Seventeen Fathers

Chapter 2: A Table for Seventeen

I found Celia in our conference room with the Northstar purchase agreement open on her laptop.

"I'm not representing Harbor House," I said.

"I know."

"I haven't given anyone legal advice."

"I know that too."

She looked tired, her reading glasses low on her nose. I'd worked for her for four years. When she gave me a careful look, it usually meant a problem had already grown teeth.

I set the notice on the table. "Why did the executive director sign the lease termination two months ago?"

"The Harbor House board voted to sell the building."

"Did they vote to close the shelter?"

"They voted to accept a purchase offer, pay off the organization's debt, and relocate the services."

"To where?"

"That's the issue."

She turned the laptop toward me. The screen showed a projected budget from Northstar. The company planned to turn Harbor House into a boutique hotel with apartments on the top floors.

"They're offering money for a replacement shelter," I said.

"Not enough for a replacement shelter. Enough for a day center, maybe. No beds."

"Then the board knowingly voted to eliminate overnight services."

"They say they had no choice. The boiler is failing, and the nonprofit is behind on its loan. Northstar offered the only bid."

I sat down. Harbor House had a boiler problem. I knew that. I'd helped them apply for repair grants. But a failing boiler didn't explain an agreement signed without a relocation plan.

"Why did you tell me not to discuss it?"

"Because my office might be asked to advise the nonprofit, and because the agreement came through my desk as a property matter. If you're emotionally involved, I need you out of it until we know what we're handling."

"I'm not just emotionally involved. I know the building."

"That may be why you can't handle it."

I didn't like hearing it. I also didn't argue.

Celia closed the laptop. "I'm trying to get them an independent lawyer. Until then, don't pull any records through our office system. Don't contact Northstar. Don't represent the shelter. Understood?"

"Yes."

"And Ivy, the deed might contain a use restriction. I haven't seen the original."

My pulse changed. "What kind of restriction?"

"I don't know yet. The title search is incomplete. It was transferred from a private foundation years ago, and the recorded copy is hard to read. If the deed says the property has to be used for community services, that could matter. But I'm not asking you to investigate. I'm telling you why you need to stay out of it."

I nodded, though my mind had already started connecting things. Harbor House had once been called the Alder House Mission. The foundation that donated the building had been dissolved. The original deed could be in a county archive, or tucked away in the nonprofit's storage room.

Celia saw my expression. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You have a very expressive face."

I left the office with my hands in my coat pockets and my questions still in my head.

That evening, the seventeen fathers gathered around Harbor House's dining table. Not all seventeen had ever slept there at the same time, and not all of them were still unhoused. But every one of them had helped raise me.

Eddie arrived first, bringing a paper bag of apples. Frank showed up with a toolbox. Cal brought a container of chili and a warning that he couldn't stay long because he had a shift at the boatyard. The rest came in gradually, shaking rain from their coats and greeting me like I was still a kid who needed to be checked for scraped knees.

"Seventeen dads and nobody remembered a cake," I said.

"Your birthday was in May," said Tommy, who kept a pocket calendar even though he refused to own a phone.

"It's not my birthday."

"You never know with you," he said.

I gave them the short version of the notice. I didn't tell them what Celia had said about the deed. I didn't want to give them a half-formed promise.

When I was done, the room fell quiet.

"Northstar bought the old sail loft," Frank said. "Their crew started there before the paperwork was finished. They fenced off the slip where I kept my tools."

Cal folded his arms. "The buyer has money. They'll outlast a lawsuit."

"Maybe," I said. "We need to find out what the building's deed says."

"What good would that do?" asked Ray, who'd been sleeping at the shelter until the city moved him into an apartment last year. He still came in every Tuesday to help with the laundry. "A deed can say anything. Nobody's going to stop a company with a lawyer."

"Sometimes a deed can put a limit on what the owner is allowed to do."

"Sometimes," Eddie said. "And sometimes we're staring at a piece of paper while somebody puts a padlock on the door."

I met his eyes. "I know."

He looked away first. "I'm not saying don't try. I'm saying don't tell people to get their hopes up before you know."

"I won't."

Tommy set his calendar on the table. "Who has the old records?"

"Harbor House should."

"They did a cleanup last fall. Most files went in the basement."

"Then we start there," Frank said.

"I can't do that as your legal aid advocate," I said. "I can help you identify public records. But I can't act as counsel for Harbor House while my office is involved."

"What if we're not asking you to be our lawyer?" Cal said.

"Then I can help as family. But I still need to follow my office's conflict rules."

"Family doesn't have rules," Frank said.

"Family has more rules than my office. You just ignore them."

A few of them laughed. Eddie didn't.

He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. "You don't have to save the building to prove anything to us."

"I'm not trying to prove anything."

"You say that now."

I looked at his weathered hand. I had learned to tie my shoes from Eddie, how to read bus maps from Frank, how to cook oatmeal without burning it from Cal. I'd learned how to fix a bike chain from two men who disagreed about every step. They'd made me feel rich in ways I hadn't had words for.

"I'm trying to find out whether they're allowed to take it," I said.

Eddie released my hand. "All right. Find out."

After the meeting, I walked downstairs to the basement alone. The storage shelves ran along the walls, crowded with old blankets, dented cans, and file boxes labeled in marker. Dust clung to my palms as I pulled one box forward.

The label read: ALDER HOUSE MISSION, PROPERTY.