Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Even the furniture is … was mine. However, there are no Christmas decorations. Not so much as a string of tinsel or sprig of mistletoe. Our house used to be the biggest attraction in town over the holidays. Garland for days and enough indoor and outdoor lights to illuminate a whole galaxy.
“You’re good to go,” I say.
She glances over her shoulder, a bit of flour smudged along her cheek. “Thank you. Can you leave an invoice?”
“Sure.” I take another glance around the kitchen. “Did you know this house has been here for generations?”
“Oh …” She measures baking powder and deposits teaspoons of it into the long row of jars. “Are you originally from Birdville?”
“I am.” I scribble out an invoice. “Do you like the house?”
She chuckles. “Sure. What’s not to like? It’s charming with a beautiful view of the river. The woodwork is a work of art. Every room feels like a warm hug this time of year.”
I no longer feel that warm embrace, but it does have a beautiful view. There’s an attic room with a colossal window that makes one feel suspended over the water because the drop beneath it is so steep. Growing up, it was my favorite room. My sister thought there were ghosts up there. After she died, I believed she was the ghost in the room. I wonder if she’s still up there, trying to figure out how in the hell I managed to lose the family home.
“Well, here you go.” I place the invoice on the counter away from the lineup of jars. “Let me know if you have any issues. I think it should be fine now.”
“Do you bake?” she asks.
“Sometimes,” I say, hoping reheating pizza in the microwave counts.
She screws a lid on one of the jars and hands it to me with a wink. “For you, Mason Ball.”
Embarrassment fills my cheeks. Women are too observant for their own good. I clear my throat and offer her a sheepish grin. “Thank you.”
“Henry, I saw your van at the Afina house this morning. What was she like?” My neighbor, Doyle, coughs from his old gray Chevy Malibu. Cigarette smoke billows out the one-inch crack of his window. Betty won’t let him smoke in the trailer since he set the last one on fire, so he spends most of his days smoking in his car while on neighborhood watch. The only thing that needs watching is him—so he doesn’t set anything else on fire.
“Uh … she was fine,” I say, glancing up from my mail.
Doyle coughs up part of a lung. I expect a red splat against the window. Thankfully, there isn’t one. “Was she a hottie?” He waggles his bushy, white eyebrows before pinching his lips around his cigarette.
“I’d say she’s in her fifties, so I’m going to decline making any comment on her level of hotness.”
“Fifties, huh? She got a good pair of legs on her? I’m a leg guy. But you know this because you’ve seen my Betty.”
“Indeed.” I smile. “I’ve seen your Betty. There’s something about her. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s special for sure.”
“Fingers to yourself, Henry.” He holds up his cigarette while wiggling his other fingers. “These digits will be the only ones to touch Betty’s specialness you speak of.” He winks at me. “If you know what I mean.”
I taste a little bile. “Good talk, Doyle … good talk.” With a quick wave, I retreat into my trailer, peel open a can of wild caught salmon, and spread half of it on two slices of bread with some mayo and sweet relish.
My phone screen lights up with a text from my mom. It’s the middle of the night in Germany. What’s so urgent?
Mom: The garland’s in the attic. Use ribbons to tie it to the railing. Wire will scratch the wood.
“I don’t know if it’s still in the attic,” I mumble my reply. I’m on the fence about telling her the truth via text message or waiting until the last possible minute when I see her in person.
No garland.
No railing.
No house.
The Penneys might save me on this one. They have to. Five years ago, they had a house fire across the street from our house. Lost everything except human lives. Mom repeated, “It’s just stuff, Elizabeth,” to Mrs. Penney on so many occasions I lost count.
Just a house.
Just furniture.
Just materialistic things that don’t matter in the bigger picture.
With Christmas upon us, I have to believe my mother will heed her own sentiments and stay focused on that bigger picture when she discovers the Afina house and all of its belongings are no longer in the family.
Here’s the bigger picture: I haven’t gambled, not once, since I lost everything.
Baby steps.
A bone-rattling gust of wind shakes my trailer in the middle of the night like an earthquake. In fact, when I wake to silence, I’m certain that’s what happened because there’s no wind. I lumber from my bed to get a drink of water and see if anything was damaged. While I tip back a glass of water, my vision snags on headlights pointed at the back of my trailer in such close proximity it seems unlikely they’re not on my property.