Chapter 4: The Clerk's Window
The next morning my father knocked on my door at seven thirty. I had slept in my mother's old oversized t-shirt instead of my blue sweater, which was still damp on the bathroom hook. The handbag was on my desk chair, unzipped, the envelope resting on top like it was waiting.
He was already dressed, navy pants and a light blue shirt, tie loosened, holding two mugs. His eyes were rimmed red.
"You still want to do this?" he asked.
I nodded. My throat was dry. Outside the window the street was quiet, the same daylight that had filled the living room yesterday now pale and thin through the blinds.
We drove to the county clerk's office on Main, the brick building next to the library where I shelved books after school. The parking lot was half empty. Inside it smelled like old paper and floor cleaner. A woman behind the counter with gray hair pulled back and reading glasses on a chain looked up when my father set the envelope down.
"We're looking for the recorded deed for 14 Maple Court," he said. His voice was even, the one he used for work calls. "This is a copy we found. We need to know what's on file."
She took the copy carefully. "Give me a few minutes, hon."
I stood beside my father with my hands jammed in the pockets of my jeans. My cheek still felt tender if I pressed it, but the red mark had faded to a faint pink. I kept touching it anyway, then stopping myself.
The woman returned with a printed record and a manila folder. She spread the paper on the counter. "This is the last recorded deed," she said, tapping a line with a chipped nail. "See here. Your mother, Laura Bennett, and your father as joint tenants with right of survivorship. No transfer recorded after her death. That means it passed to the surviving joint owner automatically, which would be you, Mr. Bennett. But." She paused, looking at me. "There's no quitclaim, no will probate on file that changes title. And this copy you have where your mother added a transfer on death to her daughter, that was drafted but never recorded. It's not effective until it's filed with us."
My father frowned. "So legally the house is still in my name alone?"
"As far as the county is concerned, yes," she said. "The letter is lovely, but a letter doesn't convey real estate. If you wanted your daughter to have a legal interest, you'd need to record a new deed."
I felt my stomach tighten. The paper in my hand had felt so solid last night on the island. Now it was just paper.
"Does that mean Kelly..." I started, and stopped.
The woman glanced between us. "A spouse doesn't automatically go on title unless you add them. But tenancy rights are different from ownership. If someone lives there, you can't just lock them out without proper notice. Same goes for a minor child. You'd need a court order to remove anyone."
My father thanked her and asked for a copy of the official record. She stamped it and slid it across. Outside in the truck, he didn't start the engine right away. He held both papers side by side on the steering wheel.
"Maya, your mom and I talked about this, but we never filed it," he said quietly. "I thought we had time. I didn't realize she left it in your bag for you to find. I'm sorry."
I looked at the stone fireplace I could picture through our front windows, the house that had been my mom's parents' before it was ours. "So it doesn't protect me?"
"It tells me what she wanted," he said. "And it tells a judge what she wanted, if it ever came to that. But it doesn't stop anyone from saying the things Kelly said yesterday."
We sat there while the heater blew. Finally he folded the papers and put them back in the envelope. "We need someone who knew your mom's plans better than the clerk. Someone who was there when she wrote this."
I knew who he meant before he said it. My aunt Diane, my mom's sister, who lived over in Cedarville and hadn't been to the house since the funeral.
May you like
"Will you call her?" I asked.
He nodded, his hand over mine on the console. "We'll call her together when we get home."
