Chapter 19 - The Eviction of Ghosts
The sleet in Richmond, Virginia, fell in gray, dirty sheets that turned the gutters of Broad Street into freezing slurry.
Vivian Ross dragged an overstuffed floral suitcase through the doorway of an antique pawn shop, her breath coming in wheezing gasps.
The landlord of her tiny basement rental had changed the deadbolt that morning after her second personal check bounced.
She was seventy-one years old, her bank accounts had been frozen by federal forfeiture liens, and her high-society friends had blocked her telephone number.
Inside the pawn shop, the air was warm but smelled of dust, motor oil, and desperate transactions.
A young clerk with heavily tattooed forearms glanced up from behind a counter cluttered with power tools and broken gold jewelry.
"Help you, lady?" the clerk asked without looking away from his computer monitor.
Vivian drew herself up, attempting to summon the imperious dignity she had wielded for forty years in Portsmouth.
"Young man, I have several extremely valuable, commemorative athletic heirlooms for immediate appraisal," Vivian announced, her voice trembling slightly.
She unzipped the suitcase, reached into the depths of a moth-eaten woolen blanket, and pulled out a cardboard shoebox.
With trembling, manicured fingers that were now dirty and cracked from the cold, she laid out Derek's childhood prizes on the counter.
A plastic runner frozen in mid-stride atop a faux-marble base.
A tarnished silver-plated cup from an eighth-grade county tournament.
Three faded blue satin ribbons stamped with gold foil letters that had begun to flake into dust.
"These represent thirty years of elite athletic championships in Hampton Roads," Vivian said, leaning over the counter.
"My son was an executive visionary whose achievements were celebrated by the entire community."
"I require five thousand dollars to secure temporary lodging while my family's legal counsel resolves an administrative error."
The clerk stared at the plastic runner, picked it up, and turned it over in his hand.
He tapped the hollow gold-painted figurine against the glass counter with a dull, hollow plastic click.
"Lady, is this a joke?" the clerk asked, tossing the trophy back into the shoebox like a piece of worthless litter.
"These are injection-molded plastic from a catalog in New Jersey."
"They cost about two bucks brand new, and they’re worth zero dollars at a pawn counter."
Vivian’s face drained of what little color remained in her cheeks.
"How dare you!" she screamed, her voice cracking into a high, shrill shriek that made the other customers turn and stare.
"That trophy sat on my kitchen counter under a custom halogen spotlight for fifteen years!"
"My late husband and I sacrificed our firstborn daughter’s life to ensure Derek had the resources to win these awards!"
"You cannot tell me they are worthless!"
The clerk shook his head with cold pity, pointing a thumb toward an old cathode-ray television mounted above the cash register.
"Lady, I don't care what you sacrificed," the clerk said flatly. "If you want real value, look up there."
Vivian slowly turned her head, following the clerk’s pointing finger toward the television screen.
The broadcast was a live CNN special report originating from the Russell Senate Office Building in Washington D.C.
Beneath the glaring studio lights, a large, razor-sharp photograph filled the national broadcast.
It was me.
I was standing in the full white dress uniform of an admiral, surrounded by senior senators, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and international diplomats.
The news ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen read:
SENATE UNANIMOUSLY CONFIRMS VICE ADMIRAL KATHERINE ROSS TO FOUR-STAR RANK AS COMMANDER, U.S. FLEET FORCES COMMAND.
The news anchor's voice echoed through the quiet pawn shop:
"Admiral Katherine Ross, who began her career over thirty years ago after enlisting through the Naval Academy against enormous domestic adversity, today becomes one of the highest-ranking military officers in American history."
"Her command will oversee all naval operations across the western hemisphere."
Vivian stared at the screen, her knees buckling beneath her damp coat.
She reached out to grab the edge of the counter, but her fingers slipped, knocking Derek’s plastic trophies to the linoleum floor.
May you like
The gold-painted runner snapped off at the ankles, rolling into the dirty slush near the pawn shop door.
The woman who had called me a desk clerk sank onto her knees in the dirt, staring at the television as if the ghost of her entire wasted life had returned to look her in the eye.
