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A witch.
A serial killer.
A child trafficker.
And a million other wildly crazy speculations.
Not gonna lie … I stuck a few bulbs of garlic in my toolbox just in case.
After fixing the slow flushing toilet and the leaky faucet, I poke my head in the kitchen. It’s all so familiar, even the sweet smell of sugar and vanilla bean wafting from the kitchen. My mom loves to bake.
Even the furniture is …wasmine. However, there are no Christmas decorations. Not so much as a string of tinsel or sprig of mistletoe. Our house used to be the biggest attraction in town over the holidays. Garland for days and enough indoor and outdoor lights to illuminate a whole galaxy.
“You’re good to go,” I say.
She glances over her shoulder, a bit of flour smudged along her cheek. “Thank you. Can you leave an invoice?”
“Sure.” I take another glance around the kitchen. “Did you know this house has been here for generations?”
“Oh …” She measures baking powder and deposits teaspoons of it into the long row of jars. “Are you originally from Birdville?”
“I am.” I scribble out an invoice. “Do you like the house?”
She chuckles. “Sure. What’s not to like? It’s charming with a beautiful view of the river. The woodwork is a work of art. Every room feels like a warm hug this time of year.”
I no longer feel that warm embrace, but it does have a beautiful view. There’s an attic room with a colossal window that makes one feel suspended over the water because the drop beneath it is so steep. Growing up, it was my favorite room. My sister thought there were ghosts up there. After she died, I believedshewas the ghost in the room. I wonder if she’s still up there, trying to figure out how in the hell I managed to lose the family home.
“Well, here you go.” I place the invoice on the counter away from the lineup of jars. “Let me know if you have any issues. I think it should be fine now.”
“Do you bake?” she asks.
“Sometimes,” I say, hoping reheating pizza in the microwave counts.
She screws a lid on one of the jars and hands it to me with a wink. “For you,Mason Ball.”
Embarrassment fills my cheeks. Women are too observant for their own good. I clear my throat and offer her a sheepish grin. “Thank you.”
“Henry, I saw your van at the Afina house this morning. What was she like?” My neighbor, Doyle, coughs from his old gray Chevy Malibu. Cigarette smoke billows out the one-inch crack of his window. Betty won’t let him smoke in the trailer since he set the last one on fire, so he spends most of his days smoking in his car while on neighborhood watch. The only thing that needs watching is him—so he doesn’t set anything else on fire.
“Uh … she was fine,” I say, glancing up from my mail.
Doyle coughs up part of a lung. I expect a redsplatagainst the window. Thankfully, there isn’t one. “Was she a hottie?” He waggles his bushy, white eyebrows before pinching his lips around his cigarette.
“I’d say she’s in her fifties, so I’m going to decline making any comment on her level of hotness.”
“Fifties, huh? She got a good pair of legs on her? I’m a leg guy. But you know this because you’ve seen my Betty.”
“Indeed.” I smile. “I’ve seen your Betty. There’s something about her. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s special for sure.”
“Fingers to yourself, Henry.” He holds up his cigarette while wiggling his other fingers. “These digits will be the only ones to touch Betty’sspecialnessyou speak of.” He winks at me. “If you know what I mean.”
I taste a little bile. “Good talk, Doyle … good talk.” With a quick wave, I retreat into my trailer, peel open a can of wild caught salmon, and spread half of it on two slices of bread with some mayo and sweet relish.
My phone screen lights up with a text from my mom. It’s the middle of the night in Germany. What’s so urgent?
Mom: The garland’s in the attic. Use ribbons to tie it to the railing. Wire will scratch the wood.
“I don’t know if it’s still in the attic,” I mumble my reply. I’m on the fence about telling her the truth via text message or waiting until the last possible minute when I see her in person.
