Chapter 6 - The Eviction of Marietta
The morning of the eviction was hot, the Georgia sun rising over the pines of Marietta with a wet, heavy glare that made the air smell of asphalt and pine sap.
I didn't go to the house myself. I had hired a professional relocation service to handle my mother’s personal belongings, and a private security detail to oversee the transition. But I sat in my F-150 across the street, parked under the shade of a massive oak tree, watching the front entrance through my windshield.
At 9:00 AM, the deputy sheriff’s cruiser pulled into the circular driveway.
Two deputies stepped out, dressed in their neat brown uniforms, carrying the formal eviction papers on a clipboard. They walked up the bluestone path, their boots crunching on the gravel, and knocked on the grand double doors of the house.
A minute later, the door opened.
My mother stood on the threshold, wearing a wrinkled silk bathrobe, her hair unbrushed, her face looking ten years older under the bright morning sun. She looked confused, then terrified, as the deputy handed her the papers and pointed to the black moving truck that had just pulled up to the curb.
Then, my father appeared behind her.
Even from fifty yards away, I could see the red, furious flush of his face. He began screaming at the deputies, his hands waving in the air, his chest puffing out in that old, patronizing authority. He was waving his phone, probably trying to call Thomas Shelby, or his high-priced corporate lawyers, or anyone who could protect him from the reality of the paper in his hand.
But the deputies didn't move. They stood their ground, their posture tall, unyielding, and entirely indifferent to the anger of Richard Vance. One of them pointed to his watch, then to the driveway.
They had two hours to pack their personal belongings.
I watched as the movers began loading my mother’s designer furniture, her luxury luggage, and her expensive art pieces into the back of the truck. Chase came out of the house, carrying his designer clothing bags over his shoulder, his head bowed, his posture completely shattered. He looked like a boy who had finally realized that the gold on his sneakers didn't make him heavy enough to withstand the wind.
My father sat on the stone steps of the porch, his head in his hands, his expensive suit wrinkled, looking like a man who had spent twenty-five years pretending to be a builder, only to find out that the house he was sitting in was owned by the son he had called a loser.
My phone vibrated on the console of my truck.
It was a text from my mother.
Mom (9:45 AM): Julian, please. The sheriff is here. They’re taking our things. They’re saying we have to leave the house. Julian, where are we supposed to go? We don't have any money. Your father has checked into a motel on Cobb Parkway. It’s dirty, Julian. It smells of cigarettes. Please, tell them to stop. I’m your mother.
I read the text. I felt a small, dull ache in my chest—the faint, residual ghost of the boy who had wanted his mother’s warmth at the dinner table.
But then, I looked at the glass keys of Chase’s sports car, which were sitting in my cup holder. I had bought them back from the repo company this morning, using eighty dollars of the trust's administrative funds.
I picked up the keys. They were cold, heavy, and entirely useless.
I typed my reply.
Julian (9:48 AM): The relocation service has been instructed to deliver your personal belongings to a two-bedroom apartment in Sandy Springs. I have pre-paid the first three months of the lease from the trust's transitional account. After that, the rent is $900 a month. You can ask Chase to pay it. I hear he’s an adult now.
I sent the message.
May you like
I started the engine of my truck. The F-150 hummed to life, the heater blowing a clean, cool draft of air against my face. I pulled out of the shade, turned the corner, and drove back toward the highway, leaving the Marietta estate behind me like an old skin I’d finally shed.
The sun was high now, the road clear, and my destination entirely my own.
