Authors: Brandon Massey
David picked up the newspaper. It was dated March 9th.
Two days before his father had vanished.
A chill zapped through him, like an electric shock. He
dropped the paper.
There was something eerie about touching an item that
had been last handled by a dead man. But he would have to
get used to it, if he was going to live in this house.
King bolted inside the porch. Tongue wagging, the dog
bumped against David, eager to go inside.
David opened the door.
The first thing that struck David was the smell: a stale
odor hung within, as though the house had been sealed for
years and not only for a few months. He found the thermostat in the entry hall, and switched on the fan. He'd open
windows, too, as he encountered them, then turn on the airconditioner later.
King set off down the hallway, sniffing eagerly.
As he stood in the foyer, David had the distinct feeling
that he had walked into a dream. Like a place in a dream, the
house felt familiar, yet foreign. The last time he had visited,
he was fourteen. He'd spent two weeks there during the summer, entertained by his two cousins (whose names escaped
him) and, less often, by his father. He'd left convinced that it was the most boring place in the world-they had none of
the cool stuff they had in Atlanta-and vowing that he'd
never visit again, no matter how badly he wanted to spend
time with his dad.
Funny how time could change a person's mind.
A staircase twisted up to the second floor. Four doorways
were in the first-floor hall. David slowly walked past each
room. The living room was the first room he passed, a spacious area full of overstuffed furniture, a grandfather clock,
framed family photos, a television, a fireplace, and a rocking
chair. Next was the dining room: a large oak table stood in
the center, circled by matching oak chairs. On his right, a
bathroom. A familiar slurping sound came from within.
"King!" He opened the door. The dog had its snout in the
toilet, lapping up water.
"I'll get some water for you" David went through the
doorway at the end of the hall, into the kitchen. He found a
large bowl in a cabinet, filled it with tap water, and set it on
the tile floor. King drank greedily.
The kitchen was basic: it had a gas range, Formica countertops, a pine dinette table. A Polaroid photo was pinned
against the refrigerator with a magnet: his father, clad in fishing gear and standing on the deck of a boat, showing off his
catch of the day, a large, gleaming bass.
Dad died on a fishing trip like that ...
David's breath caught in his throat. He left the kitchen to
explore the rest of the house.
On the second level, there were five rooms: a master bedroom, a guest room, another bedroom, another bathroom,
and an office. One look inside the office confirmed that this
was where Richard Hunter had spent most of his time, because the other rooms lacked any distinctive mark of his personality.
Two large windows, veiled with half-open venetian blinds,
admitted afternoon sunshine. Oak bookcases lined the walls;
the shelves were packed with tomes-his father's works, and many others. A large oak desk stood along the far wall, a
black leather chair in front.
From his research, David learned that his father had written at least three of his novels while sitting at this desk. An
IBM Selectric typewriter sat in the middle of the desk, like a
museum relic. His father had composed his work only on
typewriters, never on computers. A jar full of sharp pencils
stood to the left of the typewriter, and a rubber coaster lay on
the right, marred with a coffee stain. His father would drink
coffee continuously as he hammered out his prose.
At David's town house in Atlanta, he had arranged his
desk similarly: writing implements on the left, a coaster on
the right, and a computer, instead of a typewriter, in the center.
He settled into the chair. He was the same height as his
father, six-foot-one, and he found the angle of the chair and
desk comfortable. Perhaps he would set up his own computer in this room, right here.
"This is where the great man worked," David said. His
voice seemed loud, and he laughed, uneasily. The office was
so quiet and still that he might have been sealed inside an
airtight cell.
He noticed that a framed photograph lay on the corner of
the desk, facedown. He picked it up. It was an old picture of
David, at maybe three years of age, his mother, and his father. All of them had afros, and wide grins.
He was shocked to find that his father had kept this family photo close at hand. This gave him something new to
think about. Had his father missed the family life he had
once had?
He looked around. No additional clues jumped out at
him yet.
David yawned. He'd driven over nine hours and needed to
take a nap. Thinking about this stuff was tiring him out.
Before leaving, he opened the blinds of the window nearest the desk, to see what kind of view the office provided. He saw a vista of rolling green hills, deep forests, and, perched
on a hilltop in the distance, a sprawling antebellum mansion,
a remnant of the old South.
Coldness tapped the base of his spine.
He didn't understand why looking at the house made him
feel cold. He could not remember ever seeing the mansion,
though surely it had been there when he'd visited the town as
a teenager.
Someone should tear down that place, he thought, suddenly
and irrationally. It should be demolished-
The door burst open, and David almost screamed.
It was only King. The dog dashed inside and leapt onto
David, tail wagging.
"Okay, okay, I know, your bladder is full now and you
need to pee" David stroked the dog's neck. "Come on, let's
go outside."
David looked out the window one last time. The chill returned, skipping along his spine like an icy finger.
Hurriedly, he left and shut the door.
Outside, while King cavorted across the yard, David
began to unload the trailer. Although he was exhausted, he
worried that if he dared to sleep he would not wake until late
in the evening. He didn't want to leave his possessions in the
trailer overnight. He likely had no need to fear thieves in this
town, but years of city living had made him cautious.
He had opened the trailer door and gripped a cardboard
box full of books when the grandmotherly woman who had
waved at him earlier walked across the street. She was accompanied by a tall, lean man who appeared to be her husband.
"Good afternoon," the man said. He had a crisp, deep
voice. "Are you our new neighbor?"
"That I am" David placed the box on the ground. "My
name is David Hunter."
"A pleasure to meet you," the man said. "My name is
Franklin Bennett. This is my wife, Ruby."
David and Franklin shook hands. Franklin had a strong,
dry grip. David immediately had a good feeling about him.
One of the few things his father had taught him was how a
trustworthy man will always have a firm handshake.
Franklin and Ruby looked to be in their mid-sixties. Ruby
was dark-skinned and petite, with large, clear eyes. She wore
jeans, tennis shoes, a United Negro College Fund T-shirt,
and a cap that covered a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.
Franklin was bespectacled and balding, with a trimmed gray
beard. He wore a white dress shirt, slacks, and suspenders.
He had a scholarly demeanor. David was willing to wager
that he was a teacher.
King came over and snuffled the Bennetts' legs. David introduced the dog, and the couple smiled and petted King.
They were obviously dog lovers.
"So you're a Hunter?" Franklin said. "Was Richard Hunter
your..."
"He was my father," David said.
"We're so sorry to hear about what happened," Ruby said.
"What an awful accident."
"Your father was a good man," Franklin said.
"Thank you," David said. "I moved here from Atlanta.
Someone has to take care of the house for a while. It's been
in our family for a long time."
"That is most certainly true," Franklin said. "Since nineteen twenty-seven, in fact"
"Really?" David said. "I didn't know that"
Franklin chuckled. "I'm a bit of a history buff, David.
One of my long-standing hobbies has been exploring the
history of our fine town"
"Don't get Professor Bennett started" Ruby grinned.
"Will you be living here permanently, David?"
"Maybe for a year. After that, we'll see. I've never lived
in a small town, so I'll see how I like it."
"It's a markedly slower pace of life than what you're
likely accustomed to," Franklin said. "But we love it. We
grew up here, moved away to Washington, D.C., to have our
careers and raise our family, then decided to come back here
for our retirement."
"What's the age range of the people here?" David said.
"It's not a town full of old folks, sugar," Ruby said. She
chuckled. "We've got retired folks, like us, stable, working
families, then some kids your age, and younger. We've got
our share of young, pretty women, too. Are you single?"
"Ruby, don't pry-" Franklin started.
"It's no problem." David laughed. "I'm single."
"Keep your eyes peeled, then," Ruby said. She winked.
David laughed again.
"We could talk your ears off all day," Franklin said. "But
I see that you were in the process of unloading this trailer.
Why don't I assist you?"
"Thanks, but that's okay. I don't have that much to take
inside."
"Frank only wants an excuse to keep asking you questions," Ruby said. "David, please let him help you, or else
he'll talk me to sleep wondering about you"
Franklin scowled. "Woman, you do not know my mind at
all." Then he laughed.
"Since you put it that way, I could use a hand" David
smiled. These were the nicest people he had met in ages.
Although he could have unloaded the trailer on his own, he
was interested in continuing his discussion with Franklin.
The old man claimed to be a history buff, and he might
know a great deal about David's own family history as it related to the town.
Most of all, David wanted to ask him about his father.
They chatted as they conveyed boxes inside. David learned
that Franklin really was a retired history professor. He had taught at Howard University for over thirty years. In his life
as a retiree, he spent his time pursuing his lifelong passionhistory-and had become the town's official historian. The
historian position had never been formally conferred upon
him by town authorities-they didn't have an official post
for such a person. It was official, Franklin said, because
everyone, including the mayor, approached him whenever a
question about history arose.
"Are you a writer, like your father was?" Franklin said as
they hefted boxes full of books into the house. "You've got
quite a few titles here"
"I'm an avid reader. Outside of English classes in college,
the only writing I've ever done is in computer code. I
worked as a programmer for a consulting firm before I
started my Web design business two years ago"
"Ah, so you're an entrepreneur!" Franklin set down the
box he'd been carrying beside the staircase. Sweat glistened
on his face. He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his
skin dry.
"Listen, you don't have to help me with all of this moving," David said. "I can finish the rest on my own"
"Nonsense. I need the exercise. Don't be concerned, I
won't have a heart attack on you"
It took half an hour for them to finish lugging everything
inside. Ruby returned to bring them tall, icy glasses of sweet
tea. David sipped the tea gratefully; King looked at him with
sad eyes, as if expecting him to share. "None for you," David
said, and stuck out his tongue at the dog. King barked.
Exhausted, David and Franklin took seats at the dinette
table in the kitchen. David thanked Franklin again for his assistance, and Franklin waved it off.
"The only physical exercise I pursue these days is riding
my bicycle around town," Franklin said. "I'm happy to do
some weight lifting."
David nodded. "You know, since you live across the street,
I was wondering, did you know my father?"
Franklin pursed his lips. "Interesting question. Although I
was Richard's neighbor for seven years, and though he was
often present during that time, I'd have to say that we were
acquaintances, not genuine friends. This is the first time I've
set foot within this house"
"So my dad wasn't very friendly."
"He was friendly, but he was a private man-rightly so
considering his public persona. I think when he was here, in
his home, he wanted to be left alone, to enjoy life like an ordinary man. He was famous here, understand. Tourists came
from hundreds of miles away to drive by this house and
gawk, or they hoped to spy him as he made one of his brooding walks throughout the town.
"That said, I don't think Richard had many friends in
Mason's Corner. But of course, absolutely everyone knew
him."
"I didn't," David said. When he realized what he'd blurted
out, he blushed.
Franklin arched his eyebrows.
"I might as well tell you," David said. "My father and I
didn't exactly have a good relationship. He was a stranger to
me, to be honest" He swept his arm across the kitchen.
"Then, when he passed, he gave it all to me. Everything he'd
owned"
"Which perplexes you, and understandably so," Franklin
said. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, David. Richard Hunter
was an enigma to me. I don't pretend to understand his motivations."
"Neither do I, and that's why I'm here. I want to piece
everything together-as much as I can, anyway. I won't be
satisfied until I get some answers"
David was surprised by how openly he spoke to Franklin.
He'd told his mother, and no one else, about his purpose for
moving to Mason's Corner. His family and friends believed
that he was there because he wanted a temporary break from
Atlanta.