-laws wept inconsolably but right after the funeral service they brought up the supposed debt.
“Daughter, Marcus left for this family. Now that he isn’t here we are old and have no income. The $12,000 we gave him is lost; let’s see how we fix this.”
They appealed to my compassion and my sense of responsibility. They knew I would never abandon my husband’s parents and just like that they turned me into their ATM for 5 years.
The pain was transforming into anger, a rage that burned slowly. Almost $14,000 counting interest and gifts.
It was my sweat, my tears. I had saved every penny to support the ghost of my husband and his two accomplices.
I looked at the improvised shrine where Marcus’s photo kept smiling kindly. I wanted to smash it to pieces, but no: destroying things wouldn’t solve anything.
I had to stay calm, be smarter than them.
“You’ve played your role as a dead man very well, Marcus,”
I whispered.
“Well, now let me play the naive wife a little longer, but this time the director of the play will be me.”
I opened a drawer and took out a notebook. I started to trace a plan.
Step one: confirm the identity of the man in the video. Step two: investigate the real financial situation of Marcus and his family. Step three: find Marcus’s hideout.
Tomorrow the hunt would begin. I was going to hunt my own dead husband.
The Empty Grave in Indiana
The next morning I got up as always. I made breakfast for Malik, ironed his uniform, took him to school and then went straight to work.
On a sticky note I started recalculating the figures. Original debt: 12,000.
$200 a month times 60 months equals 12,000. Plus on holidays, birthdays, and for medicines, I always gave something extra.
The total amount I had given them in five years exceeded $14,000. Think how I could have changed my life and my son’s and instead I had thrown it into that bottomless pit on the fifth floor.
I sent a message to Dante.
“Investigate if there are strange movements in my father-in-law’s bank account. I suspect the money I give them isn’t used to live or pay any debt.”
Dante replied,
“That’s complicated because of data protection but I can try indirectly. Give me some time.”
I put the phone away. I needed to get closer.
An idea crossed my mind: if he came back home to collect the money I had just delivered, did he need it for something or did he live off it?
That afternoon I left work early and went by my in-laws’ building. I parked the car and sat on a bench pretending to rest.
“Well, look who it is. Kesha!”
A shrill voice called me. It was Mrs. Jenkins, the neighbor from the fourth floor.
“Hi, Mrs. Jenkins. I was passing by and came up to see how the grandparents were doing.”
Mrs. Jenkins sat next to me.
“You’re so good child, paying your husband’s debt for so long. By the way, are they okay lately? It’s just that every night I hear a tremendous ruckus upstairs.”
“Ruckus? What kind of ruckus?”
“Well, that at late hours of the night I hear strong footsteps on the ceiling like a young man, and sometimes I hear the toilet flush at 2 or 3 in the morning.”
My heart sped up.
“Must be my father-in-law. With the pain in his leg, he walks more clumsily,”
I improvised. Mrs. Jenkins made a face.
“Pain in the leg my foot. And another strange thing: those two are stingier than anyone, always complaining they were left without money because of what happened to your husband, but lately every night I see your mother-in-law go down with a huge black trash bag.”
“The other day out of curiosity I looked and saw pizza boxes and beer cans peeking out. What are two old folks doing eating those things?”
I stood there stone-faced. Pizza boxes, beer cans.
Those were Marcus’ favorite things.
“And you didn’t ask her?”
“Of course I asked her. She told me they were offerings she put out for the deceased. What an excuse! Who puts out so many offerings?”
Mrs. Jenkins’ story was a crucial piece of the puzzle. Marcus not only went to the house for money, but he probably lived there, spending the money I earned with the sweat of my brow.
Two days later I decided to act. I went to a department store and bought a high-end foot massager.
I chose 8:00 at night for my visit. I climbed the five floors carrying the bulky box.
In front of door 504, I sharpened my hearing. Inside the television and voices could be heard.
“Eat, son, eat while it’s hot. Your wife just brought the month’s money, so spend without fear.”
It was Viola’s voice.
“Relax, Ma, I got it all under control. When I finish getting paid off I’ll disappear for a while. That fool wife of mine believed it all; she hasn’t missed a single month.”
That voice. I froze.
A deep voice, slightly raspy. It was Marcus’s voice.
My blood boiled. I wanted to kick down the door and enter, but reason stopped me.
I knocked. Knock, knock, knock.
The voices ceased immediately.
“Who is it?”
asked my father-in-law from inside.
“Pop, it’s Kesha. I brought you a foot massage machine.”
