The following evening Jake and Starla have tickets to a concert and leave me alone after offering to take me no less than seven times.
“Thanks,” I say the final time. “But really, I’m whooped. I’d fall asleep two seconds after getting seated.”
“Well, make yourself at home,” Aunt Starla says. “Just remember to lock up before you go to bed.”
I nod as they leave, then close the door and turn away. I still have some email to read and the realtor sent me several links to houses she feels I should consider that need to be checked out. Thankfully, Uncle Jake left the coffee pot on. I pour myself a cup and turn off the machine before gathering up my notepad, a folder with printouts of the other houses I’ve looked at and make my way down to the basement office.
The kids are at my Aunt Gretchen’s house for a while. Aunt Gretchen, also a single mother, has twin girls who are fourteen and a boy whose twelve. My own brood: Keith, 10; Jolene, 8 and Gabrielle who just turned six are eating up the attention Aunt Gretchen and her kids are flowering them with. Or so the story goes according to Aunt Gretchen whom I spoke with earlier. I think she has a phone designed for deaf people that flashes lights instead of ringing. I could barely make out a word with all the commotion in the background going on. My heart aches being away from them, but we all need the break after spending most of the week crammed in a car traveling across two-thirds of the continental US.
Halfway through the login process the doorbell rings. I groan as I ease myself up off the comfy executive chair Uncle Jake splurged on and trudge up the stairs. There isn’t a peephole. I keep forgetting I’m in the Midwest now where folks leave their keys in the ignition of their cars, their front doors unlocked and don’t think twice – unless they’re one of the unfortunate rural areas whose hearts have been shattered when their seven year old daughter is found three days later behind a neighbor’s barn wrapped in a bloody blankie.
My California upbringing that began at the age of fourteen requires me to keep a door between the caller and myself. I peek through the sheers to see a man standing there, back towards me. He’s looking out across the yard at my car. He turns back and pushes his finger into the doorbell. I step back, realizing its Dick, er rather, Richard. I run my tongue over my teeth hoping to dislodge anything that may have been taking up residency, pop a mint from the candy dish Aunt Starla keeps on the coffee table for Uncle Jake, a recovering alcoholic with well over thirty years of sobriety under his belt but still has the occasional urge he squelches with the minty sugared blasts; and pull the door open.
“Richard,” I say with a smile. “What brings you here? Is there a warrant outstanding I wasn’t aware of?”
“No, no. Nothing like that,” he smiles. “I was supposed to meet up with one of my buddies, but he took an overtime shift. So, since I was in the neighborhood I thought I’d swing by and see how you were doing.”