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Authors: Neil Gordon
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Escrow,” letters from tenants. In time, she’d found herself spending a couple of hours each morning working on it, and at last came to feel that Stein’s
advice had been correct. Something could change: the house could be seized and, as a result of litigation, or a plea bargain, returned. No matter how unlikely that event, if it happened, she would
want to hold the federal government liable for every missing piece of dust. After a few days’ thought she wrote a short letter of apology to Bob Stein, and began inventorying the house in an
Excel spreadsheet on the PowerBook.
Equally urgent, she had quickly found, was the paperwork generated by Ocean View Farm with its fifteen rentals: outstanding bills, repairs, fees, taxes. All of this work had fallen to her: the
real estate agent who had handled Ronald Rosenthal’s work for the past twenty-five years had, this summer, declined to be any longer involved with it—but not until, Allison had noticed,
the commissions on the current summer’s rentals were calculated.
Most of the regular renters had understood without being told that they’d best look elsewhere for their next season’s summer rental. To her surprise, however, several tenants seemed
not to have heard of her father’s arrest and upcoming trial, or if they had, had not realized that it might affect their regular summer rentals, and had sent in their checks for the following
season as if nothing in the world were wrong.
And Allison, contemplating those checks, had been surprised by the thought that had come to her.
In today’s mail the Newmans, from Michigan, had sent in a deposit of $5,000 pending lease from their landlord. The check was made out to Rosenthal Equities. The Hugheses, with a Chicago
address, had enclosed a check for the same amount. The Petersons had decided to pass this year; they would be taking a less expensive, if less spectacular, house in Edgartown, but the Mitchels from
Los Angeles enclosed their fully executed lease with their first payment of $18,500, which, with their original deposit of $5,000, constituted half the payment on the full-season rental of one of
the most splendid ocean-side properties for rent on the island.
Nearly $30,000 in today’s mail alone. She placed the checks neatly in a pile next to the computer. So far, receivables on the 1995 rental season were at $180,000. Real estate, God. She
shook her head, momentarily unaware of the absurdity of her emotion. So that was why her father had gotten into land speculation so quickly.
She should, she knew, contact these people. Return their checks, explain that there were no longer any Ocean View rentals.
She should. For if she did not, she would cause them, and the federal government, an enormous amount of trouble when, next summer, these renters demanded their properties.
Which is why, today, she did what she had done for the past two weeks, each afternoon, with the rental checks that arrived in the mail.
From a Chemical Bank envelope, she took out a pile of canceled checks and leafed through them. Then she chose one and placed it before her, facedown, showing her father’s endorsement on
the back. Finished, she lined up all the rental checks, also facedown, and finally put a blank sheet of paper over them.
When all was ready, staring at her father’s signature, on this blank sheet she copied his scrawled name, perhaps twenty times, with the thick Mont Blanc marker he habitually used. Then she
raised her writing hand, removed the paper, and, working quickly and neatly, endorsed each check. This finished, she rested for a moment, studying her work. And finally, she filled out a deposit
slip, not to Rosenthal Equities from the big business ledger, but to her own account in New York from her little checkbook. Then she tore off the deposit slip, and stuffed everything into an
envelope for Chemical Bank.
Let the federal accountants sort that one out when next summer rolled around. Her father would
advice had been correct. Something could change: the house could be seized and, as a result of litigation, or a plea bargain, returned. No matter how unlikely that event, if it happened, she would
want to hold the federal government liable for every missing piece of dust. After a few days’ thought she wrote a short letter of apology to Bob Stein, and began inventorying the house in an
Excel spreadsheet on the PowerBook.
Equally urgent, she had quickly found, was the paperwork generated by Ocean View Farm with its fifteen rentals: outstanding bills, repairs, fees, taxes. All of this work had fallen to her: the
real estate agent who had handled Ronald Rosenthal’s work for the past twenty-five years had, this summer, declined to be any longer involved with it—but not until, Allison had noticed,
the commissions on the current summer’s rentals were calculated.
Most of the regular renters had understood without being told that they’d best look elsewhere for their next season’s summer rental. To her surprise, however, several tenants seemed
not to have heard of her father’s arrest and upcoming trial, or if they had, had not realized that it might affect their regular summer rentals, and had sent in their checks for the following
season as if nothing in the world were wrong.
And Allison, contemplating those checks, had been surprised by the thought that had come to her.
In today’s mail the Newmans, from Michigan, had sent in a deposit of $5,000 pending lease from their landlord. The check was made out to Rosenthal Equities. The Hugheses, with a Chicago
address, had enclosed a check for the same amount. The Petersons had decided to pass this year; they would be taking a less expensive, if less spectacular, house in Edgartown, but the Mitchels from
Los Angeles enclosed their fully executed lease with their first payment of $18,500, which, with their original deposit of $5,000, constituted half the payment on the full-season rental of one of
the most splendid ocean-side properties for rent on the island.
Nearly $30,000 in today’s mail alone. She placed the checks neatly in a pile next to the computer. So far, receivables on the 1995 rental season were at $180,000. Real estate, God. She
shook her head, momentarily unaware of the absurdity of her emotion. So that was why her father had gotten into land speculation so quickly.
She should, she knew, contact these people. Return their checks, explain that there were no longer any Ocean View rentals.
She should. For if she did not, she would cause them, and the federal government, an enormous amount of trouble when, next summer, these renters demanded their properties.
Which is why, today, she did what she had done for the past two weeks, each afternoon, with the rental checks that arrived in the mail.
From a Chemical Bank envelope, she took out a pile of canceled checks and leafed through them. Then she chose one and placed it before her, facedown, showing her father’s endorsement on
the back. Finished, she lined up all the rental checks, also facedown, and finally put a blank sheet of paper over them.
When all was ready, staring at her father’s signature, on this blank sheet she copied his scrawled name, perhaps twenty times, with the thick Mont Blanc marker he habitually used. Then she
raised her writing hand, removed the paper, and, working quickly and neatly, endorsed each check. This finished, she rested for a moment, studying her work. And finally, she filled out a deposit
slip, not to Rosenthal Equities from the big business ledger, but to her own account in New York from her little checkbook. Then she tore off the deposit slip, and stuffed everything into an
envelope for Chemical Bank.
Let the federal accountants sort that one out when next summer rolled around. Her father would
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