by A. I. Nasser
“Helluva an afternoon, June,” he greeted, pointing to a pack of Lucky Strikes behind her.
“Now what are you doing out in this weather?” June asked, handing him the cigarettes and beeping the six pack.
“Ran out of juice,” Hank said, smiling.
June gave him a knowing look coupled with a smirk. Hank looked out the supermarket window, watching the Toyota pull out and drive away. He cocked his head towards the receding car and asked, “Tourist?”
“Writer,” June winked. “Staying at the old Dean house.”
Hank frowned. “Didn’t know anyone bought that old thing.”
June shrugged and packed the cigarettes with the beer. “I don’t think he bought it,” she said.
“Do you think he’s renting it out?”
“I have no idea, but the Greens are definitely going to be interested,” June said. “They’ve been trying for years to find out who owns the place. They’re going to harass that poor man for anything he could tell them.”
“Damn Greens,” Hank spat. “Think they own the whole town.”
June shrugged and pushed the paper bag towards him.
“Thanks, June,” he said. “You say he’s a writer?”
June nodded.
“Maybe he did buy it,” he said with a smile. “I hear writers make a lot of money.”
“Get out of here, you fool,” June said, laughing.
***
John sat in front of the empty screen, coffee steaming next to him, cigarette in hand.
“Start,” he said to himself. “Start!”
Nothing came, and it didn’t surprise him.
The fact that he couldn’t get any words onto the digital page in front of him was something he had gotten used to over the years. Not that it made him feel any better; his frustration was getting worse by the day, so it would have been rather surprising if things had been any different tonight.
He had set up a workstation in the bedroom, too tired to clean anything else, and he sure as hell was not intending on changing any light bulbs in the dark where he could fall and break his neck. The rest of the house could wait. He would call Gina in the morning.
“Start, goddamn it,” he whispered.
He ran a hand across his face, sitting back and sighing heavily as he stared up at the ceiling. The rain was still pouring outside, tapping like a double bass against his window, a stranger begging to be let in. He looked out at the lights of the nearest house to him. The Greens, he remembered June saying. Their money grew on trees.
John shook his head and pushed back his chair, walking into the bathroom and turning on the water. He waited for the initial stream of brown gunk to pass, then washed his face with what he was hoping was cleaner water. He needed to relax. Stressing out over the writing wouldn’t help. He just needed a good night’s sleep.
The words will come, a voice inside his head said.
He hoped so.
John made his way back to his laptop, shutting the screen without even trying to sit back down and give the creative juices another squeeze. He lit another cigarette and inched the bedroom window open, the cold breeze welcoming, the rain splattering against his face more refreshing than the water in the sink.
He thought about calling Karen, but he knew that it was already too late and she was probably fast asleep, ready for her first day as manager. He hated the fact that he had to leave her during a time like this, but she had been incredibly understanding. He had joked about her being the sole breadwinner of the family, and she had given him a look he was grateful for. Karen was not the kind of woman who would cater to a stay-at-home dad.
He remembered the day Dylan was born, how he had offered her the chance to extend her maternity leave indefinitely. He could go back to teaching high school literature, he had suggested, but she had laughed it off. She had wanted him to follow his passion, and he owed her for being patient, for putting up with the frustration and anger that came with every rejection slip. Sometimes he wondered what he had done right to deserve her.
John blew smoke out the window, finishing his cigarette and flicking it out into the rain. He watched the ember soar in the wind, blown sharply as it fell, and closed the window. He loved the smell of rain, and if it were up to him, he would be out on the porch, legs propped up, watching the water descend from the heavens.
You need sleep, Johnny-boy.
John looked at the bed and pondered how long it would take him to fall asleep, experience proving that it usually took forever on the first night in a new place. This was why he hated book tours.
***
When he heard the crash downstairs, he was in his boxers and ready to turn in. He froze for a second, listening intently for any other sounds that would explain the previous noise. When he was sure no one was moving around, he pulled on a shirt and crept out onto the second-floor landing.
How are you sure there’s no one down there? It’s not like they’d walk in with a marching band.
John thought twice about investigating, straining to hear any movement, a sound that would confirm his fears. When he still couldn’t discern anything, he walked downstairs, flicking on the light switch and cursing when he remembered that he hadn’t changed the light bulbs. He stood in complete silence, hoping that if he wasn’t alone, no one would reach for him in the darkness.
He walked slowly down the hall, turning into the living room where he knew the lights still worked. He switched them on, the warmth of the few bulbs instantly illuminating the space, throwing shadows up where the light didn’t reach.
Nothing.
His eyes fell on the open window, the glass pane large as it swung back and forth in the wind. The rain was rushing in, mixing with the dust, creating patches on the sheets that protected the furniture beneath. On the floor lay a vase in pieces, the source of the crash he had heard.
Frowning, John stepped around the broken shards and pushed the window closed. He wrestled a bit with the latches but finally got them to lock. He was confident he had gone through these motions earlier, making sure the entire house was locked down for the night. He’d have to find someone to change the latches. He didn’t need a heart attack.
Opting to leave the living room lights on, he raced upstairs and locked the bedroom door behind him.
Chapter 4
Gina Andrews was everything June had promised, and more.
John had called her early in the morning, his voice raspy, only a few words exchanged. She knew the house, she had said. She would be there in an hour.
He had been in the kitchen when she pounded on the door, making her presence known, a single bang that rattled the wood in its frame. John glanced at his watch, impressed that exactly one hour had passed since their phone call, and hurriedly made his way down the hall and opened for her.
Gina looked like she had seen the world a dozen times over, and had the scars to prove it. Her face was wrinkled beyond recognition, the only intelligent sign of life radiating from her piercing blue eyes as she smacked her lips and glanced around the inside of the house from the door.
“Are you alone?” she asked, her attention on a point over John’s shoulder.
“I’m all yours,” he joked, his smile quickly fading when he realized she didn’t appreciate the humor. The look she gave him was one of annoyance and utter impatience.
Gina pushed past him into the house, the bag in her hand pulling her weight down to one side. He reached for it, hoping to alleviate the burden, but she quickly slapped his hand away and wiggled a finger at him. He was instantly reminded of a Roald Dahl book that had scared the hell out of him as a child; Witches. He stepped away from the woman and followed at a safe distance as she walked into the living room and dropped her bag onto the floor.
He waited, allowing Gina to take her time. She clicked her tongue and shook her head, scanning the entire room, one hand even pulling off a sheet and tossing it aside in a fog of dust. She sniffed the air, her face cringing, barely waving the dust awa
y as she moved out of the living room and into the hall.
It took her twenty minutes to inspect the first floor. Unimpressed, she glanced at John every now and then as if blaming him for the mess she was being asked to clean up. He was amused at her judgmental look, wanting to remind her that the house wasn’t his, but decided against it. Barely a word had been spoken since she had arrived, and he felt that saying anything might interrupt whatever trance she was in.
He felt small, as if being tested, as Gina turned things over, pushed things around, and got a feel of the house. When she reached the stairs, she sniffed the air again and looked up.
“You staying up there?” she asked.
John nodded. “No rooms down here.”
“Never seemed to stop anyone,” she muttered to herself as she walked back into the living room.
John was about to ask her what she meant when she suddenly stopped and sniffed the air again. She looked about, frowning, smacking her lips as she stood in the middle of the living room with her hands on her hips.
“Your basement is rotten,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t smell that?”
John sniffed the air, the dust clogging his sinuses and threatening to make him sneeze. Whatever it was she was smelling, he couldn’t sense it. He shook his head at her and watched her blue eyes roll.
“Figures,” she muttered.
She scoffed and walked to her bag, opening it slowly as she pulled out a change of clothes. She walked past him, her bony shoulder bumping into his, and made her way to the first-floor landing.
“I’ll be done in four hours,” she called out.
This is going to be fun, John thought and made his way back to the kitchen where his coffee waited.
***
He had given writing another shot, this time sitting more comfortably knowing that he wasn’t alone in the house, despite the strange vibe that seemed to radiate from Gina.
Nothing happened.
Fresh air. You need fresh air.
Gina barely gave him the time of day when he told her he would be outside for a bit, her back to him as she worked. In an hour she had quickly made the living room look more like a place where people could sit and laugh, rather than a place where rats came to die. He didn’t know if she had heard him, but he guessed repeating himself wouldn’t make much of a difference.
The air outside was cool, a light breeze blowing after the previous day’s torrent of rain. John breathed in the smell of fresh grass, a stark contrast to the stuffiness of the house. It was like it didn’t want to let up, even though Gina had opened every window possible to let some air in and give the dust a safe escape.
John walked to a side of the porch where an old bench stood, the wood rotten from the mix of rain and sun, and inspected it closely to see if it would take his weight. Testing it with his foot, he decided to give it a shot and settled down slowly, feeling the wood creak beneath him, rusted nails screaming bloody murder.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Unless you want a tetanus shot.”
He turned to where the voice had come from, its owner a petite blonde clad in shorts and an oversized sweatshirt that hung lazily off one shoulder, no bra strap in sight. She was smiling at him, a smile he was sure had broken many hearts before it had found its way to him, and the green eyes above it were just as mesmerizing. She was walking towards him, barefoot, comfortable with the grass beneath her feet as she maneuvered her way around loose rocks and twigs.
“That thing’s been sitting there for years,” she said, closer now, looking up at where he sat. “Doctor Black doesn’t have a very steady hand, if you know what I mean.”
John stood up and looked at where he had been sitting, one rusty nail dangerously propped up close to where he could have hurt himself. He looked back to the blonde and smiled.
“Thanks,” he said. “That could have been ugly.”
She giggled and stuck out her hand, which he took. “I’m Eva, from next door,” she said, gesturing to the house behind her with her head.
“John.”
He looked over at the Green residence and nodded. Part of him was surprised that anyone her age still lived in this town. He remembered what June had said about the family, and Eva didn’t seem to fit the description. Then again, he was used to rich city folk. He had no idea what rich looked like out here.
“John,” Eva smiled. “Welcome to the neighborhood. Sorry I didn’t bring a roast or anything.”
John chuckled. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll survive.”
He turned sharply when he heard a crash from inside, and for a moment thought about whether he should look in on Gina or pretend he hadn’t heard that. Opting for the latter, he turned his attention back to the blonde and pulled out his pack of smokes.
“So, John, what brings you to Cafeville?” Eva asked, leaning on the porch railing, also ignoring the sounds from inside the house.
“Vacation,” John lied. “Needed to get away from the city, clear my mind. That sort of thing.”
“You chose the right place,” Eva winked. “Cafeville’s a good place to hide.”
John smiled. “I never said I was hiding.”
“I never said I was talking about you.”
John smiled. He liked her. Witty, pretty, a dangerous twinkle in her eye that seemed a little too daring. What the hell was she doing here?
That’s it, Johnny-boy. Loosen up. It’ll be good for you.
“Are you here with family?” Eva asked, briefly glancing over his shoulder at the open front door.
“Nope, on my own,” John said. “Just getting some help cleaning the place up. Apparently, nobody’s been here since God knows when.”
“Well, I’ve lived here for twenty years, and I haven’t seen a soul walk in or out of this place,” Eva said. “Since the Deans, my father says the place’s been empty.”
So she’s the daughter. Isn’t that something, Johnny-boy?
John quickly pushed the thought away, frowning at the mere hint of anything more than a casual conversation. He took a long drag from his cigarette, making sure to use the hand with his wedding ring on it, and nodded as if in deep thought about her previous comment. She noticed the ring, and her smile only grew wider.
“Why hasn’t it been sold yet?” John asked, catching himself looking at her bare shoulder, squinting slightly as he tried to keep his eyes on hers.
Eva shrugged. “No idea,” she said. “We’ve tried buying it, but no one knows who it belongs to. The records are so old, it’s basically been forgotten.”
“I’m surprised the town’s letting it stand here since no one’s claimed it for twenty years.”
“Things move a lot slower in Cafeville, John,” Eva smiled. “We’re a lot more laid back than the usual folk.”
He smiled awkwardly and looked back over the girl’s shoulder. A man had stepped out of the house, Father Green he assumed, and waved at him. John waved back, a gesture that made Eva look behind her and wave as well.
“Well, I better get going,” she said, winking at him. “Enjoy your stay, John. Don’t be a stranger.”
John didn’t answer and watched the blonde skip her way back home, smiling only when she glanced back and gave him a quick wave.
She’s friendly.
John put his cigarette out and walked back into the Victorian.
***
Gina finished as promised, four hours on the dot, and was already changed into the same outfit she had arrived in. Bag in hand, she stood stoically at the door as John paid her.
The house was spotless. He had no idea how she had done it, but the old bird had made it look like a million dollars. He was surprised at how well the inside of the house fared as compared to the outside; even the furniture seemed to smile with color. It was like all it needed was a good clean sweep to truly feel like home.
Gina folded the bills in her hand and made them disappear inside her purse, briefly looking at John
as she seemed to size him up.
“Your basement is rotten,” she repeated.
“I still don’t smell it,” John said. Actually, the house smelled great.
“You will,” Gina said with assurance. “And one other thing, sonny. We have a saying around these parts: Never trust a Green.”
John frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I saw you talking with that perky little snake,” Gina said, smacking her lips. “Not all that’s pretty is good, sonny, and you’d do well to remember that. There’s history in these parts, and the poison always starts with a Green.”
John had an idea about what she meant and smiled uncomfortably. “I’m married, Mrs. Andrews,” he explained. “Happily married. Don’t worry about that.”
Gina stared at him for a moment, her blue eyes searching his face, then looked over his shoulder at the rest of the house. “Sometimes that don’t matter, sonny.”
John was about to say something when she turned around and walked away.
Chapter 5
That night, he decided to write in the living room.
He had spent the remainder of the afternoon changing the lights and making sure all the windows had been closed properly. The winds outside had picked up a bit, and he didn’t want another unexpected accident. Besides, the house was cool enough, the dust and stuffiness that had suffocated him the day before, gone. For the first time since he had arrived, he actually felt really good.
Except for the fact that he still couldn’t write anything worth a dime.
You’re thinking about the blonde.
“No, I’m not,” he whispered to no one in particular, taking a drag from his cigarette as he squinted his eyes in concentration. He felt his mind rolling inside his head, the ideas mixing and matching, finding no connection, no presence. He was still drawing blanks, and it was starting to get to him.
He got up, frustrated, and made his way back to the kitchen.
