I walk back to the hallway, taking a left this time, towards the window at the other end of the hall. Late May sunshine filters through, leaving that end of the hall much brighter than the dining room side. On the right is another picture and two doors; on the left is a little nook and another two doors. I start on my right with the picture.
It is about where I thought the door in the laundry room was. I guess it goes to a closet or something. At first glance, the oil painting looks like a stereotypical deer-on-a-rocky-outcrop-at- sunset type of thing, but it's not. First, the "deer" has too many antlers growing from what might be the head. Even for a moose or elk, they are way too many. Second, it's green-chartreuse, teal, viridian, all shades. In flat polygons, like computer art. Then there is the single eye bulging from its forehead, and the probable fangs jutting from the mouth. The rocks are pinks and purples, and in the same flat style. The forest behind the beast is in reds and oranges, yet more jungle than temperate foliage. The sky is not blue, but a hazy yellow, with a bright blue sun beaming from the cloudless reaches. A thin black corona surrounds the sun. The scene must be some sort of alien/fantasy landscape, totally unlike anything else of my father's. Where am I? What could this be? Without any context, there is no way of knowing. My head reels as I move on.
Behind my is a little nook, probably for the phone when the house was built. I've read enough from that age to suspect it's the truth. Now there's just a small table with a large urn with fake flowers barely reaching over the rim. I suspect to hide something. I peek around the urn and see a small panel that would allow access to the pipes in the bathroom behind it without having to damage as much. Practical, even if the urn is a little much.
The two doors on the right are locked. One must be the home gym Sam mentioned, but why would it be locked? Why would both doors be locked? These were the servant's quarters, maybe the laundry room was too. No answers yet.
The first door on the left is open, though. Inside is a long, narrow staircase. Probably for the help. I flick on a switch by the door so I can see my way up. The stairs aren't steep, but I feel cramped. At the top, a small table and a chair sit beneath another picture. This time, it's a black-and-white photograph of a woman. Fairly young, long hair, kind of attractive. I can't tell how old it is. There is a timelessness about it. Otherwise, the landing is slightly dusty, as if no one used it. I take a left and continue up a shorter flight to ... something. It's blocking the way to somewhere. I try looking around and under it. I think it is a cabinet, and it's blocking the way to the main stairs. No wonder I was a tad winded. Can't see why this way isn't used. It would be faster to get to the kitchen from upstairs this way.
I take the stairs back down to the hall and open up the last door. The room was probably used as a sunroom, but now it was an office. The large picture window cast bright sunlight throughout. Beneath the window was an old-fashioned desk, out of proportion with the room. Along the other wall, framed clippings and diplomas were hung. Then it struck me. Where were the photos? Aside from the one hidden on the stairs, I hadn't seen a single one. Most people would have had at least one somewhere I had been--stuck onto the fridge, staring above the television, arranged perfectly in the living room. But there were none. Maybe they've gone digital, and that one I found was one of his early works. Maybe.
The name on the first diploma was "Catherine Haywood, Nursing." Another was for a "Catherine H. Burton," but this was a Master's degree, also in Nursing. Another was an MBA. This must have been Sam's mother. Here name was in the newspaper clippings as well. It looked like she was the head of a local clinic. The clippings were copies, carefully cut so not to include any photos. The few that were there were so smudged, I couldn't tell who anyone was. Filing cabinets took up most of the rest of the room.
There was a door on the left wall, under the stairs. Inside was another staircase, this one leading down to the basement. I didn't want to look there yet. On the last wall were a few old photos, about twenty or more years old. They looked mostly like graduation pics, but they were all groups. I couldn't tell which of the women were her. I quickly wanted to leave this room, its alien touch was worse than deer painting. I needed to get out of there. I opened the door knowing what room would be next. the library and, most likely, my father's office.
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Dada: Chapter 14a
I take the door to the pantry. The room doesn't seem to be as big as I thought. Must be all the empty shelves and the broken walk-in. I go on through to the hall, where I look into the laundry room. It's a bit smaller than I thought too, especially with that door in the back. The doors to the pantry and laundry don't align. They are off by just a bit. Doesn't really make any sense not to have them line up. I then notice the other door at the end of the hall. It had swung into the hallway beyond. I don't know why I didn't see it before when Sam rushed through. I guess that makes this hall more of a long mudroom or vestibule. Keeps it warmer in the winter, I guess.
I take a left at the hallway, towards the swinging door to the dining room. On the left are two pictures, about where the doors to the pantry and kitchen once were. On the right are two doors. Actually three, but the third door is almost directly across from the other hall that it really doesn't count. Again, the doors don't align for some reason. Nothing too straight. Probably to keeps the drafts down.
The first picture is a watercolor, all grays and white. A bleak winter scene of barren mountainside with leafless trees under a dull, steel grey sky, all rolling with clouds. Dark shadows with hints of blue crawl upon a cold, snowy ground. The only touch of color is a bright red barn, just left of center. It seems to shine in the otherwise empty scene. Behind the barn, a thin trace of smoke rises from a maroon chimney from a farmhouse, just barely scene with its clear white walls. Even though the rest of the world was cold and lifeless, one warm spot remains.
While the second picture is also a watercolor, the subject is totally different. A bright yellow sun shines though a clear and cloudless light blue sky. The hills are full with a thousand shades of green. Flowers in red, orange, yellow, and blue cover the field in the foreground. Hardly a shadow can be seen. Yet, hidden among the wildflowers, a fallen dull grey fence is seen. Its crossbeams rotting and drooping to the dirt. Just beyond the fence, an ashen burnt out barn with a caved-in roof can just be caught. A battered brown house lies behind it, to the right. A summer scene, where nature has taken back what it once lost.
The doors seem unexciting compared to the paintings. The one closest to the dining room is just overflow: extra chairs, folding tables, a serving cart. Most of it is covered in sheets, but no layer of dust. The room is small, but still useful. The next room is larger, but less full. Boxes of what appear to be Christmas decorations line the wall opposite an empty bed frame. This must be one of those "servant quarters" that Carol mentioned. A door to a small closet is in the rear. No windows, of course. The room is too deep inside to have any. How could anyone, why would anyone, want a room without a window? I would feel stuffed, imprisoned. I quickly retreat.
The next door opens onto, a hall? How many halls does this house need? It's fairly short, just another door at the other end, with a picture on the left and a door on the right. This time, the picture is a collage of a garden. Images of flowers from catalogs were cut out and pasted into a mishmash of differing sizes and shapes, fused into an impossible scene. Cut outs of children with their faces blotted out by other things (hats, scarfs, even a large dog) run along without a care. Each one is from a different world, making a scene where size and proportion cannot be determined. Confusion abounds. The picture makes my head hurt.
The first door takes me to a bathroom, not a half-bath but a full bathroom with a tub and shower. This must be where Sam ran off to, although I thought I saw him veer right, not left earlier. Maybe I'm wrong. This must have been built for the servants use. Why else have this on the first floor? I realize that it had been a few hours since I relieved myself. A quick unzip, a few shakes, a flush and I'm done. I wash my hands with the liquid soap, even though I don't need to, and head back out.
I open the last door, and I am back in the entry hall. The bathroom must be under the stairs. My bags are where I left them, in the middle of the floor. The door is varnished in the same color as the walls, effectively hiding it by the stairs. From this angle, I can see the frame where an atrium must have been, an extra layer of protection from the cold. Now, all that is left are small hall closets next to either side, standing without any reason, replacing windows that once looked out onto the porch. I leave my bags safe where they are and go back to the hallway, ready to continue the tour. So far, I can't get a handle on my dad.
I take a left at the hallway, towards the swinging door to the dining room. On the left are two pictures, about where the doors to the pantry and kitchen once were. On the right are two doors. Actually three, but the third door is almost directly across from the other hall that it really doesn't count. Again, the doors don't align for some reason. Nothing too straight. Probably to keeps the drafts down.
The first picture is a watercolor, all grays and white. A bleak winter scene of barren mountainside with leafless trees under a dull, steel grey sky, all rolling with clouds. Dark shadows with hints of blue crawl upon a cold, snowy ground. The only touch of color is a bright red barn, just left of center. It seems to shine in the otherwise empty scene. Behind the barn, a thin trace of smoke rises from a maroon chimney from a farmhouse, just barely scene with its clear white walls. Even though the rest of the world was cold and lifeless, one warm spot remains.
While the second picture is also a watercolor, the subject is totally different. A bright yellow sun shines though a clear and cloudless light blue sky. The hills are full with a thousand shades of green. Flowers in red, orange, yellow, and blue cover the field in the foreground. Hardly a shadow can be seen. Yet, hidden among the wildflowers, a fallen dull grey fence is seen. Its crossbeams rotting and drooping to the dirt. Just beyond the fence, an ashen burnt out barn with a caved-in roof can just be caught. A battered brown house lies behind it, to the right. A summer scene, where nature has taken back what it once lost.
The doors seem unexciting compared to the paintings. The one closest to the dining room is just overflow: extra chairs, folding tables, a serving cart. Most of it is covered in sheets, but no layer of dust. The room is small, but still useful. The next room is larger, but less full. Boxes of what appear to be Christmas decorations line the wall opposite an empty bed frame. This must be one of those "servant quarters" that Carol mentioned. A door to a small closet is in the rear. No windows, of course. The room is too deep inside to have any. How could anyone, why would anyone, want a room without a window? I would feel stuffed, imprisoned. I quickly retreat.
The next door opens onto, a hall? How many halls does this house need? It's fairly short, just another door at the other end, with a picture on the left and a door on the right. This time, the picture is a collage of a garden. Images of flowers from catalogs were cut out and pasted into a mishmash of differing sizes and shapes, fused into an impossible scene. Cut outs of children with their faces blotted out by other things (hats, scarfs, even a large dog) run along without a care. Each one is from a different world, making a scene where size and proportion cannot be determined. Confusion abounds. The picture makes my head hurt.
The first door takes me to a bathroom, not a half-bath but a full bathroom with a tub and shower. This must be where Sam ran off to, although I thought I saw him veer right, not left earlier. Maybe I'm wrong. This must have been built for the servants use. Why else have this on the first floor? I realize that it had been a few hours since I relieved myself. A quick unzip, a few shakes, a flush and I'm done. I wash my hands with the liquid soap, even though I don't need to, and head back out.
I open the last door, and I am back in the entry hall. The bathroom must be under the stairs. My bags are where I left them, in the middle of the floor. The door is varnished in the same color as the walls, effectively hiding it by the stairs. From this angle, I can see the frame where an atrium must have been, an extra layer of protection from the cold. Now, all that is left are small hall closets next to either side, standing without any reason, replacing windows that once looked out onto the porch. I leave my bags safe where they are and go back to the hallway, ready to continue the tour. So far, I can't get a handle on my dad.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
Dada: Chapter Fourteen
"Is there any of your, I mean, our father's work here?" We are finishing up a snack. One sandwich and some chips for me, three sandwiches and a small bag for Sam.
"Some, I guess. What brought that up?" Sam finishes up with a small burp. Teenage boys.
"That Tyler guy was talking about...."
"Taylor. His name is Taylor," Sam corrects me
"Are you sure? Yeah, I guess you are. I just like the name Tyler better. Better president too, at least in my opinion."
"President? Anyway, there's a few paintings hanging in the back hall and upstairs. Most of what's here is stored in a special room in the basement. I don't know how to get into it. Maybe someone else does. I think he's got work at the university, other places. You would have to ask someone else. It isn't that much." Sam lets out another huge burp.
"Excuse you. Well, Tyler, Taylor, mentioned that there was a showing of our father's work tonight at the, um, Pierson. I think it's some kind of benefit. I think we should go there, just to show up, let everyone know about me and see that you are doing well enough."
"Are you sure? Mr. Taylor and my dad had this funny relationship."
"You didn't mention that before when I asked about him. What was funny about it?"
"Nothing really," Sam starts. "I guess Mr. Taylor was a fan of some of dad's work. When he found out that he lived just a few streets over, Mr. Taylor just geeked out. He tried to get closer to dad whenever he could. Nothing creepy, just wanted to be friends with him. The two aren't that close, but I don't think they were ever close friends."
I ponder this for a moment. Sure, this Taylor, Tyler, wait, I was right the first time, didn't look dangerous. Just your regular middle-aged dad bod guy trying to be good neighbor. But I still think something is not right. Sam might be holding back too. Of course, he isn't talking much period, not with that voice cracking so bad.
"I still think we should drop by, at least for a few minutes. I would like to know about our father, and see his work," I add.
With this, Sam opens up his mouth wide again, but this time in a huge yawn instead of a burp.
"I think you should take a nap before we get ready to go," I say, just as Sam says, "I think I should go upstairs and take a nap." We both crack smiles at saying the same thing at the same time.
"You go take a nap and then start getting ready. I'll clean up and look around a bit."
Sam stands up and stretches his arms over his head as he turns to go. I notice that his shirt raises from his waist, leaving a small crack of skin showing. I just got him that shirt two days ago, and he's already outgrown it? What, two inches plus since then. Okay, maybe an inch, but still. Maybe he hasn't outgrown it, but he'll need new clothes again soon.
I clean up the dishes it a minute. The kitchen is so organized that I find what I need quickly. Only two plates and glasses. A knife or two. I should have gone slower. Now, I have to look for dad's art, in a great big house that I still don't know my way around.
Friday, January 11, 2019
Dada: Chapter 13b
I intercept the guy about halfway down the drive. He probably doesn't mean any harm, but I still think there is something wrong going on. The guy is just over six feet, and he's still wearing that gray jacket, even though it's warm. It looks like the type that was popular back in the 80's and early 90's, the ones with those weird epaulets with the snaps. I didn't know they still made the things. He reaches out a hand even before I get to him.
"Hi there. I'm Dil. Dylan Taylor. You must be the one taking care of Sammy and the house."
I take his slightly sweaty hand. I hate shaking hands. You never know what they have touched. His grasp is firm, and I return the favor so I don't appear weak.
"Chris, Christopher Burton. I'm Sam's older brother."
"Older brother? I thought he had... Oh, you must be from John's first marriage. He doesn't really get to talk about that. I almost forgot about it myself," Dil says. He keeps the handshake going a little longer than necessary. I let go as soon as I can.
Up close, I can see why Dil kept his jacker on. It's to hide his stomach. It has the beginnings of a beer-belly. In about ten years, Dil is going to be at least fifty pounds heavier. I peg him to be a former jock, mid-40's. Doesn't realize he doesn't need to eat as much as he used to. He dyes his hair, too. I can see the grey roots even under his sweeping brown bangs. It's more noticeable on his buzzed sides. His stubble betrays his age as well. I find myself rubbing my chin, thinking about my own traces of grey from last night.
"Yeah, I'll be taking care of him for now. I'm pretty much the only one who could."
"It's a tragedy what happened. I guess you know much of what happened. So strange. I saw your car earlier, and I just thought I would see what was going on."
"Actually, I haven't been able to hear much about it." I try to keep up, but Dil just keeps talking as if he doesn't hear me.
"There's going to a showing of some of John's work at the Pierson at seven tonight. Just a small meeting of some of the neighbors and a few of his fans," Dil continues. I missed some of the conversation as my mind wanders.
"The Pierson? I don't know about the place."
"Hey! What's going on?" Sam yells from the porch. There's no way he could have made it to the kitchen and back in that length of time. He's walking towards us.
"Don't mention any of this in front of him. He's having a rough time of it."
"Understood," Dil plainly adds.
"Hello Mr. Taylor," Sam squeaks. When is his voice going to stop cracking.
"Hi Sammy. My you're getting big. You're going to be taller than John, I bet. You two look just like him. I'm surprised I didn't see the resemblance with Chris here, sooner." Dil extends his hand, but Sam wisely hangs back so he doesn't have to shake it.
"Yeah, we have some groceries to put up, so I guess we should get back inside. Nice to meet you Dil."
He awkwardly puts his hand down. "Well, I guess I best be going to. Just call on me if you two guys need any help. Bye now." Dil slowly turns around and walks back to the sidewalk.
"How well do you know this Mr. Tyler?"
"Mr. Taylor," Sam corrects me as we return to the house. "He lives next to Vin, down the street. He has been trying to be friends of my Dad's for awhile now. The two have never been too close."
"Is he okay? He seems to be a little strange."
"I guess he's all right. He works at some government office near the school. He has two sons, Burke and Madden. Burke's fifteen and into soccer, while Madden is eleven. We don't really hang out with them."
We reach the front door. "I just get this vibe of him. By the way, how tall was your father. Our father."
"A little over six-one or so. Why do you ask?" He looks me in the eye, only slightly up.
"Nothing, just something Dil said," Yeah, really wished I had gotten the height genes. Sam is going to overtake me any second now. That kid's never going to stop growing.
"Hi there. I'm Dil. Dylan Taylor. You must be the one taking care of Sammy and the house."
I take his slightly sweaty hand. I hate shaking hands. You never know what they have touched. His grasp is firm, and I return the favor so I don't appear weak.
"Chris, Christopher Burton. I'm Sam's older brother."
"Older brother? I thought he had... Oh, you must be from John's first marriage. He doesn't really get to talk about that. I almost forgot about it myself," Dil says. He keeps the handshake going a little longer than necessary. I let go as soon as I can.
Up close, I can see why Dil kept his jacker on. It's to hide his stomach. It has the beginnings of a beer-belly. In about ten years, Dil is going to be at least fifty pounds heavier. I peg him to be a former jock, mid-40's. Doesn't realize he doesn't need to eat as much as he used to. He dyes his hair, too. I can see the grey roots even under his sweeping brown bangs. It's more noticeable on his buzzed sides. His stubble betrays his age as well. I find myself rubbing my chin, thinking about my own traces of grey from last night.
"Yeah, I'll be taking care of him for now. I'm pretty much the only one who could."
"It's a tragedy what happened. I guess you know much of what happened. So strange. I saw your car earlier, and I just thought I would see what was going on."
"Actually, I haven't been able to hear much about it." I try to keep up, but Dil just keeps talking as if he doesn't hear me.
"There's going to a showing of some of John's work at the Pierson at seven tonight. Just a small meeting of some of the neighbors and a few of his fans," Dil continues. I missed some of the conversation as my mind wanders.
"The Pierson? I don't know about the place."
"Hey! What's going on?" Sam yells from the porch. There's no way he could have made it to the kitchen and back in that length of time. He's walking towards us.
"Don't mention any of this in front of him. He's having a rough time of it."
"Understood," Dil plainly adds.
"Hello Mr. Taylor," Sam squeaks. When is his voice going to stop cracking.
"Hi Sammy. My you're getting big. You're going to be taller than John, I bet. You two look just like him. I'm surprised I didn't see the resemblance with Chris here, sooner." Dil extends his hand, but Sam wisely hangs back so he doesn't have to shake it.
"Yeah, we have some groceries to put up, so I guess we should get back inside. Nice to meet you Dil."
He awkwardly puts his hand down. "Well, I guess I best be going to. Just call on me if you two guys need any help. Bye now." Dil slowly turns around and walks back to the sidewalk.
"How well do you know this Mr. Tyler?"
"Mr. Taylor," Sam corrects me as we return to the house. "He lives next to Vin, down the street. He has been trying to be friends of my Dad's for awhile now. The two have never been too close."
"Is he okay? He seems to be a little strange."
"I guess he's all right. He works at some government office near the school. He has two sons, Burke and Madden. Burke's fifteen and into soccer, while Madden is eleven. We don't really hang out with them."
We reach the front door. "I just get this vibe of him. By the way, how tall was your father. Our father."
"A little over six-one or so. Why do you ask?" He looks me in the eye, only slightly up.
"Nothing, just something Dil said," Yeah, really wished I had gotten the height genes. Sam is going to overtake me any second now. That kid's never going to stop growing.
Tuesday, January 8, 2019
Dada: Chapter 13a
Now that I knew what to look for, I could just see the small garage from the dining room window. It was just out of sight enough that it didn't interfere with the view. I guess why that is why it was rebuilt the way it was. This house must have been something when it was first built, before the remodeling. I can't wait to see the rest of the place, but food first.
We get back to the kitchen, where Sam goes straight to the refrigerator by the pantry entrance. I start looking through the cabinets. The first few ones I open all have dishes and glasses. While necessary, not what I'm looking for. I expected some cookies or cakes. At least a box of crackers. Those I found in the fifth one I opened. The box was new, unopened. Well, it was something.
"What's in the fridge?" I call out to Sam. "I've got nothing."
I take a peek over his shoulder to see even less than I found. No milk, no fruits or vegetables, no soda. Just a few partially empty condiment bottles. Oh, and a few labeled plastic containers near the bottom. Probably leftovers, but I don't eat strange leftovers. Or a stranger's leftovers. Or leftovers in general. Physically, I can't eat them. I'm not a picky eater. Well, not that much of one, but I am a super-taster, of a sort. When I was a kid, for some reason, I had trouble eating some things. They just didn't taste right. Even when it was a favorite, I didn't think it tasted quite right. Then, one Saturday when I was nine or so, I asked for some tacos for lunch. I should have suspected something when it only took a few minutes for my mom to make them, barely half the time. When I started eating, I found a piece of lettuce, even though I hadn't used any. Not this time, but the last time a day or so earlier, I had. I found out that mom just reheated some leftovers, without her telling me what she done. I didn't even think there had been any leftover that night.
All those years of not eating much, I could now blame on leftovers. I could just barely taste the difference between fresh and the reheated. From that day one, I would not eat leftovers at all. Sure, it caused my mom some trouble, forcing her to eat anything leftover. But I was a growing boy, so there wasn't that much leftover, or so I thought. My mom still complains about it, even though ti has been almost twenty years. Ever since I have been living on my own, I have tried to make sure that I make just enough for one serving. This means a lot of take-out and frozen meals, and less pizza than I would like (although reheated pizza is just about the only thing that my taste buds don't mind).
"Maybe there's something in the freezer or the walk-in?" I hopefully bring up.
"The walk-in doesn't work. Hasn't ever worked since I can remember," Sam squeaks up. "The freezer just has meat and leftovers. We usually don't have frozen meals. Neighbors came over when it happened, and they helped clean out the fridge before I, you know."
I shouldn't have brought it up.
"Then I guess it's time for a b-, I mean food run. There was a small market a few streets over. Shouldn't take too long to pick up a few things and be back. What do you think?"
Sam was already working on the crackers. How he could eat those without making a sound is beyond me. Still, he was shaking his head up and down agreeing with my suggestion. At least we would be having something other than take out again.
After Sam put the crackers away, but still taking a few with him, we left the house again. I still didn't get to see the other side of the house. As we drove off, I saw a man walking a dog right towards the house, and he was waving right at us. Odd, but kind of friendly. Not many other people were out for a warm Saturday afternoon. At least traffic was light. It only took ten minutes to get to the market (it was further out than I thought). It was older and smaller than I thought, but it had a good enough selection of staples to make sure we wouldn't starve overnight. Tomorrow, I would find a larger super-market to really have enough. Unfortunately, the place doesn't carry me favorites. Not even look-alike brands. There isn't enough difference in just a few hundred miles or so to not carry what I like. And I know for a fact that the company that makes my chocolate bells is based in this area. I can't wait to get to a larger market, but it will have to wait.
Sam stays quiet on the way back. At least he had the excuse that he was eating on the way there (I made sure he just had enough so he wouldn't leave and crumbs), but he was silent on the way back. He barely made the comment that he had never been in the store before, even though it was fairly close to his home. Apparently, his mother preferred going somewhere else, but he wouldn't say where. I didn't even turn on the radio, wanting the AC going to keep us and the food cool. As I drove down the street, there was the older guy again, waiting for us on the sidewalk near the driveway. The dog was nowhere to be seen. He followed us in as I drove up to the front door.
We get back to the kitchen, where Sam goes straight to the refrigerator by the pantry entrance. I start looking through the cabinets. The first few ones I open all have dishes and glasses. While necessary, not what I'm looking for. I expected some cookies or cakes. At least a box of crackers. Those I found in the fifth one I opened. The box was new, unopened. Well, it was something.
"What's in the fridge?" I call out to Sam. "I've got nothing."
I take a peek over his shoulder to see even less than I found. No milk, no fruits or vegetables, no soda. Just a few partially empty condiment bottles. Oh, and a few labeled plastic containers near the bottom. Probably leftovers, but I don't eat strange leftovers. Or a stranger's leftovers. Or leftovers in general. Physically, I can't eat them. I'm not a picky eater. Well, not that much of one, but I am a super-taster, of a sort. When I was a kid, for some reason, I had trouble eating some things. They just didn't taste right. Even when it was a favorite, I didn't think it tasted quite right. Then, one Saturday when I was nine or so, I asked for some tacos for lunch. I should have suspected something when it only took a few minutes for my mom to make them, barely half the time. When I started eating, I found a piece of lettuce, even though I hadn't used any. Not this time, but the last time a day or so earlier, I had. I found out that mom just reheated some leftovers, without her telling me what she done. I didn't even think there had been any leftover that night.
All those years of not eating much, I could now blame on leftovers. I could just barely taste the difference between fresh and the reheated. From that day one, I would not eat leftovers at all. Sure, it caused my mom some trouble, forcing her to eat anything leftover. But I was a growing boy, so there wasn't that much leftover, or so I thought. My mom still complains about it, even though ti has been almost twenty years. Ever since I have been living on my own, I have tried to make sure that I make just enough for one serving. This means a lot of take-out and frozen meals, and less pizza than I would like (although reheated pizza is just about the only thing that my taste buds don't mind).
"Maybe there's something in the freezer or the walk-in?" I hopefully bring up.
"The walk-in doesn't work. Hasn't ever worked since I can remember," Sam squeaks up. "The freezer just has meat and leftovers. We usually don't have frozen meals. Neighbors came over when it happened, and they helped clean out the fridge before I, you know."
I shouldn't have brought it up.
"Then I guess it's time for a b-, I mean food run. There was a small market a few streets over. Shouldn't take too long to pick up a few things and be back. What do you think?"
Sam was already working on the crackers. How he could eat those without making a sound is beyond me. Still, he was shaking his head up and down agreeing with my suggestion. At least we would be having something other than take out again.
After Sam put the crackers away, but still taking a few with him, we left the house again. I still didn't get to see the other side of the house. As we drove off, I saw a man walking a dog right towards the house, and he was waving right at us. Odd, but kind of friendly. Not many other people were out for a warm Saturday afternoon. At least traffic was light. It only took ten minutes to get to the market (it was further out than I thought). It was older and smaller than I thought, but it had a good enough selection of staples to make sure we wouldn't starve overnight. Tomorrow, I would find a larger super-market to really have enough. Unfortunately, the place doesn't carry me favorites. Not even look-alike brands. There isn't enough difference in just a few hundred miles or so to not carry what I like. And I know for a fact that the company that makes my chocolate bells is based in this area. I can't wait to get to a larger market, but it will have to wait.
Sam stays quiet on the way back. At least he had the excuse that he was eating on the way there (I made sure he just had enough so he wouldn't leave and crumbs), but he was silent on the way back. He barely made the comment that he had never been in the store before, even though it was fairly close to his home. Apparently, his mother preferred going somewhere else, but he wouldn't say where. I didn't even turn on the radio, wanting the AC going to keep us and the food cool. As I drove down the street, there was the older guy again, waiting for us on the sidewalk near the driveway. The dog was nowhere to be seen. He followed us in as I drove up to the front door.
Friday, January 4, 2019
Dada: Chapter Thirteen
"So, how bad is the bathroom?"
"What?" Sam pipes up. "What are you talking about?"
We are still standing on the narrow porch, just in front of the door, as Carol pulls out onto the street.
"You ran right past her just as soon as she unlocked the door. Considering how big a stink you made in the car, you had to have something going on down there. I just want to know if I have to clean anytime up."
Sam takes a few seconds before answering. "It felt worse than it was, or smelt. I'm sorry for the car, but sometimes you can't help it."
"Come on, let's get the rest of the bags."
The porch isn't that long. There's not even any furniture. Only one slight step down to the driveway. It doesn't even reach the windows. It doesn't fit the rest of the house. Maybe it added later, or changed for some reason. Nothing here makes much sense.
"By the way, should I leave thecae here, or park closer to the street?"
"You could pull up next to the garage. That's where Dad keeps his car, but there's probably no room for yours in there," Sam replies. "It's just up the other driveway." He points to the right, behind the car.
I don't know how I missed it before, must have been more concerned getting to the appointment on time. The driveway splits just past the the turn to the front. I walk around to look back at the building. From the street, I thought the garage was just a shed. It is so small, there's definitely not enough room for a second car in there. In fact, this section of the drive is patched with weeds, as if it it rarely used. The garage doesn't match the house, either. Too small, too far back from the street, too far away from the house. The fence from the pool and patio prevents anyone from getting to the house from the front. It looks like there's a door on the side one could use to get to the house, but it skirts close to the pool. That's a long walk, but still closer than walking through the house to get to the kitchen.
"I guess I'll leave it here, for now," I call out to Sam as I look inside the garage. There's just enough light to see an older style of car, maybe a Cadillac, I'm not good at cars. Has to be at least twenty years old. Maybe forty? Great shape, from what I can see. Doesn't get driven often.
Sam already has the last of the bags out, waiting for me. He hands me my suitcases, while holding on to his small tote. I lock the car doors remotely as we walk back to the door.
"I can show you the where to put those upstairs. We have plenty or extra rooms."
"Not yet, I want to look around a bit first," I reply while dropping my bags down just inside the entry. "But first, I want to get something to eat." To my right is the closed door to the library and the left side of the house. In front of me, there is the stairway. A little narrower than I expected, with a sharp turn to the right fairly high up. A door is under the turn, no idea where it goes. To the right, the living room and the path we already took. I guess we go that way back to the kitchen.
"I guess I'm hungry too," Sam says, a growl coming from his stomach. I hope that doesn't mean he has to use the bathroom again.
"What?" Sam pipes up. "What are you talking about?"
We are still standing on the narrow porch, just in front of the door, as Carol pulls out onto the street.
"You ran right past her just as soon as she unlocked the door. Considering how big a stink you made in the car, you had to have something going on down there. I just want to know if I have to clean anytime up."
Sam takes a few seconds before answering. "It felt worse than it was, or smelt. I'm sorry for the car, but sometimes you can't help it."
"Come on, let's get the rest of the bags."
The porch isn't that long. There's not even any furniture. Only one slight step down to the driveway. It doesn't even reach the windows. It doesn't fit the rest of the house. Maybe it added later, or changed for some reason. Nothing here makes much sense.
"By the way, should I leave thecae here, or park closer to the street?"
"You could pull up next to the garage. That's where Dad keeps his car, but there's probably no room for yours in there," Sam replies. "It's just up the other driveway." He points to the right, behind the car.
I don't know how I missed it before, must have been more concerned getting to the appointment on time. The driveway splits just past the the turn to the front. I walk around to look back at the building. From the street, I thought the garage was just a shed. It is so small, there's definitely not enough room for a second car in there. In fact, this section of the drive is patched with weeds, as if it it rarely used. The garage doesn't match the house, either. Too small, too far back from the street, too far away from the house. The fence from the pool and patio prevents anyone from getting to the house from the front. It looks like there's a door on the side one could use to get to the house, but it skirts close to the pool. That's a long walk, but still closer than walking through the house to get to the kitchen.
"I guess I'll leave it here, for now," I call out to Sam as I look inside the garage. There's just enough light to see an older style of car, maybe a Cadillac, I'm not good at cars. Has to be at least twenty years old. Maybe forty? Great shape, from what I can see. Doesn't get driven often.
Sam already has the last of the bags out, waiting for me. He hands me my suitcases, while holding on to his small tote. I lock the car doors remotely as we walk back to the door.
"I can show you the where to put those upstairs. We have plenty or extra rooms."
"Not yet, I want to look around a bit first," I reply while dropping my bags down just inside the entry. "But first, I want to get something to eat." To my right is the closed door to the library and the left side of the house. In front of me, there is the stairway. A little narrower than I expected, with a sharp turn to the right fairly high up. A door is under the turn, no idea where it goes. To the right, the living room and the path we already took. I guess we go that way back to the kitchen.
"I guess I'm hungry too," Sam says, a growl coming from his stomach. I hope that doesn't mean he has to use the bathroom again.
Tuesday, January 1, 2019
Dada: Chapter 12b
I can't believe this. The social worker doesn't seem to care to do their job. This assistant has no idea what is going on. This is about a kid's life! Why isn't anyone willing to help? It's like they think I know what's going on, but I don't. This is ridiculous. I could scream at all of this.
"Hey, where is everyone?" Sam screeches from somewhere. I don't think his voice will ever drop.
"Kitchen!" I shout back, probably a bit too loud, but I want him to know where we are even if I don't know where he is. At lest it breaks the awkward pause with Carol.
Sam bounds in a few seconds later. He looks okay. No hint of what may have happened. He's not carrying his bag. Must have left it behind.
"So, I will notarize you filling out the temporary custody forms and financial acceptance waivers, and I will be on my way." Carol was proficient, but she hadn't mentioned the waivers yet.
"What's this about waivers? No one mentioned them before."
"While you are the custodian of Sam here, you will have limited access to Burton family assets until a more permanent solution is reached. I am not sure why this is being set up this way, but it is somewhat standard in temporary orders," she replied.
I take a quick look over the papers. Nothing seemed off, so I sign them. Just wished there was more to do. Everything seems wrong, like there's something missing. Maybe it is just me. At least this is temporary, probably. I stand to hand her the papers, a sign that she can leave. She takes the hint.
"Well, I guess I can leave you two here. Let me just go out the back. . . "
Sam interrupts her. "Go through the dining room. It will be faster and get you to car sooner." He quickly directs us to the door in the corner to our right. I guess he doesn't want us anywhere near the bathroom. From what happened at the car, it can't be smelling that good anywhere near it. I hope I don't have any trouble cleaning it up. Wait, I will be the one to clean it up. At least he wasn't that bad in Lexington, but still, this time could be worse.
"From what I read, when the patio was built, the kitchen was extended to provide access. The dining room likewise. The entire kitchen was redone to make room. It looks like they removed a door to the hall from there," she pointed to where a refrigerator was standing, "and added the island her to make up the missing space now taken by the breakfast nook and doors. The passkey was kept though."
She was pointing to a counter near the door. I hadn't noticed the shut window over it. I guess it made service easier. We go through the door into the dining room where there is a table longer than my car. To the right are two small cabinets bracing a window looking out onto the pool in the back. Two more windows are on the facing wall to the left, with a larger china cabinet between them. A door, to the hallway I guess, is halfway down the wall on the right. A large entry, mostly closed off by a sliding door, is on the far wall. The table is mostly covered by a cloth, as are the dozen or so chairs lining it.
"How often do you use this room? It's too large for just you and your parents."
"We normally eat in the kitchen. My parents only used this room for parties, but it's been a long time since we had one of those." Sam seems to be avoiding something, but I can't tell what.
We walk around the table to the sliding door where Sam opens it. The next room is partially walled off on one side to the larger living room beyond. A small sofa faces the television screen mounted on the wall to the right with a small curtained window to the left. A picture is on the wall blocking off the room.
"Is that your, I mean our father's work? I found online that he was an art professor."
Carol pipes up. "Actually, the is by a William Moses. He is a descendant of Grandma Moses and takes after her painting style. I think Mr. Burton studied with him, at times. Much of his art collection features primitive stylings such as this."
"Dad turned a spare bedroom upstairs into a studio. He only a few of his works here, mostly in the library on the other side of the house," Sam adds. He quickly guides us through the rest of the living room. "Mom wanted this room to be about being 'social,' that's why she moved the TV into this nook. She couldn't think of anything else to do with it."
"Yes. I think it used to be a sitting room before the remodel. There would've been another sliding door right here, between the two rooms." Carol was starting to should like a snob. She should have gone into real estate instead of law. "In fact, the room being used as a library was probably another parlor of some sort. I think there were even two servants' quarters in the back as well."
"We never had any help, not even a baby sitter for me. Dad uses them as a gym, or he used to," Sam chimes in. Lucky kid to have s stay-at-home mom. All I ever got was a grandmother so strict she would sometimes forbid me to go just down the road a few houses to play with my friends.
We leave the nook to go into the next room. The actual living room is rather large. A fireplace dominates the left wall, but it doesn't look like it has been used in years. Another sofa sits in front of it, with smaller chairs surrounding it. Tables with lamps and vases and small sculptures are everywhere. No books or even magazines. I guess they are relegated to the library. This is woman's room, through and through. Plain and uncomfortable. On the right is another sliding door, fully open to the entry way. The stairs are against one wall opposite the front door. That's when I notice the alarm.
"Uh, why isn't the alarm going off. We didn't have to key anything in went we used the back door."
"I didn't set it when I was taken. I am not sure if I know how to set it, although I've done it before, but nothing looked wrong," Sam says.
"Don't worry. The firm made sure it everything was in place. I had the alarms taken off as soon as you two pulled up. Just key in this number," she hands me a slip of paper, "and everything will be back online. I will leave you two here, then. I guess this is goodbye. Just contact the firm, after Monday, if you have any questions, or leave a message if there is an emergency before then."
With a big smile and a brief wave, Carol opened the door and walked out to her car, leaving me and Sam speechless in the open door. Now what.
"Hey, where is everyone?" Sam screeches from somewhere. I don't think his voice will ever drop.
"Kitchen!" I shout back, probably a bit too loud, but I want him to know where we are even if I don't know where he is. At lest it breaks the awkward pause with Carol.
Sam bounds in a few seconds later. He looks okay. No hint of what may have happened. He's not carrying his bag. Must have left it behind.
"So, I will notarize you filling out the temporary custody forms and financial acceptance waivers, and I will be on my way." Carol was proficient, but she hadn't mentioned the waivers yet.
"What's this about waivers? No one mentioned them before."
"While you are the custodian of Sam here, you will have limited access to Burton family assets until a more permanent solution is reached. I am not sure why this is being set up this way, but it is somewhat standard in temporary orders," she replied.
I take a quick look over the papers. Nothing seemed off, so I sign them. Just wished there was more to do. Everything seems wrong, like there's something missing. Maybe it is just me. At least this is temporary, probably. I stand to hand her the papers, a sign that she can leave. She takes the hint.
"Well, I guess I can leave you two here. Let me just go out the back. . . "
Sam interrupts her. "Go through the dining room. It will be faster and get you to car sooner." He quickly directs us to the door in the corner to our right. I guess he doesn't want us anywhere near the bathroom. From what happened at the car, it can't be smelling that good anywhere near it. I hope I don't have any trouble cleaning it up. Wait, I will be the one to clean it up. At least he wasn't that bad in Lexington, but still, this time could be worse.
"From what I read, when the patio was built, the kitchen was extended to provide access. The dining room likewise. The entire kitchen was redone to make room. It looks like they removed a door to the hall from there," she pointed to where a refrigerator was standing, "and added the island her to make up the missing space now taken by the breakfast nook and doors. The passkey was kept though."
She was pointing to a counter near the door. I hadn't noticed the shut window over it. I guess it made service easier. We go through the door into the dining room where there is a table longer than my car. To the right are two small cabinets bracing a window looking out onto the pool in the back. Two more windows are on the facing wall to the left, with a larger china cabinet between them. A door, to the hallway I guess, is halfway down the wall on the right. A large entry, mostly closed off by a sliding door, is on the far wall. The table is mostly covered by a cloth, as are the dozen or so chairs lining it.
"How often do you use this room? It's too large for just you and your parents."
"We normally eat in the kitchen. My parents only used this room for parties, but it's been a long time since we had one of those." Sam seems to be avoiding something, but I can't tell what.
We walk around the table to the sliding door where Sam opens it. The next room is partially walled off on one side to the larger living room beyond. A small sofa faces the television screen mounted on the wall to the right with a small curtained window to the left. A picture is on the wall blocking off the room.
"Is that your, I mean our father's work? I found online that he was an art professor."
Carol pipes up. "Actually, the is by a William Moses. He is a descendant of Grandma Moses and takes after her painting style. I think Mr. Burton studied with him, at times. Much of his art collection features primitive stylings such as this."
"Dad turned a spare bedroom upstairs into a studio. He only a few of his works here, mostly in the library on the other side of the house," Sam adds. He quickly guides us through the rest of the living room. "Mom wanted this room to be about being 'social,' that's why she moved the TV into this nook. She couldn't think of anything else to do with it."
"Yes. I think it used to be a sitting room before the remodel. There would've been another sliding door right here, between the two rooms." Carol was starting to should like a snob. She should have gone into real estate instead of law. "In fact, the room being used as a library was probably another parlor of some sort. I think there were even two servants' quarters in the back as well."
"We never had any help, not even a baby sitter for me. Dad uses them as a gym, or he used to," Sam chimes in. Lucky kid to have s stay-at-home mom. All I ever got was a grandmother so strict she would sometimes forbid me to go just down the road a few houses to play with my friends.
We leave the nook to go into the next room. The actual living room is rather large. A fireplace dominates the left wall, but it doesn't look like it has been used in years. Another sofa sits in front of it, with smaller chairs surrounding it. Tables with lamps and vases and small sculptures are everywhere. No books or even magazines. I guess they are relegated to the library. This is woman's room, through and through. Plain and uncomfortable. On the right is another sliding door, fully open to the entry way. The stairs are against one wall opposite the front door. That's when I notice the alarm.
"Uh, why isn't the alarm going off. We didn't have to key anything in went we used the back door."
"I didn't set it when I was taken. I am not sure if I know how to set it, although I've done it before, but nothing looked wrong," Sam says.
"Don't worry. The firm made sure it everything was in place. I had the alarms taken off as soon as you two pulled up. Just key in this number," she hands me a slip of paper, "and everything will be back online. I will leave you two here, then. I guess this is goodbye. Just contact the firm, after Monday, if you have any questions, or leave a message if there is an emergency before then."
With a big smile and a brief wave, Carol opened the door and walked out to her car, leaving me and Sam speechless in the open door. Now what.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)