She got out of her truck and
assessed the property. A few weeds grew up through the gravel in the
driveway—not enough to make the place unsightly but something she should attend
to before they got out of hand. When the summer rains started next month, those
babies could get as large as a vehicle in a fairly short time.
She approached the house on
stepping stones made of concrete shaped like bear paws and stepped onto a
narrow front porch. She had the tools with her to pick the lock, but sometimes
people actually made it a lot easier than that. Feeling along the top of the
door frame, she discovered that this owner had done precisely that as a silver
key fell into her hand. The lock and deadbolt worked seamlessly and she was inside
within a minute.
The house had a dim and hollow
feel to it with all the drapes closed. It was a simple floor plan, she
discovered, where one entered a tiny foyer that opened directly into the living
room. A dining L angled off to the right. The kitchen was probably beyond that.
To her left a hallway took off into the darkness. Bedrooms and bathrooms would
be found back there somewhere. She flipped the light switch nearest the front
door. An overhead light came on. The second switch brought up a lamp beside a
fake-leather recliner chair.
Sam walked through the living
room and pulled the drapery cord at the largest window. The low sun glared in,
casting the room in intense brightness. These first few minutes were always the
discovery phase of the job. Sam had walked into empty houses and partially
furnished ones. There had been a hoarder’s den, stacked to the ceiling with
papers and clothing—so much so that the owner had simply taken her kids and
piled into the car, only to land in another place and start collecting all over
again.
At one of Sam’s earliest jobs
she’d discovered she wasn’t alone. The woman who lived there was dying—in fact,
did die while Sam was with her. Bertha Martinez bequeathed Sam a small relic,
the wooden box that somehow conveyed special powers and complicated her life
all at once. Sam pushed that thought aside and walked deeper into the house.
A quick survey showed that there
were two bathrooms and three bedrooms, completely furnished. The living room
furniture and knickknacks had a dated feel, stuff that would have belonged to
her grandmother. Six chairs sat around a glossy cherry dining table, and a
large china cabinet contained an array of serving pieces in two patterns and a
silver coffee service that must be a real joy to polish. Another house, another
life story. Sam always caught herself wondering about them.
In the kitchen the countertops
were tidy, lined with the usual assortment of canisters and appliances, kitchen
tools and block of knives. At the small two-person table were a pair of
flowered yellow placemats, a holder containing a sheaf of yellow paper napkins,
and a ceramic salt and paper shaker set—a charming little white mouse and a
gray one. The refrigerator hummed quietly and Sam took a deep breath before
opening the door. Even in a clean home this was where the nastiest surprises
usually awaited.
The wire shelves were clean and
neat, with condiments precisely lined up in the door racks. A crisper held
fresh lettuce and tomatoes, some carrots and a bag of apples. A loaf of bread
had never been opened. A plastic half-gallon of milk was unsealed but nearly
full. She turned it to read the expiration date. Something was not right here.
Sam closed the refrigerator door
and pulled her phone from her pocket.
“Delbert, how long did you say
this house has been abandoned?”
He muttered something and she
could swear she heard him chewing on corn chips. Papers rattled noisily and she
held her phone away from her ear until she heard his voice once again.
“Payments are a hundred-twenty
days in arrears. Our mailed notices came back and our phone calls went
unanswered. We started proceedings more than thirty days ago.”
“But no one verified that the
house was unoccupied? There’s food in the fridge that has to be only a few days
old.”
Indistinct words, sounds of
crinkling paper. He grumbled some more and finally came up with something.
“Let’s see . . . The owners are
listed as Marshall and Sadie Gray. Funny—the mortgage was paid on this place a
long time ago, but they took out a new loan about ten months ago. Hardly made
any payments on it after that.”
That didn’t make a whole lot of
sense. “So, what should I do? I don’t feel right about clearing out the house
when they might still be living here.”
“Stick a notice on the door and
leave my business card inside. If we don’t hear from them we have to proceed
with eviction and sale of the property.”
Sam hung up and went out to her
truck. In a folder were all the requisite forms, including the notices Crow had
mentioned and a pad of USDA note paper. She scrawled a note to let the Grays
know that they needed to contact Delbert Crow at his office immediately, and
left the message along with Crow’s business card on the kitchen counter. She
could only imagine their shock at discovering someone had been in their house.
Even though it was her job, invading a home felt a little creepy.
However, as long as she was here,
she decided to see if there were other clues as to whether the Grays would be
back anytime soon. The closets of the two smaller bedrooms were crammed with
lifetime collections of boxes, shoes, extra bedding—the type of clutter that
everyone accumulates but some people never part with. Most of it probably
hadn’t been touched in years.
The master bedroom and bath
contained more recent clutter. The closet rail held clothing for both genders,
the man’s side a bit more sparse. Two off-the-rack business suits and a half
dozen dress shirts, two pair of khakis and a few collared sport shirts. At the
far end he’d shoved his out-of-season things—a heavy jacket and a couple of
sweatshirts. The wife’s clothing consisted mostly of pastel dusters and house-dresses,
along with a number of coordinated knit pants and tops, bought for their
wash-and-wear qualities far more than for their style. Sensible shoes stood
perkily on a wire rack that held them with their toes pointing upward.
Sam left the closet door standing
open, as she’d found it, and crossed to the triple dresser. Pulling a couple of
the drawers open a few inches revealed that they were fairly full. The Grays
might have packed for a quick trip, but essentially all of their things were
still here. They hadn’t gone very far away.
This felt too intrusive. She
backed out of the room, making sure she hadn’t left obvious signs of her little
inspection. The living room was gloomy now, the sun having dipped below the
tall trees. Sam locked the front door and reached to place the house key where
she’d found it on the door frame.
“What are you doing?” The sharp
voice startled Sam and she nearly dropped the key. She spun around, knowing she
looked guilty as hell.
Two steps below her, on one of
the bear paws, stood a wizened little man of about eighty. He wore tan walking
shorts that ended just above his knobby knees and white crew socks that came
halfway up his calves. A plaid button-down shirt was neatly tucked into the
shorts, and thickly veined hands were planted firmly on his skinny hips. Bright
blue eyes peered out from under a floppy hat.
“I, uh, excuse me? Who are you?”
“Milton Fasbinder. I live next
door and I don’t like the looks of a strange vehicle at Sadie’s house. So I’m
asking you again, what are you doing?”
Sam stood straighter and flipped
open her manila folder. “I’m a property caretaker with the USDA. I have
authorization to enter the premises and make the house ready for sale.”
“Well, that’s just a big crock of
shit,” he said. “You can’t sell Sadie’s house out from under them.”
She didn’t want to get into the
Gray’s personal finances or start arguing the fact that she truly did have the
right to be here. She walked down the steps to face the neighbor at his own
level.
“Mr. Fasbinder, believe me, I
really don’t want to take anyone’s house away. It’s just that they haven’t
answered any of the notices that were sent to them. I need to know how to get
in touch with the Grays.”
He’d backed down a little when
Sam approached him. “Well, things got tough for them when Sadie went into the
home. Poor thing. It was hard on Marshall, making that decision. Me, I can’t
imagine it—choosing to have your wife put somewhere. Much as I miss my wife,
I’m glad I didn’t have no say in the matter. My Greta, she went quick. Too
quick.”
His eyes grew misty and Sam
pretended to look at the house, giving him a moment.
“So, Marshall Gray is still
living here?” she asked casually.
Fasbinder nodded. “
Ain’t
seen him in awhile. He still travels a lot on
business. Sometimes gone a week or two at the time.”
“And Sadie Gray? Is she still in
a home or has she—”
“Oh yeah. She’s still there. It’s
that place over near the hospital. That Alt-
heimer
care place. We used to joke around, call it old-timer’s disease. Not so funny
once your friends start to get it though.”
Sam nodded. Sounded like the
Grays were in a tough spot. “I need for Mr. Gray to contact our office. Do you
have a cell phone number for him or some way to contact him?”
Milton Fasbinder shook his head
slowly. “Sure don’t. Him and me, we never exactly became buddies. Now Sadie’s
first husband, Joe. We lived next door a long time. Used to watch ball games in
the summer, back when the TV was only black and white and you sometimes had to
look close to figure out who the players were. None of them cameras close up in
their face, you know.”
“Does Sadie have any children?
Anyone besides Marshall that I can contact?”
“Nope. Never had any. Like to
broke her heart. But she came to accept the idea. Finally she was about forty
she took up working in Joe’s insurance company. Good thing, too. Joe’s policy
money came in real handy for her when he died. Too young, he was. Who ever
heard of a heart attack at forty?”
“I guess it happens.”
“Left Sadie single for a
lotta
years. But she did okay. Kept that agency going
awhile, had a lot of hobbies—the garden club and her church work. Her and Greta
both were women who liked to stay busy that way.”
Sam glanced toward the west where
the sun had fully set. It didn’t seem that she would get much more solid
information from Milton Fasbinder, so before he could launch into any more
stories she excused herself, reminding him to have Marshall Gray call Delbert
Crow’s office if the homeowner should come around.
As she pulled out of the
driveway, Sam debated whether to stop by the care home and try to speak with
Sadie Gray. But it had been a long day and weariness began to set in fast as
she approached Paseo Del Pueblo Sur, the main drag through town. Instead of
heading toward the hospital and nearby complex of medical facilities, she took
a left and made her way home.
By the time she’d maneuvered her
rig up her driveway and unhitched the trailer from the pickup truck, Kelly was
standing at the back door.
“Mom, it’s a good thing you’re
home.”
“What’s wrong?” Her
television-addicted daughter never met her at the door, and Sam’s first
thoughts went to Beau. A man in a dangerous career always brought worries.
“Jen wanted you to know that the
air conditioning at the bakery went out this afternoon.”
A choice word or two zipped
through Sam’s mind. “Is the electricity out?” Visions of melted butter and
drooping cakes sank her mood.
“No, just the AC. And the
forecast is for it to hit ninety tomorrow.”
Sam growled as she trudged into
her kitchen and plunked her backpack down on the table. Dealing with her
landlord, crotchety old Victor Tafoya, always put her off. Since he’d tried
once to evict her last fall she usually avoided contact at all costs. But
coming up with the price of fixing the AC unit on her own was out of line. It
really was his duty to pay for the repairs. She looked up his number and picked
up the wall phone.
His line rang seven times before
she gave up. The man was too cheap to get an answering machine. She slapped her
phone onto the cradle, in no mood to deal with him tonight anyway. The
temperatures would cool overnight and she would call him in the morning when
she was in a fresher frame of mind.
“Did you eat yet, Mom?” Kelly
asked, holding up the packet of tamales Zoë had given them earlier in the day.
Sam shook her head. “I had those
for lunch. I’m not that hungry anyway. Save them and there will be enough for
tomorrow night.”
She retrieved a deli container of
macaroni salad from the fridge and a fork from the drawer, carrying the
impromptu meal into the living room and staring blankly at the TV while Kelly
channel surfed toward some inane thing where a bunch of gorgeous women all
seemed intent on getting dates with the same man.
By nine o’clock she was dozing in
the chair and since her day started early, she said goodnight to Kelly and
fumbled her way to bed. She fell asleep realizing that she hadn’t heard from
Beau all day.
Sam woke before her alarm went
off, thinking of the measures they would need to take at the bakery to keep
their creations from melting into puddles if the air conditioning wasn’t
operational by midday. June weather and chocolate didn’t go together very well.
She rolled over, stared at the clock and gave up on more sleep.
She couldn’t very well let her
business crash because of this, and she couldn’t bet that Victor Tafoya would
react quickly. So—first things first—how to keep it all together. Her mind
churned as she showered and dressed in her quasi-uniform of black slacks, white
T-shirt and the white baker’s jacket with her name and the store logo
embroidered on it. Somewhere out in the garage she’d stored a couple of fans.
By the beam of a flashlight she found them in a far corner and loaded them into
her little bakery delivery van.