by James Hunt
Chapter 9
The whistle blew and the loud clanking of the factory ended as workers stepped away from their stations and headed toward their lockers, ready to go home for the day. Owen fell in line behind everyone, his shirt collar soaked with a ring of sweat as he removed his hard hat and glasses. It felt good to get back into a routine like that, and for at least a few hours, he felt like his life was back to normal.
But after Owen tossed his uniform into the locker, he caught his boss staring at him from his office window. Chuck’s eyes followed Owen all the way out the door, and even outside, Owen felt them linger on his back. He shivered and got into the van.
With the workday over, the troublesome thoughts of home returned. His last words to Claire had been gnawing at him all day. He didn’t want to go home without some sort of peace offering, so instead of turning right onto Main Street and heading toward the house, he took a left and found a parking spot in front of the small realty office, the sign in the window still flipped to open.
Owen checked his appearance in his rearview mirror, hoping that he didn’t look too derelict for someone to think he couldn’t afford a house, though his creditors might have a few things to say about the matter, and stepped out of the van.
A bell on the front door jingled as Owen entered. He scraped his boots on the welcome mat before stepping onto the old hardwood. “Hello?” The small space was empty with the exception of a desk jimmied up alongside the front door and the dozens of pictures hanging on the walls, all of them showing people in front of houses, smiling as the realtor handed them keys.
“Hi there!” A middle-aged gentleman stepped from a small doorway in the back, wiping his hands with a cloth. He was clean shaven, and his pearl-white teeth contrasted against his unnaturally tan skin. “What can I help you with?” He tossed the cloth on his desk and adjusted the belt around the waist of his plaid tweed suit. It was a thick jacket for such a hot climate.
“I was hoping you could tell me the properties you have in the area?”
“Of course!” He grabbed hold of Owen’s hand and gave it three hearty pumps. “Nate Covers. If you want a house, I’ve got the dream home for you.” He spoke the words like a cheesy local commercial and then gestured to one of the chairs.
“I just need to know what you have for immediate occupancy,” Owen said, taking a seat.
Nate smiled, and thrust his index finger in Owen’s direction. “Right down to business. I like your style.” He clicked the mouse of his computer, then started typing. “So do you already live in the area?”
“Yes,” Owen answered. “Just moved here actually.”
“Where from?”
“Baltimore.”
“Long way from home.” Nate laughed loud and quickly. “I see the wedding ring. Have kids?”
“Two.”
“All right, let’s see.” Nate kept his eyes on the computer screen, which was turned away from Owen, and he typed a few more keystrokes and then leaned back in his chair, portions of the faux-leather armrests cracked, exposing the yellow-foam stuffing inside. “I’ve got a few three and four bedrooms on the market right now. What kind of budget are you looking at?”
“I haven’t really gone to the bank to check that stuff out yet,” Owen answered, rubbing his hands nervously. But he probably knew the answer they would give him: small. “I told my wife I’d start looking. She’s not really in love with our current house.”
“Where are you at now?”
“Fourteen Cypress Lane.”
Nate ended the light rock in his chair, and that unnatural tan color drained from his cheeks. “So you work for Chuck Toussaint then.” He drummed his fingers on his stomach.
“Yeah,” Owen said.
Nate forced another wide, cheesy smile. “He’s a great guy. Normally pays for his employees’ housing. Did you not have the same arrangement with him?”
“No, I did, but—” Owen cut himself off, suddenly embarrassed and wanting to leave. “You know what, maybe I should just talk to him about it some more.” Owen stood and Nate mirrored him. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”
“Not a problem, and, hey, if anything changes, just drop by and I’ll see what I can find for you.”
The bell at the top of the door chimed as Owen left, and he fished the van’s keys out of his pockets, feeling uneasy about his interaction with Nate Covers. Had he crossed some sort of line going behind his boss’s back like that?
He turned toward the driver side door and abruptly stopped. Across the street he saw the sign for Queen’s, and standing outside her own shop of bizarre trinkets and bobbles stood the dread-haired woman, staff in hand, those pair of hazel and yellow glinted eyes fixated on him.
Owen fisted the keys in his hand and marched over to her. “What do you want?” he shouted from the middle of the street, but even as he got closer, the woman didn’t move. “Is it you?” He stepped onto the sidewalk, the heat of the day and his anger flushing his cheeks a bright red. “Are you the one who’s been sneaking around my house? Huh?”
Even with Owen only inches from her face, the woman didn’t move. Owen caught a whiff of her musty clothes, sweat and body odor all mixed together. She shifted her weight on her feet, and some of the bone necklaces clinked lightly against one another like a morbid wind chime.
“You stay away from my family,” Owen said. “And you stay the hell away from me.” He snarled and thrust a finger in her face, then spun around to head back to his van.
“Your son doesn’t belong to you anymore.” The woman’s voice was slow, her accent not as muddled as some of Owen’s coworkers.
He turned around. “What the hell did you say to me?” He marched back in three quick strides, then smacked some of the items off the table out front in a violent blow. “You speak of my son again, and I will come back here with the police. So back. Off.” He gritted his teeth, but while he trembled in anger, she remained still.
Owen stomped back to his van, got behind the wheel, and peeled out of the parking spot.
