Authors: Thomas Cater
If she had not destroyed my spirit masks, including
the
nank-schou
, an African
We
wisdom mask, rumored to be capable
of provoking primitive ferocity in the gentlest human soul, we may have had a
chance at reconciliation. When I discovered my collection trashed, I knew there
was nothing she could say or do to make me forgive her. It was the final
indignity in a history of indifference to my interests.
Claiming a financial interest in the town house and
book, Myra proceeded to sue. She did help with some book engraving and
illuminating and created the artwork for each section, even contributing a few
rhyming lines. However, the fact that I provided her with room and board seemed
compensation enough at the time.
I have it on good authority that she has moved out of
the town house. I do not know to where, probably in with one of her artsy
friends. Until the case comes to court, I still own the DC property, even
though I haven’t been there in months; not since I became an occupant of the
house on Scary Creek,
w
hich is where I met Elinore.
It was not a planned meeting. I had barricaded myself
in the Washington apartment to avoid a subpoena when I spotted Myra, her
attorney and a process server marching up the steps. I knew they had come to
evict me, to take possession of my apartment and building, the furniture and my
beloved RV, my only real joy in a world of transitory and fleeting pleasures.
My only option was to run. If I could beat them to the garage, I knew I could
be on the road in minutes. With a little luck, they might never catch me. She
would,
I surmised, eventually tire of the suit. In the meantime,
I could survive
on what I had concealed in a secret checking and savings account. If worse came
to worst, I could always find a job writing for a
s
mall daily or
weekly newspaper.
I however underestimated Myra’s appetite for
retribution, something I had done before. Her desire to control the known
universe and everything in it was legend.
I ran down the basement stairs and climbed into the RV.
I heard her shout instructions to “lock the garage door!” I knew the order had
caught the server off guard. At that point, I was no longer vulnerable to
official intimidation, especially when it came to destroying my own property.
I revved the
RV’s
engine up and blew the diesel horn … long
and loud. I drove straight toward the door
without a thought to
what might have
happened if the server had neglrcted my warning. Fortunately, it was Sunday, traffic
was light and he was clever enough to know not to linger near a garage door
when a disgruntled husband was protecting his most valued possession.
He vacated the drive when he heard the engine start. Moments
before the RV collided with the door; a loud and lengthy blast on the horn
seemed to blow the door to smithereens. I can still see her red enraged face as
the door shattered. She and her attorney were standing on the steps waving
papers in their outstretched arms, as the RV bounced over the curb and down the
street.
Chapter Two
I drove for hours before stopping at Harpers Ferry,
West Virginia. Early the next day, I scavenged a ragged week-old newspaper from
a coffee shop. An ad announced an estate auction in a town called Vandalia,
Upshyre Country, located several hours southwest. The house, a Victorian
mansion built by a coal and timber baron in the 1880s, looked as if it had
possibilities. Surrounded by 26 acres, the house, land and contents were selling
as a package per the previous owner’s wishes. There was something compelling about
the house, though I cannot say what it was. The auction was closing that very
day.
The town was easy enough to find on the map, but
making time and progress on the narrow winding roads proved another matter. I
arrived several hours late and found the courthouse doors locked. I was under
the mistaken impression that most state and county facilities remained open
until 4 pm.
There were numerous cars and pickup trucks lining the
streets,
but the sidewalks were nearly empty. The stores appeared to be open but
in dire need of customers. Across the street from the courthouse and located
within the block were empty restaurants and dusty storefronts, banks, a
department store, drug stores, and a real estate office. A magistrate’s office
and notary public shingles dangled from faded aluminum awnings.
High school senior class and aging wedding photos were
on display in a vacant storefront window. I suspected there were malls
somewhere on the outskirts of town doing a thriving business, medical clinics,
donut shops, burger joints and automotive stores scattered throughout, but from
the steps of the courthouse, the streets were dead.
A lone figure moved inside a realtor’s office. I had
traveled too far to walk away from Vandalia without registering a word of
complaint. I checked the name of the agency in the auction notice. They were
the same. If it was an error, I felt entitled to an explanation, or at least
ask a few questions if nothing else. The door was open and a bell announced my
entry in a rattling noisome way. The office intimated there were profits in
real estate to make, even in a county as remote as this one. Several desks
seemed to be
comfortably nestling
in a blue shag carpet that emitted a pleasant
fragrance. The newest and most impressive desk was adjacent to a frosted-glass
room divider.
A young man wearing camouflage fatigues and combat
boots had risen at the sound of the bell and was weaving his way across the
room. Midway he discovered some pleasure in my presence and smiled
.
I thought it
had something to do with my thinning hair, which I neglected to brush. The wind
had swept it over my ears to look like fender skirts. I was also wearing red
suspenders over a tie-dyed purple tee shirt with a Grateful Dead logo, a gift
from a woman trucker who aspired to be an exotic dancer. My hastily assembled fugitive
attire was sadly uncoordinated. It had created a similar response in the
Harper’s Ferry coffee shop.
I popped a tissue from a box on a nearby desk and
wiped the dust and grime from my nose and forehead.
“Virgil Stamper,” he announced in an accommodating
voice.
He was short and stocky with long blond hair and a
wind-burned face. His smile was wry and as suspect as his camouflage fatigues.
“I came here to bid on a house,” I said, inspecting my
glasses for smudges and flakes of dander. “I guess I got here too late.”
The word ‘bid’ seemed to stir his curiosity.
“The house on Scary Creek?” he asked.
“I don’t know the location, but I like what I saw.”
“You’ve seen it?” He asked.
“Only a picture in the paper,” I replied.
Virgil’s eyes picked through a stack of listings and
photos piled on a nearby desk.
“That was an old photo,” he said, searching through
the papers and locating the print. “The house was a showplace, but now it’s run
down. Some of the windows are broken and termites and dry rot have invaded the wooden
porches. It needs work, but it’s still a bargain,” he concluded.
“It doesn’t sound like a bargain; sounds like it’s
falling apart,” I said.
“It has a double-planked mini-ballroom on the second floor,
four baths, a living room, dining room, study, library and six bedrooms. There
are also several fireplaces, Italian marble mantles, tile floors in the
bathrooms, cut-glass chandeliers, copper plumbing and a basement like Cheop’s
tomb.”
Not being able to tender an offer was disheartening,
but I suspect it would have cost a fortune. Until I settled my account with
Myra, everything I acquired would be for her a takeover target.
“How much did it sell for?” I asked.
His upper lip curled in a cynical smile. He shook his
head and sarcasm crept into his voice.
“It sold cheap,” he said, “only one bid, and it was a
silent auction from out of state.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, sensing legal impropriety.
“It means sellers can pick the buyer, or take any
offer.”
“Who were the sellers?” I asked.
“It was a tax sale; the county and a local bank.”
“Too bad;” I replied. “That house and I could have
had a future.”
“We can talk to the new owner, or find something as
desirable; Mister…what is your name?”
“Charlie Case,” I replied. I had not heard it spoken
or credited to a photo in so long it stumbled over my tongue.
Virgil waved a finger in my face. “Mr. Case, I should
have known. I’ve been wondering when you’d get in touch.”
“You have?” I asked, confused.
“Yes, I’ve been waiting for your call.”
“Why?” I asked, “Would you be waiting for my call?”
He shrugged patiently. “To tell you the good news, and
let you know I received your draft.”
“You received … money from me?” I asked in disbelief.
There was a smile on his face and it would not go
away. “Is this another joke, Mr. Case?”
“No,” I said, anxiously. “I’m not in the habit of
joking about money, especially mine.”
“You are Charles Case from Washington D.C., aren’t
you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember sending you a check.” I
said. “How much was it?”
The expression on his face turned serious, and the
line of his protruding jaw hardened. “I received a bank draft for five thousand
dollars and a letter of credit from your bank 90 days ago. I must tell you, Mr.
Case, if you have second thoughts about the purchase, there is nothing we can
do now. The offer is in and you were the high bidder. In fact, you were the
only bidder.”
A rush of adrenaline hit me with such force that it
made me dizzy. For seconds I was unable to think clearly. I began to suspect
that I was the victim of an elaborate ruse, or that Myra had somehow accessed
my hidden account and was doing her best to impoverish me. I thought about my
hasty departure from DC, and the man with Myra; I might have been wrong about
their motives.
I pulled a checkbook from my pocket and examined the
balance. It was much the same as it had been for the past few months, with few
withdrawals greater than two hundred dollars.
“Do you remember the bank’s name the check was drawn
on?” I asked.
“First National of Washington,” he said. “How could I
forget? It isn’t often I get that kind of money telling me what to bid on.”
I did have a checking and savings account at the same
bank, since it administered my inherited trust, but I was also a scrupulous
bookkeeper. I would have remembered authorizing a check, unless someone was
acting on my behalf and without my permission.
“So what did I bid on?” I asked.
“The Ryder mansion: the house on Scary Creek.”
I was confused, having trouble concentrating, or he
was mumbling. In any event, his words were not clear. I was having second and
third thoughts about Myra and her accomplice, or maybe he was not who or what I
thought. A conspiracy was going on inside my head, or I had too many thoughts racing
through my mind.
“I tried to phone,” Virgil said, “but your line is
always busy.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I keep it off the hook.”
He nodded as if no further explanations were required.
“So tell me again, what did I buy and how much did I
pay?”
“You made a five thousand dollar deposit on the Ryder
mansion and you have thirty days to pay the balance.”
“Which is?”
“... Twenty-five grand.”
“I bought a mansion for thirty thousand?” I asked.
He nodded again. “It’s a real bargain.”
As far as I could tell, I was not out much and $30,000
for rural real estate was cheap, especially in an abandoned ruin in a remote county.
I plucked another tissue from the pack, not because I needed it, but because I
was feeling anxious.
“So who’s holding the stakes now?” I said, worried.
“Banks, the county and the estate’s executor; I suspect.”
“And if my bank doesn’t clear it, or recognize the
signature?”
“If they don’t honor it,” he said, “you will have some
explaining to do.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I owed Virgil an
explanation, even though I could not account for the draft he received, unless
Myra was involved.
“I’m sure there is a good reason for my inability to
remember,” I said. “Perhaps it will come later.”
He gave his head an anxious nod. I resisted a strong
compulsion to write a check for the balance, but reason kept intruding. I had never
seen the house, nor did I know the land's worth or the condition it was in. For
all I knew, it could have been sinking into a swamp for the past 100 years and
only stones from the chimney were still standing.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “How can the house you
described sell so cheap?”