I was about halfway down the lane when I began to regret that it wasn’t paved. The rain from the night before (the one I had commended myself about thinking ahead and putting out pots and pans to catch the rain – that one) had left not only friendly puddles here and there, but an unfortunate puddle the size of my ex-boyfriend’s propensity for lying – excuses with holes in timelines and logic that defied the imagination of any reasonable person . . . but I digress. For those of you uninterested in detours, let me just say it was a very large puddle that covered the breadth of the road, and leave it at that. However, I managed to skirt it by going off-road for the minute it took to go around it.

The next morning I dropped off my car at the auto shop (the off-road minute had compromised the front axle), walked the extra mile to work, and stepped into the office as though I hadn’t entered another world in one weekend.

I had decided to be dignified and personally hand in my resignation. Before I could hand it to my boss, he pulled me aside. He had a special assignment requiring some amount of delicacy and would I be willing to work remotely for the next six months or however long it would take to complete it? To wit: was I willing to disappear while on assignment?

Okay. I must take another detour here, and I’m sorry for those of you who get hives from such things, but it must be done. You see, I work in forensics, my boss is a fairly well-known lawyer, and there have been things that have crossed my desk from time to time that have given me pause. And while I can be impulsive, I can also be circumspect in office conversation. And although there are gaping holes in some of my life skills, I’ve become rather good at my job. So you’ll understand that when the word “delicacy” is used, the reputation or worse of someone of note is very possibly at risk.

I scrunched my face as though I needed to think about it, not as though I had to guard against jumping up and down. He hurriedly assured me the firm would pay any related costs. I blinked fast, which made him offer me an increase in salary. I inquired whether paving a lane could be included in the offer and he gave me his hasty affirmation. I began to think that if I stayed any longer I would own the firm, but who wants that headache? We shook hands, I cleaned out my desk, and made arrangements for a satellite internet that would impress Tim Cook.

It’s been two months, my lane is as smooth as a baby’s bottom, the electricity and utilities work as well as the government, and I’ve settled in. I’ve uncovered pieces of the lives of the people who lived here before me, thoroughly cleaned the root cellar and began to stock it, and found a use for the weeds behind the house (yes, I’m calling it a house in order to reassure myself that my future isn’t as bleak as the person whose delicate matter I’m researching). The weeds? I discovered that many of them were herbs or had some kind of usefulness. It’s going to take me longer than two months to figure it all out.

The puzzle that keeps me up at night, though, isn’t the weeds. It’s some of the letters that were hidden it the wall. Oh I fixed it. Who wants a hole in the wall? But I mean to say that those lives – the ones of the people who wrote the letters – they were full of courageous words. And as I look at my surroundings, I can’t for the life of me figure out why they would need to be brave and wish I knew. What’s the expression? Be careful what you wish for.

to be continued . . .

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It wasn’t the sun’s rays that woke me, but the scampering of little feet belonging to who knew what. On the heels of the sound, though, the sun peeked over the horizon, and I watched as red turned to orange and pink, filling the sky with indescribable color and hope.

I sipped day old coffee (bought from the gas station the day before and surprisingly still hot) from my thermos and mulled over my options. I had one more day to explore . . . okay, I know it shouldn’t take even a half hour to explore something like my “new house”, but the things stored in the wall told me otherwise.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, what you can learn from letters, journal entries, recipes, newspaper clippings, and the like. And hand-drawn maps. Innuendo isn’t only for mainstream media, politicians, and trashy novels, you know. And some of the things that I’d read in that place between wakefulness and sleep made me think that my house was like the lid of a jar. I determined to open it. I spread out some of the things I’d read and read them again to make sure I hadn’t been dreaming.

By the time dark enveloped my property, I’d made a plan. Now I’m not saying you should follow my example. In fact, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t. But I concluded that if I was to honestly own this place, I should be more than a curiosity seeker. What I’m saying is that some people are owners in name only. They might have something, for instance, from an inheritance, but rarely visit it and value it only for its eventual monetary worth. Getting back to my conclusion: if I was to honestly own this place, I should take ownership – you know, like people do who actually believe something is theirs and that they are in charge of it. Like that. Which meant (in my mind) I needed to be more than a visitor on convenient weekends.

It had begun raining before I went to bed, and I took advantage  of it by setting out some pots and pans to collect the water. Even I am amazed at how well I think ahead sometimes. The next morning I cleaned. Okay, I mostly swept and sprayed the all-purpose cleaner with a “light lemon scent” I’d brought with me all over everything. At least I had rinse water!

I put away things I’d planned to take back with me and locked the door. I’d written my letter of resignation to my employer the night before, but hadn’t sent it. Sometimes spotty cell (and in this case, internet) service can save you from yourself, not that I planned on being saved. You have your personality, I have mine.

I watched my new house grow smaller in the rearview mirror as I drove down the long lane and back to my normal that would never seem normal again.

to be continued . . .

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Not without a huge sigh (part uncertainty and part regret), I disembarked from my car and just stood, looking. The house was surrounded by trees on both sides, in addition to the long lane I had just trekked. But some wild daisies sprinkled amidst the long grasses lent me comfort. A meadow of what appeared to be weeds of different sorts was visible if I leaned to peer around the side of the building, which I did. Weeds. How apt.

The house, itself, well, not really a house – I don’t know what to call it; was more than a shed, less than a respectable cabin – was fronted with a sagging porch with four steps ascending. I took the challenge, and, as I did, heard some scurrying underneath. I had company without even sending housewarming invitations! Lovely.

I fished the key from my pocket and unlocked the front door. It was sturdy! I took the win and stepped inside. Remarkably enough, it was furnished with decent furniture, clearly from past generations.

I blew dust from a side table holding a lamp and the lamp wobbled until I grabbed it. It seemed a nice piece, perhaps even valuable in its day. I would hate to be the owner that broke it. Then I wondered how many owners there had been: if I was the second after an original or near the end of a long line of proprietors. I wandered through the rooms: a living room, kitchen, bedroom, and even a small bathroom (I was pleasantly surprised, though held no certainty that it worked). Beyond the kitchen, to the back of the house, was a sleeping porch, complete with a swinging bed held to the rafters by sturdy chains. My eyes scanned the mattress full of acorns.

Dusk was creeping over the yard by the time I brought in my belongings. There had been more to explore than at first glance. For one thing, there was a root cellar. I know! I saved my examination of it for daylight when I could clear the spiderwebs  with greater assurance of seeing whether the spiders were elsewhere.

In my inspection of the bedroom, I had literally stumbled into what sounded like a hollow place in the wall near the head of the bed. I scraped the bed across the floor in order to get a closer look. With a little effort, I broke through the false part and found a compartment which held my interest as well as, it appeared, things from a past owner.

I pulled out my sturdy flashlight and spent my evening reading the papers I had found. By the time my eyes were gritty with sleep, I knew my new house was not the tumbledown shack it appeared to be.

to be continued . . .

Image: Pinterest

When I clicked, it was more of out of curiosity than intent. Then I decided I was hungry, and fixed myself a scone with grape preserves. That, of course, needed a cup of coffee to go with it, giving me even more time to ponder the possibilities from the admittedly vague listing on my computer. I don’t know if they do that for you, but scones always put me in an agreeable mood. By the time I’d followed possibility after peculiarity after potential, and after I’d polished off both scone and coffee, I’d contacted my bank, signed some papers, and become the proud owner of a house sight unseen.

Oh sure. Like you’ve never done something on impulse!

Don’t mind my defensiveness. The jitters I get when I think of what I’ve done could send me into the next decade, not that those years look any more promising than the ones everyone is bemoaning this year. Or last year. Or even the year before that. Maybe I should stop counting.

Anyway, that original, innocent click on the listing on my computer led me to a weekend trip outside of my usual paths. In addition to jitters, I was also a bit excited. Me! A homeowner! Visions of cute cottages with herb gardens and hunting lodges surrounded by bendy pines filled my imagination.

I rechecked the directions, and turned onto a long dirt lane. Yes, I have GPS. I’m not 60. I’m 27 and I know a thing or two. But my cell service stopped working about 20 miles back. Fortunately, the guy at the last gas station assured me with a creepy sort of smile that cell service is spotty in these parts, so after I’d gassed up and before starting out again, I’d taken advantage of what I hadn’t known would be the last of the reassuring, if not somewhat annoying, voice telling me which way to turn, and had written down directions I’d pulled up from a phone map service. Did I say the lane was long? And dirt? Because I feel like that’s something you need to know. At least I think I do.

Finally I pulled up to the front of my new house, which was neither cottage nor hunting lodge. And as I sat behind my steering wheel peering at the structure in front of me, I thought to myself that I should’ve sworn off my love of scones long ago.

to be continued . . .

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Rain pelted the window as the wind shook it. He pulled on some woolen socks, scraped a kitchen chair out from the table, and picked up the pocket watch. It had been handed down for six generations and had landed in his possession when his father died.

He didn’t need it. He had a watch. It was a Tissot. No Rolex, granted, but not bad for an accountant. He’d thought of getting cash for the heirloom at a pawnshop, but then had thought better. He examined the pocket watch, turning it over, and thought of family members who had owned it before him. Most of them had kept it hidden away in a drawer, as far as he knew. His family wasn’t one for following each other’s dreams; only their own. Besides, he chuckled to himself, who would want to be an accountant? But it held interest for him, and interest was good in oh so many ways.

He ran his thumb over the words in pretty script at the bottom of the watch: World’s Fair Chicago 1893. What the Great Chicago Fire didn’t accomplish, the World’s Fair was designed to finish. What a morose thought! Still. Was a sullen truth worse than a happy lie? He knew he wasn’t alone in thinking that despite the story of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, it wasn’t likely that a kicked-over lantern would have burned down over three miles of a city. Poor Mrs. O’Leary: living out her life in relative reclusion what with the notoriety of the story! But, he thought, a fire can destroy as surely without a conclusive origin as with one. And destruction is useful for someone who wants to build back better. Yes, what the Chicago fire didn’t do, a World’s Fair might. He scolded himself for thinking it. It was a nice-looking watch, after all.

He pulled an old book from his bookshelf and paged through it, not for the first time. His eyes drifted to the part about the Midway Plaisance, but despite it’s name, he didn’t feel pleased. Those at the very top of the Fair’s planning, the ones with the money, said they were celebrating the past, while in reality planning a future the unsuspecting attendees wouldn’t have believed. Albert Pike and his green ink would have approved. But he felt no attraction to the glorious accounts of the spectacle. He was not impressed, and he knew why. Over the years he had read more than he wished he had read. It had changed his initial curiosity to distaste. Oh yes. He knew why he felt no attraction. He didn’t worship their god.

He rose and went to the window. The rain had stopped and even the little droplets from the storm had found their home at the bottom of the outside sill. The Fair that changed America. Give them bread and circuses! People still wanted a progressive utopia with all of its moving parts, and those who had planned it all long ago would have been pleased to hear of it. He appreciated one thing – a very big thing: Nikola Tesla’s alternating current. History claimed Tesla’s lights illuminated the Fair as the first rays of Arcturus began to show themselves. He added Arcturus to the short list. He could appreciate a very old star such as that. Stars, after all, were time keepers, too. And light in the darkness was grand whether through electricity or nature or Spirit. Yes, there was always something to appreciate among the detritus of history.

He felt the weight of the pocket watch in his hand. And time. He could appreciate – even value – time. He stared into space. Light broke darkness with time. He needed time. The whole world needed time. Precious, precious time. He started over to his desk drawer to stow the heirloom as generations before him had done, then paused, and slipped the watch into his pocket instead.

He wondered if he might faint. How embarrassing. He wasn’t that type of person. He had always considered himself strong and unruffled by commotion or threats. But now? Sweat dripped down the side of his face, his breathing accelerated and grew heavy, and his heartbeat had kicked into high gear.

Times being what they were, who could blame him? He’d lived his whole life in one place. While it was an area accustomed to polytheism and where killing babies wasn’t unheard of, at least it was familiar. But then a guy most knew or knew of had gathered them and suggested something they’d forgotten about: freedom. Threats and weirdness commenced, and suffering increased until it didn’t even seem unusual for young men to  die in the middle of the night.

And now an attack of greater proportions than any of them had dared to think about was upon them. Why oh why had they thought things could be different?! Why had they stepped out of the normal, the usual, and the expected only to die years before they’d anticipated? They’d already been through enough, but it was about to get much worse! What had they been thinking?

He looked behind him and saw the looming cloud of the enemy thundering toward them. He felt weak. Regretful. Beaten. But then . . .

Then another kind of sound caught his attention. Louder and louder it grew has he turned from looking behind him and with amazement watched the sight in front of him! With a shout, their leader called them forth. His breath steadied as his heartbeat strengthened. And the sea parted as they walked through on dry ground.

Story prompt from Exodus 14; image: pexels-ethan-jones-3222421.jpg

I got back to the library with a only a few hours left of my shift. Polly was distraught and actually hugged me when I walked through the door.

“I thought I’d never see you again! Are you okay? Tell me everything!”

I did, and by the time I finished, the work day was, too. Polly had gradually calmed down and hesitantly agreed her imagination might have run a bit too far. I scolded her. That was what she got for haunting the stacks that held mystery fiction. Perhaps she should stick to non-fiction like the rest of us with both feet planted solidly on the ground.

Polly had evening plans, so I told her I’d lock up. I went to the desk for the key and noticed some returned books stacked to the side. I might as well get a head start on tomorrow’s work and put them away.

I replaced a Jan Karon book and a worn Daniel Defoe. I glanced down at the last two books in my hand . . . How to Build a Compost and Autolysis. My heart skipped a beat. Nobody reads that fast. When had Stuart Demone even returned them? I hurried to the back stacks to put them away. Locking up quickly suddenly seemed like a good idea.

As I scanned the shelves, I felt slightly faint. What was this? A Complete History of the Alaskan Pyramids and Heaven’s Water by none other than Stuart Demone. I pulled them both from the shelf, backed into a chair where I sat and began to read. A Complete History of the Alaskan Pyramids discussed some of what Mr. Demone had described at Ground Zero. It was intriguing to say the least. Even Polly would have a hard time believing what I read. Time passed too quickly, so I decided to take both books home with me. I didn’t check them out.

Once I’d had a light supper, I settled into my most comfortable chair and picked up Heaven’s Water. It was amazing! The book spoke of bright water whose color was a sort of azure and turquoise with glints of pink and green. The author said it was impossible to describe in this world. I rubbed both hands over my scrunched face. What? He went on to say that it bubbled and rippled; that one could sink underneath the surface and still breathe; and that its delightful sensations tingled and refreshed, healed and energized.

I read until the moon was high in the sky and continued until the sun peeked over the horizon. It felt like an hour.

I couldn’t get enough. Too soon I reached the last page. Inscribed in the author’s own hand was a note. To me! I shakily pulled it out and read:

Life is not as average as it appears. Around every corner is something unseen, in every person is a hidden treasure yet to be revealed, and time holds more promise than anyone understands. Yet there is given to those of us who have stepped from this world to the next an opportunity to share what we are learning here: history hidden from most, science yet undiscovered, and beauty indescribable and unattainable to the most gifted artist. So when you see something out of order – for instance, winter’s sleet in the spring – it is then that a few of us are instructed to step back over the portal and share some of the work we enjoy in heaven’s realms with those still bound to the misunderstandings of earth. You are not unglamorous! You are treasured.

-S.D.

P.S. Great boots!

I called in sick to work. I needed time to think. I wandered to the window  – maybe I would take a walk. The spring day was as beautiful as I’d ever seen. I pulled on my new boots and stepped out the door.

. . . and then it began to sleet.

Water idea from Intra Muros, c. 1898, by Rebecca Ruter Springer, David C. Cook Publishing Co.

A puzzled frown flitted across Stuart Demone’s face. “What?”

“What?” I congratulated myself on the dodgy comeback and busied myself with putting my boot back on. When I looked back again, he’d gone to place his order. It seemed perfect timing to make my exit. But one look outside at sleet still falling changed my plan. It was an uncomfortable situation, but I chose boots over comfort. I was determined to save them. Plus, it had grown plenty chill and I was without a warm coat, considering it had been a lovely day when I left for work. Perhaps I could find a table out of his sight until the weather cleared.

I ordered a turtle latte and a cinnamon scone. I might as well have something enjoyable to come to my aide during this awkward situation. Consoling myself with the thought that maybe I wouldn’t have to stay out of his sight if Stuart Demone left once he had his coffee, I perused the menu on the back wall. The server was quick, and presented me with my order in a few minutes.

To my dismay, Ground Zero had grown quite popular just now and, as my eyes roamed for a place to sit, they landed on the one empty chair in the entire room. Stuart Demone motioned for me to sit across from him. I stifled a sigh and tried for a friendly smile instead. As I made my way over, I wondered who he had killed, where he had hidden the body, and how long it would take for autolysis. (It appeared Polly was more of an influence on me than I’d realized. After all, maybe he had a dead pet fish he was wondering about rather than flushing it down the toilet.)

To my chagrin, Mr. Demone wasted no time.

“Funny,” he said, “I thought you said autolysis when you saw me.”

“I . . .” I searched my brain for something that rhymed with it so I could claim he’d misunderstood me and could only come up with ‘paralysis’. No help.

“Actually, I am doing a little research in the area.”

I nearly choked on my scone.

“It’s quite interesting, really.”

He suddenly sounded like a professor.

“Is it?”

“Why yes!”

His speech quickened, but I have to admit, I didn’t miss a thing.

By the time he had taken me on a journey of the Egyptian pyramids clear over to the ones in Alaska (Alaska??), described estivation (it’s hibernation for worms – I know, right? Clearly he didn’t need a book about worms and my original excuse for following him would’ve fallen flat.) and delved into some history I’d never read, much less heard of or thought of, I was done with my latte and on my second scone.

Stuart Demone suddenly looked at his watch.

“Why look at the time! I must pick up my car. It needed new tires.”

Looking across the table at Mr. Demone, I thought to myself I’d never met a more curious person in my life.

to be continued . . .

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As she pushed me out the door, the fleeting question of why Polly was so insistent rang in my thoughts. Granted, her life was nearly as routine as mine. At least I thought it was. We’d both lived in this town long enough to know everyone’s histories as well as each other’s; okay – admittedly assumed histories. As with people the world over, we knew what we were told.

Stuart Demone was easily a block ahead of me. I was slightly curious about him, but nowhere nearly as curious as Polly was. What would following him get either of us? He arrived at an average house on an average block midway through town. Well that was just perfect. Nothing here promised to jolt me out of my boring librarian existence, but I kept walking as he opened his front door. If I continued on to the block behind it, I would be able to see if he had room for a compost bin. I craned my neck to see in between houses. It appeared his backyard was every bit as average as his house. Yes, there was room for a bin, but that was no surprise. What was a surprise is that there was already one there. It was by the side of his garage.

I gathered my nerve, approached the back of his garage, and peeked through the windows that lined the top of the wide door. A lawn mower, shovels and rakes, a hose, some buckets, and boards enough that they rose probably four feet when stacked along one side of the building. But what was missing from the garage was a car.

Now I suppose it’s not out of the question for someone to be without a vehicle, but in this part of the country most people have one. Otherwise, where would you find a battery to jump on cold days or take to the repair shop on others? However, a grown man living alone without a vehicle was curious, at least to me. It lent itself to all sorts of questions.

There wasn’t much else to see. I’d followed Stuart Demone and discovered he had boards in his garage and no car. I would report back to Polly and wash my hands of her jitters. If she wanted more information, she could scout it out herself.

As I started back to the library, the air grew chill, then it began to rain, then sleet. My boots! I began to run. It was more of a jog, but it is what it is.

Rather distressed about the weather and its effect on my new boot(ie)s, I dodged into the first building I reached. It was a coffee shop called Ground Zero, and it was there that (as you recall) I pulled off a boot to shake the sleet from it.

It was also there that, just as I was doing so, someone nudged open the door nearly knocking me over. I guess I’d not moved over enough to be avoided; plus hopping on one foot tends to diminish one’s balance, so there’s that. I looked up from the sleet on the floor and into the eyes of Stuart Demone.

One thing sprang to mind and slipped out of my mouth.

“Autolysis,” I whispered, dropping my boot in the process.

to be continued . . .

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I hopped around on one foot, trying to dislodge the sleet from my boot. How had it gotten there in the first place? Let me go back a few hours.

It was actually a beautiful spring day when I stepped out my front door. I was wearing a new pair of fashion boots that went beautifully with a skirt I had picked up for a song at the same store. I use the term fashion boots loosely here. I guess they were more like booties than boots. Not that I didn’t like the knee high things that made you look a step away from a magazine spread, and not that I didn’t have a pair. I did. They were in the back of my closet. After wearing them once, and then again to prove to myself my ankles could take the punishment, I silently admitted I would never be a step away from a magazine spread. I would be a block away at least, and that was if I was a distant relative of someone who worked there – which I wasn’t. My relatives worked at unglamorous places like recycling centers and school buildings and discount stores. I, myself, was on my way to my job at the local library. And I was pretty thrilled due to my new skirt and the boot(ie)s that matched. Camel brown. I never said I was a flashy dresser.

I’d arrived to the accolades of my fellow librarian – she knew how to flatter, believe me, having access to Roget’s College Thesaurus on a regular basis – and settled into another uneventful day behind the desk by the door. Polly (the aforementioned co-worker) had the jitters today. Since it was a quiet day (librarian humor), I sauntered over to the stacks where she was replacing returned books to their proper alphabetical home in between tapping her fingers on the cart, and asked her how it was going. There was no doubt she’d tell me what made her jumpy the minute I took a step into the aisle. She did not disappoint.

“See that guy over there?”

She nodded in the direction of a table near the back.

I raised my eyebrows. No one ever sat in the back. The folks who came to our library were starved for anything that looked remotely like friendship, which included people who walked past their table nodding hello.

“Why do you think he’s back there?”

“Who is he?” I answered helpfully.

Polly shrugged and returned to tapping her fingers on the library cart.

The man began gathering his things at the table, so I scooted back to the front desk in case he planned to check something out.

“Hi,” I smiled as friendly as I could when he approached the desk.

He nodded, and put a couple of books in front of me.

“Would you like to get a library card?”

To my surprise he shoved one in front of me. He’d clearly been here before, though neither Polly nor I had any idea who he was.

I tried to look disinterested as I checked out his books. He grabbed them and hurried out.

Polly rushed over.

“Well?”

“Stuart Demone.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Me neither. He checked out How to Build a Compost and Autolysis.”

Polly’s sharp intake of breath told me she knew what it meant and it wasn’t good.

“Body decomposition! Body decomposition!” she whisper-shouted. “Go! Go!”

“What?”

“Follow him to see where he goes!”

“And what if he sees me?”

“Tell him . . . tell him you want to know if he needs a book about worms,” she said pushing me out the door.

I should’ve known that wouldn’t be a good excuse.

to be continued . . .

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