Chapter 4 - The Country Club Eviction
By the end of their second week, the veneer of civilization in the Martinez household had completely collapsed.
The Highland Park house—a five-thousand-square-foot contemporary mansion with an infinity-edge pool and a four-car garage—felt like a mausoleum.
Marcus sat at the kitchen island at 9:30 PM on a Friday, his body aching in places he didn't know existed. His palms were covered in broken blisters from the wooden handle of the industrial mop. His lower back felt as if someone had driven an iron spike between his vertebrae. He smelled permanently of floor wax and sulfurous drain cleaner, no matter how many times he scrubbed himself in the shower.
Indigo sat across from him, her hair limp, her expensive manicure completely ruined—three nails were broken down to the quick, the polish chipped and jagged.
On the granite counter between them lay a pile of unopened envelopes with bright red lettering:
*OVERDUE NOTICE – SECOND ATTEMPT*
*HIGHLAND PARK COUNTRY CLUB – MEMBERSHIP DUES DELINQUENT*
*PORSCHE FINANCIAL SERVICES – LEASE TERMINATION WARNING*
*PRIVATE PRE-SCHOOL ACADEMY – TOMMY MARTINEZ TUITION BALANCE DUE*
“We have twelve hundred dollars left in the joint account,” Marcus whispered, his head resting in his hands.
“Call your mother,” Indigo said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual sharp energy.
Marcus jerked his head up. “What?”
“Call your mother,” she repeated, looking at him with bloodshot eyes. “Norma has that house in Berwyn. It’s fully paid off. Roberto had a life insurance policy, didn't he? She’s lived like a miser for forty years. She must have fifty, sixty thousand dollars tucked away in CDs or savings bonds. Ask her for a loan.”
Marcus felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead. “Are you out of your mind? After what happened at Tommy’s party? You had security throw her into the street! You called her a tacky old woman!”
“I was under stress!” Indigo shrieked, slamming her fist against the counter. “And she *is* tacky! But she’s your mother! Mothers don't let their grandchildren starve! Tommy’s tuition is due on Monday! If we don't pay the country club by the fifteenth, Victoria and Trent won't be able to use the dining room, and my mother will have a stroke!”
“To hell with your mother! And to hell with Trent!” Marcus roared, standing up so violently that his barstool skidded across the hardwood floor. “Trent was making ninety grand in Logistics, and David Chen fired him yesterday morning because he caught him stealing three sets of commercial tires from the fleet garage! And your mother’s consultancy? Gone! Rescinded! They found out she hasn't logged into the corporate portal in fourteen months!”
“Don't you dare talk about my family!” Indigo screamed, rising to meet him. “My family has class! My family has heritage! You’re the one who dragged us into this gutter! You’re the one who can't stand up to David Chen! You’re down there mopping the floor like a dog while the whole city laughs at us!”
“I am trying to keep a roof over our heads!” Marcus shouted back, his voice breaking into a sob. “Do you know what it’s like? Do you know what it feels like to have the junior associates—kids I hired two years ago—walk past me in the lobby and pretend they don't see me while I’m scraping chewing gum off the carpet? Do you know what Hector Ramos called me today? He called me an incompetent parasite!”
They stood in the vast, echoing kitchen, breathing heavily, glaring at each other across the wreckage of their vanity.
The silence was broken by the ringing of Marcus’s cell phone.
Marcus looked at the screen. It was an unknown number with an 847 area code.
He picked it up, putting it on speakerphone out of sheer exhaustion. “Hello?”
“Mr. Martinez? This is Arthur Pendelton, General Manager at the Lake Shore Country Club.”
Indigo’s eyes widened. She leaned in toward the phone.
“Arthur,” Marcus said, trying to steady his voice. “I received the invoice. The bank had an administrative hold on our transfer due to the corporate restructuring, but I assure you—”
“Mr. Martinez, I’m not calling about the dues,” the voice said, crisp, clipped, and devoid of warmth. “Though the accounting department has flagged your account for collections. I am calling to inform you that your family’s membership privileges have been suspended indefinitely, effective at the close of business today.”
Indigo gasped. “Arthur! This is Indigo! That’s impossible! We’ve been members in good standing for three years! My mother has her bridge luncheon there tomorrow!”
“Mrs. Martinez,” Arthur replied, his voice dropping into that icy register reserved for people who were no longer welcome on the property. “The club has received direct communication from our primary commercial leaseholder and facilities sponsor. As you may know, the land upon which our north eighteen holes and our clubhouse sit is owned by Wellington Real Estate Holdings.”
Marcus went cold. He reached out to brace himself against the edge of the sink.
“Wellington... owns the club land?” Marcus whispered.
“Yes, Mr. Martinez. For over fifteen years. We received a formal notice from Wellington’s corporate counsel this afternoon. Under the terms of our master ground lease, the primary corporate sponsor has exercised its right to audit and veto executive membership allocations. Wellington Industries has formally withdrawn its sponsorship of your family’s account.”
“Why?” Indigo screamed. “Why would they do that?”
“The letter was signed by the corporate trustee,” Arthur said calmly. “The reasoning provided was quite brief: *'Members must reflect the dignity and labor-conscious ethics of the enterprise.'* I’m afraid your names have already been removed from the front gate security roster. If your mother attempts to arrive for bridge tomorrow, the guards will turn her car away at the gate.”
“You can’t do this!” Indigo yelled. “Arthur, listen to me!”
“Have a good evening, Mrs. Martinez.”
The line went dead.
Indigo stared at the phone. Her face was gray.
The country club was her entire social existence. It was where she met the wives of the aldermen, where she showed off her jewelry, where she planned Tommy’s polo lessons. It was the only wall separating her from the world she had spent her entire adult life running away from: the world of unpaid gas bills, secondhand furniture, and ordinary, invisible people.
She slowly turned her eyes to Marcus.
“Someone is trying to kill us,” she whispered, her voice trembling with genuine, terrifying paranoia. “This isn't a restructuring. This isn't corporate downsizing. Someone is targeting us. Someone wants to destroy everything we have.”
“Who?” Marcus muttered, his face buried in his hands. “Who could possibly hate us that much?”
Indigo’s eyes narrowed into slits. A strange, sharp light appeared in her pupils.
“David Chen,” she breathed. “It’s David Chen. He’s always hated me. He looked at me at the holiday party like I was dirt. He’s doing this to push you out so he can take total control of the property trust before the Swiss owner dies.”
She grabbed Marcus’s arm, digging her ruined nails into his skin.
“I’m going to the top,” she said, her voice rising with manic certainty. “I’m done with HR. I’m done with Hector Ramos. I’m going to the forty-second floor on Monday morning. I’m going to wait outside David Chen’s office until he sees me. And if he won't see me, I’ll find out who the Owner is. I’ll hire an investigator. I’ll expose him!”
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Marcus didn't answer. He looked at the floor, where Tommy’s toy fire truck lay abandoned near the baseboard—the one with the broken plastic wheel that Marcus had promised to fix three weeks ago and never did.
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