by Eden Winters
Jill chatted with the mom, and her imposing presence kept the boys on their best behavior. Seeing his guide was occupied, when their turn came, Seth unloaded the cart, paid for his, or rather, Jill’s purchases, and single-handedly hauled them out to the truck and loaded them into the bed of the single cab.
Jill emerged from the store and crossed the parking lot in impossibly long strides.
“Are the boys jacks too?” he asked, nodding toward the trio, who’d resumed their Three Stooges shenanigans a few cars away.
“No, too young. They’re joeys. Get used to them; the Johnsons are your nearest neighbors.” She hopped into her unlocked truck and turned the key in the ignition, forcing Seth to rush to the other side before Jill left him again.
He pulled out his phone, planning to check the happenings in civilization, but Jill snatched the gadget from his hand. “Hey!” he hollered. “Give that back!”
“No way in hell. We’re in God’s country. The least you can do is pay some respect and enjoy the view.”
With nothing better to do, Seth found himself staring out the window, which whirred open to emit a blast of summer heat, along with the sweet fragrances of honeysuckle and magnolia, stirring memories to life. Mountain peaks played peekaboo through the trees.
Jill turned the truck down a tree-lined dirt road, and for one split second, Seth expected to spot a freckled redhead pedaling a bicycle down the rutted lane. The truck bumped and bounced over the worn track, Seth’s suitcase and groceries taking a beating in the back. He tucked his laptop case closer to the seat with his legs, shielding its precious contents from harm, and prayed that at least one of his cameras survived the journey.
Finally they came to a clearing, the scrubby pines giving way to a pair of stately oaks, a bloom-loaded magnolia, and the occasional crepe myrtle, time-honored symbols of summer in the South. Time stood still. Then it reversed. Seth’s heart dropped to his stomach. His inner child surfaced, his eyes fixed to the front door, hoping to find his parents rushing outside to greet him and ask about his day at school, or Auntie Irene welcoming him and his friend inside to sample a fresh batch of cookies. His heart lurched.
“I used to play with a redheaded kid named Dustin. Any chance he’s still around?” Seth asked, until reality caught up with him and he realized that if he’d grown up, Dustin must have too. “Man, I mean. A man named Dustin. No, that’s not right.” Growing flustered, he blurted, “He was a kid then, a man now.”
“Dustin Livingston?” Something in Jill’s voice made Seth turn her way. Wariness shone from her bright-blue eyes. “What you asking about Doc for?” She narrowed those eyes slightly.
“We were friends. Played together when I lived here. I wondered if he’s still around. How he’s doing.”
Jill parked the truck and opened the driver’s door, hocking a loogie onto the dry red dirt. “If you were truly friends, you’d know, wouldn’t you? Or did you just stop thinking about this place after you hightailed it to Chicago?” She pronounced the name “She-cargo.”
Once more at a loss, and taking her well-aimed accusation like a knife to the gut, Seth crawled out of the truck, lugging his computer. Jill leaned against the hood, offering no help while Seth struggled with his luggage and shopping bags, leaving them piled on the steps. “Do you have a key?” he asked, waiting patiently by the front door.
Jill rolled her top lip in disgust. “This is Possum Kingdom, Georgia, city boy. We don’t lock our doors.” Without further ado, she leapt back into her Silverado and flung up a spray of red dirt back to the main road.
“Nice meeting you too!” Seth snarled. He proceeded to cough, choking on airborne dried Georgia clay. When he reached for his phone to vent his spleen via the Internet, he realized Jill hadn’t returned his iPhone.
“How’d it go?” Dustin asked, tidying up after sending his last patient home for the day. “Did you get Seth settled in at Irene’s?”
“He’s dumb as a rock and won’t last a week,” Monica replied, “but it went okay.”
Dustin heaved a weary sigh. He’d held out hope of Irene’s nephew simply being a late bloomer who’d somehow magically grown up to be the Jack the passel needed, come to claim his rightful place. Better Indian than Chief was Dustin’s personal motto. He’d fought long and hard not to be Irene’s second-in-command, and only the threat of her appointing an ambitious lesser male had convinced him to step up to the plate on a temporary basis—four years ago when he’d graduated from med school.
Monica pulled him close, momentarily cutting off his air. The woman didn’t know her own strength. “Don’t worry, he won’t challenge you. He’s not truly one of us.”
“He is and he isn’t. His parents had him tested early. His dad passed on a dormant strain of the virus. They hoped it would become symptomatic during puberty. Since Irene never mentioned any frantic calls from Seth’s grandmother, I’m supposing it didn’t. Another infusion of fresh virus might help, but since he was raised outside the community, I don’t picture Seth volunteering to let someone take a bite of his arm anytime soon.” Dustin’s heart clenched at the memory of a younger Seth, and how close they’d been.
“If he’s not the type to stick around, with any luck, maybe he’ll sell the house and have his ass back up north by month’s end.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Their leader’s only kin being a naive half-blood left the passel up for grabs. And though Dustin didn’t want to assume the title of “the Jack” and the mantle of leadership any more than Monica wanted “the Jill,” if he didn’t announce his intention to assume control or name a successor within three full moons, there’d be war. Dustin’s hands were full enough with his looking after the health of the townsfolk, and Monica often asserted that “I don’t want to even be responsible for a houseplant, let alone the likes of Junior Timmerman.” She often added, “Though if I had to choose between the two, I’d pick a rhododendron, they’re smarter.”
A chirping sounded from the vicinity of his assistant’s back pocket. “What’s that?” he asked.
Monica stepped away, fishing out a sleek, state-of-the-art phone. “You’ve talked about him endlessly over the years. I figured I’d give you a reason to go visit while he’s here. Get those old warm-and-fuzzy feelings out of the way the moment you realize the childhood friend you loved grew up into a heartless asshole.” She placed the still-tweeting device in his hand and sauntered away, whistling “Dixie.”
Chapter 4
Once the roar of the Silverado’s engine died, Seth found himself surrounded by the kind of quiet that could never happen in the city. Funny thing was, even though he’d lived in Chicago for most of his life, something about the rural setting felt like home. Birds chirped from the magnolia trees, and unseen things in the grass twittered and whirred. No honking horns, no constant rumble of engines, no people calling to each other from a distance. A breeze stirred the uppermost branches of the oaks he clearly remembered climbing once upon a time. After his initial fear of being alone eased, Seth found himself breathing deeply of clean country air. Home. This was home.
He imagined his eight-year-old self running through the side yard, or swinging from the front porch swing. If he took a short walk, no doubt he’d find the barn through the trees behind the house. His auntie had raised chickens when he’d lived here with her and his parents—he’d often helped his dad collect eggs. A faint recollection came back of asking Auntie why his parents lived with her, to which she’d replied, “I’m teaching your mother… things.” He’d supposed she meant cooking and cleaning, since his mother’s attempt to make Auntie’s homemade buttermilk biscuits usually resulted in rock-hard, charred stones of burnt dough.
With a resigned sigh, Seth scooped up his grocery bags. He took a deep breath and tugged on the door, half expecting to find the lock secured, despite Jill’s assurances to the contrary. The door opened and Seth stepped through, immediately thrust back in time.
A funky smell assailed his nostrils. How lo
ng had the place been shut up? A few weeks? It definitely needed a good airing out.
The sitting room appeared precisely as he remembered, with an old rocker in one corner and firewood stacked neatly by the hearth. The settee had been old even twenty years ago. An elaborately carved grandfather clock used to tick off the minutes in this room. Seth remembered pulling the chains every morning to wind it.
He placed his bags on the polished hardwood floor, then crossed the room in six long strides to open the door on the clock’s belly. A fine layer of dust marred the glass. The place begged for a good cleaning. Seth’s slovenly reputation came honestly; however, even he had limits. He wound and set the clock, the steady tick tock sending yet another wave of nostalgia washing over him.
After putting the clock to rights, Seth explored the room at leisure, longing filling his heart as he examined the old family photos displayed on the mantel, several featuring Seth and his parents. His chest constricted painfully as he gazed at the man and woman who lived on in his memories. What would life have been like if they hadn’t died?
A few newer photos appeared out of place among the old. One was a group shot, with Auntie in the middle, surrounded by what most might assume to be a large family grouping. But other than himself, she didn’t have any relatives that Seth knew of. The pain in his heart grew, along with guilt. He’d been too busy living his life to spare much thought for the woman who’d once sung him to sleep, and had comforted him after his parents’ death. His grandmother hadn’t liked Aunt Irene, though he’d never quite figured out why. After his grandmother’s death, he’d simply put off reaching out or visiting, telling himself, “Soon.” He’d receive a fabulous opportunity for a photo shoot, catch a cold, or simply forget, and postpone the trip once more. Now it was too late.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Irene,” he told the empty room. Shivers darted up his spine at having broken the quiet.
He studied the picture, spotting Jill standing to his great-aunt’s right, a handsome red-haired man on the left. Another picture snagged his attention: a newspaper clipping, encased in a frame, containing his Auntie Irene, Jill, and the man. Bringing it closer he read, “Local leaders Irene McDaniel, Monica Sims (Ha! Her name isn’t Jill!), and Dr. Dustin Livingston.” What kind of leaders they were or what they’d done to earn them a spot in the newspaper remained a mystery. Chamber of Commerce, maybe? Why the hell hadn’t he made more of an effort to connect with his father’s only relative? I’m the last. And alone.
Wait! Dr. Dustin Livingston? Dusty? Seth stared, trying to reconcile crooked front teeth, dimples, an unruly coppertop, and freckles with the handsome man staring at him from his aunt’s picture frame. Well, damn. It hadn’t truly sunk in when Jill called Dustin “Doc.” Even as kids Dustin had talked about being a doctor or veterinarian some day, or “maybe both.” Well, at least one of them had fulfilled their dreams. Seth’s childhood dream had changed constantly, from fireman one day to astronaut the next, but he’d never figured on taking people’s pictures for a living.
After a few more moments spent indulging in the past, Seth retrieved his laptop and suitcase, and proceeded to pick a room.
He came to his aunt’s first. Once again, memories flooded him. Each new room held a key to events from his history. He left his things in the hallway and tiptoed inside, much like he’d done when he’d been a kid. Everything appeared to be the same. Ignoring the aching in his heart, he focused on why he’d come. This wasn’t a visit home; he’d come to settle his aunt’s estate, and then hopefully return to Chicago in a few weeks. Not that he had anything left to go back to.
Loneliness setting in, he reached for his back pocket out of habit, determined to connect with his sixteen-hundred-strong cyber friends, most of whom didn’t even know his real name. Damn! No phone. Silently cursing Monica, he vowed to catch up with his real world later, via laptop, and set about viewing the room and his aunt’s possessions with his eyes, not his heart.
The elaborately carved four-poster bed, matching dresser, mirror, and chest would net a fortune in a Chicago antique shop, if shipping didn’t prove cost-prohibitive. A genuine St. Lawrence clock sat in its place of honor on the mantel. Later he’d need to catalogue the lot, but for now he’d simply make a mental inventory, astounded that someone hadn’t crept in and cleaned the place out since the house had stood unoccupied and unlocked for weeks.
Tiny cut-glass perfume bottles and other knickknacks took up space on Auntie’s dresser, and the old rolltop desk in the corner had most likely cost a fortune when new. If he took his time, sold each piece separately for maximum profit, not only would he keep his inner capitalist happy for about a year, he could afford to concentrate on photographing only what he wanted to, leaving bride and groomzillas, preening divas, and noisy bar mitzvahs behind for good.
Only…. A wooden frame hung from the wall, holding a picture of Auntie’s parents. On the nightstand, a porcelain Labrador kept watch over a folded pair of glasses. He picked up the trinket and ran a finger over a hairline crack, from when he’d once dropped the little dog. Auntie had scolded him soundly and swept up the pieces in a dustpan to toss out. Seth, maybe six at the time, had cried over the poor thing he’d broken. In the end, they’d sat down at the kitchen table and glued the dog’s ear back on. And she’d kept it. A broken, dime-store figurine, and she’d kept it all these years. How could he possibly part with any of her treasures?
Unchanged from his memories, the same patchwork comforter covered his aunt’s bed. Upon closer inspection, the intricate stitches and tiny triangles of pieced-together fabric appeared hand-sewn. Like he’d expected, the backing consisted of joined flour sacks. He recalled using a similar quilt to build his tent forts over the backs of chairs on rainy days, or to curl up with when the weather turned cool, his mother nestled against him, reading or making him sound out difficult words while his father built houses in the next town.
He detected a tiny hair clinging to his thumb and shook it off. Yes, he needed to give the place a good cleaning. But wait! Many such hairs covered the quilt. He ran his hand over the surface of the bed. A feather mattress? A quick jab of a finger proved his theory, but didn’t explain the gray, wiry hairs. Had his aunt owned a cat? If so, had anyone been feeding the poor creature?
Poking his head into the hall, he called, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” No furry feline rallied to his cry. Oh well, he’d ask around later. Maybe visit the neighbors. Surely they’d be able to tell him if he’d inherited a pet.
Tired and disoriented, now wasn’t the time to make decisions about what to do with his great-aunt’s possessions. He made his way to his parents’ former room. Leaning his head against the cool wooden panel of the door, he drew in a deep breath, steeling himself for what might wait inside. Photo albums? Clothing he might remember? Personal notes to each other? Reminders of the happy life they’d shared? Once more, he reached for his phone, needing a friend, even if only a cyber one, to enter the room with him. Again he came up empty-handed.
“Here goes nothing,” he murmured as he turned the handle and eased the door open. Inside he found… a room. Blue-checked curtains that appeared homemade hung over the window; a chenille cover neatly encased the bed. Unlike Aunt Irene’s room, every flat surface crowded to capacity, giving the place a lived-in ambiance, his parents’ room lacked personalization.
A pair of chifforobes stood against one wall, in lieu of a closet. Their hinges squealed protest at Seth’s invasion. Nothing. Not a sock or a scarf left to mark the lives of the two people who’d meant the most to him. A cane-backed chair sat next to the double bed. Emitting a depressed sigh, he sank down on the bed, wishing he’d made more of an effort to connect with his aunt. Of course, the distance between them wasn’t entirely his fault. If his aunt wanted anything to do with him, she would have come to Chicago, right? Or at least called him once in a while. Only, would his grandmother and her iron-handed control have allowed a meeting? He recalled the argument between the two women the day of his p
arents’ memorial service. For some reason Seth had never comprehended, Nana seemed to blame Auntie for his mother’s death. Why? She’d stepped into the path of an oncoming car while crossing the road, and his father had died trying to save her. Seth, having spent many years in Chicago, and understanding the treacheries of traffic, was no stranger to vehicular tragedies.
He rose from the bed to continue exploring. Neither his auntie’s nor his parents’ room would do for a new base camp. Slowly he approached the room at the end of the hall like he’d done, usually at higher speeds, in his youth. The knob turned effortlessly, and the door emitted no wail of disuse like he’d expected. Seth gasped. The room looked exactly as he remembered. The bed was unmade, a forgotten toy truck lying on the quilt, as though he’d recently put it there. A thin layer of dust coated the surface of the dresser and the airplane models he’d once painstakingly assembled.
With a trembling finger, he touched the delicate propeller of a World War II fighter plane. The twenty-year-old plastic popped loose, falling to the floor. Apparently, his aunt hadn’t forgotten him, preserving the room as some kind of shrine to his childhood.
At that moment, he hated himself for ever thinking about selling even one piece of his tenuous connection to his family. But what would he do with all this stuff?
Stumbling backward out of the open door, he staggered to the house’s fourth bedroom, reserved for guests back in his youth, and placed his suitcase and laptop by the bed. This room held few enough memories. Perhaps sleeping here wouldn’t prove too awkward. He briefly considered staying at a motel, before remembering he didn’t have a car.
A few books and other items lay scattered around the room, possibly discarded by someone who’d spent the night. He ran his finger over the cover of Watership Down. Talking animals, huh? Shades of blue graced the windows and bed, the patchwork quilt sporting pieces of denim and chambray. A masculine room, but not overly so. Seth found he quite liked it.
