regarding payment and that he had come here to make amends. He added an anecdotal story or two about his step-brother’s mental instability and layered these with so many tiny details that he had no doubt by the time he finished that the clergyman believed his every word implicitly. He concluded his convoluted tale with the fact that he didn’t have his step-brother’s current address and would need it to get him to repay his half of the funeral expenses. The words were barely out of his mouth (especially the words “repay” and “half”) before the clergyman located the notation in his accounts ledger and quickly scribbled down information on a piece of paper and thrust it into Frank’s hand with a thankful nod and smile.
There followed an awkward moment until Frank realized that the clergyman was now eagerly awaiting payment. Seeing no other way out, Frank resigned himself to writing a check — hoping that it wouldn’t repeat the fate of its predecessor and that Jackie could be made to understand this expense as justified in the pursuit of added material that would make his novel a success. That the check was for more than Frank had made at the hospital in his whole duration made him wince — but there was nothing that could be done about that now.
***
The drive to Glendale in his old VW bug was difficult. He wasn’t familiar with the area and when he reached the steep hills of Eagle Rock, often referring to the Thomas Brother’s map book in his lap, he wasn’t sure his car would be able to handle the steep incline of the narrow snaking roads. After several tense moments of an overtaxed engine, black smoke pouring from his tail pipe and puffing up behind him in his rear view mirror, he arrived at the address written on the piece of paper given him by the clergyman — or so he thought.
There were no numbers on the tiny shabby 1920s cottage. He could only assume by the address placards on the small houses on either side that this was the place. Somehow, it immediately seemed to fit the man he’d seen at the funeral. As he had been unkempt and scroungy, so was this domain. The shack was horribly dilapidated and overrun by trees and high shrubbery growth. Entire sections were exposed, the paint having peeled off long ago. The porch had collapsed, and several windows were broken — some by trees that seemed to have extended their branches inside and through the home over time. The roof sagged in the middle and without any information to the contrary, Frank would have naturally assumed that this hovel had been abandoned long ago.
He exited his car and made his way towards the house through the growth, trying to place his feet where there had once been a stone path leading to the front steps. Navigating the front porch proved to be more difficult, he moved slowly and carefully only narrowly missing choosing the wrong rotted boards on three occasions and almost falling through before he found safe footing to the left of the aged front door. When he finally reached across from the side and knocked — the sound rang loud and hollow through the house and he was afraid to knock harder for fear the front door might collapse.
After several moments, heavy lumbering footsteps approached from inside and Frank adjusted his position on the porch since many of the boards jumped and creaked with the movement.
The man from the funeral yanked open the door and stood scowling in a stained bulging undershirt.
“Yeah?” he asked brusquely.
“Yes, we met at Eli Simms funeral a few days back… I was wondering if I —“
The man shut the door in Frank’s face, mid-sentence.
“— could ask you a few questions?” Frank finished weakly.
Frank looked at the closed door and felt he had no choice but to yell through it.
“Look, I drove quite a ways to talk to you…” He referred to the piece of paper in his hand, knowing that names often helped in matters of persuasion. “…Burt…”
There was no response but
There followed an awkward moment until Frank realized that the clergyman was now eagerly awaiting payment. Seeing no other way out, Frank resigned himself to writing a check — hoping that it wouldn’t repeat the fate of its predecessor and that Jackie could be made to understand this expense as justified in the pursuit of added material that would make his novel a success. That the check was for more than Frank had made at the hospital in his whole duration made him wince — but there was nothing that could be done about that now.
***
The drive to Glendale in his old VW bug was difficult. He wasn’t familiar with the area and when he reached the steep hills of Eagle Rock, often referring to the Thomas Brother’s map book in his lap, he wasn’t sure his car would be able to handle the steep incline of the narrow snaking roads. After several tense moments of an overtaxed engine, black smoke pouring from his tail pipe and puffing up behind him in his rear view mirror, he arrived at the address written on the piece of paper given him by the clergyman — or so he thought.
There were no numbers on the tiny shabby 1920s cottage. He could only assume by the address placards on the small houses on either side that this was the place. Somehow, it immediately seemed to fit the man he’d seen at the funeral. As he had been unkempt and scroungy, so was this domain. The shack was horribly dilapidated and overrun by trees and high shrubbery growth. Entire sections were exposed, the paint having peeled off long ago. The porch had collapsed, and several windows were broken — some by trees that seemed to have extended their branches inside and through the home over time. The roof sagged in the middle and without any information to the contrary, Frank would have naturally assumed that this hovel had been abandoned long ago.
He exited his car and made his way towards the house through the growth, trying to place his feet where there had once been a stone path leading to the front steps. Navigating the front porch proved to be more difficult, he moved slowly and carefully only narrowly missing choosing the wrong rotted boards on three occasions and almost falling through before he found safe footing to the left of the aged front door. When he finally reached across from the side and knocked — the sound rang loud and hollow through the house and he was afraid to knock harder for fear the front door might collapse.
After several moments, heavy lumbering footsteps approached from inside and Frank adjusted his position on the porch since many of the boards jumped and creaked with the movement.
The man from the funeral yanked open the door and stood scowling in a stained bulging undershirt.
“Yeah?” he asked brusquely.
“Yes, we met at Eli Simms funeral a few days back… I was wondering if I —“
The man shut the door in Frank’s face, mid-sentence.
“— could ask you a few questions?” Frank finished weakly.
Frank looked at the closed door and felt he had no choice but to yell through it.
“Look, I drove quite a ways to talk to you…” He referred to the piece of paper in his hand, knowing that names often helped in matters of persuasion. “…Burt…”
There was no response but
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