Fallen (2 page)

“Yes,” I replied, though not at all happy about it. “I always do.”

“I know. You’re so good about
it
.” She gave me
a firm
hug and pulled away, still holding my shoulders. “You’re going to like it here. I can feel it in my bones.”

I
felt my face settle back
into
a frown, which she
paid no attention to
.

“Now go see your new home.” She said this with far more
enthusiasm
than I felt.

Grudgingly, I went to meet Mr. Wilkes at the front door
where h
e was already slipping
the key
into
the rusted lock. He
had to shake the lock, jarringly,
and rattle
the door
,
harshly
,
against its hinges
, not seeming to
care
in the least that his potential client was watching
from
behind him.

I looked back over my shoulder where
Aunt Teresa
stood, grinning. She gave me an animated wave.
I gave her a lackluster one back.

“Yeah…”
Mr. Wilkes
mu
mbled
,
drawing my attention as he swung
open the door. “Best place you kin find.”

Inside was dank and musty
. C
learly
the house
hadn
’
t been walked through in
a very long time
.

“Watch ya step. Floorboards slope.”

I nodded, realizing the one I was currently
standing
on didn’t slope but sagged.

A small room off to the left, which I guess acted as the parlor, was mostly empty with the exception of a cobweb-enc
a
sed poker next to the fireplace. The remaining rooms were much the same. No furniture
,
but lots of remnants of the other animals and insects who w
ill
be sharing my new home with me.

Great.

Throughout the tour
,
while
I tested lights
and
turned on faucet
s, occasionally finding a short or a bad line that would sputter at me
, Mr. Wilkes occasionally repeated the same phrase, nodding to himself, “Yea, best place ‘round hea.”

Then
,
we reached the
first
bedroom
,
and I was sold. The room was fine enough
. It was spacious with a
walk-in closet
, which
I
really
had no use for
,
because clothes we
re the last thing on my mind. W
hat caught my attention was that it boasted a full-sized balcony overlooking
Magazine Str
eet
. Stepping through the doors, I stared off each side.
Aunt Teresa
was gone now
,
but oddly
,
the disenchanted, lost feeling I thought would wash over me never came.
Inst
ead, I stood on the balcony watching the s
treet
below
,
and
for the first time in my life
,
I felt like I was home.

A single plastic chair had been tossed, by
a
hand or by
the
wind, up against the railing
.
I
nstantly
,
I
wished I could upright
the seat, settle in, and
wait for the sunset –
allowing myself to
forget Mr. Wilkes
’
tour and just hand
ing
him the first month’s rent right the
n
. Prudence and logic fought my need for spontaneity and eventually won.
However
, I did linger on the balcony
,
as Mr. Wilkes disappeared inside.

From somewhere in the distance I could hear Cajun music twanging and then the sudden burst of a foghorn. Across the street was another small house with a building in the back, both
appear
ing
vacant.
F
rom the remaining houses
,
down each side of the street, I could see residents sitting on their lawns, returning with groceries, or taking their dog for a walk.

It was perfect.

“Yeah comin?” Mr. Wilkes
called out from inside the darkness of the house. “Need ta show ya the back.”

It took a lot of self-control
,
but I finally coaxed my body to move and
met
Mr. Wilkes downstairs.

I followed him to the kitchen where i
t was obvious from the number of
paint
peels that
it
,
too,
had been neglected
. Yet, someone had taken the time to adhere a single strip of wallpaper as a border to the ceiling. It was yellow with tiny
,
white flowers
,
and I thought it looked very
appropriate
in the small room.

“Appliances are
a
bit old,” admitted Mr. Wilkes. For proof h
e turned the knob to ignite one of the stove’s burners and a flame shot a foot
above
his head. Shocked, he stepped back, laughed to himself, and turned the knob off without another word about it.

He opened a small door from the kitchen leading to the back where we found the yard overgrown but large
,
with a small, wooden shed in the corner. I immediately approached it, picking up the lock.

Mr. Wilkes stepped up behind me, grunting, as he dug in his pockets for the key. Finding it, he handed it to me
,
and I inserted it. Unlike anything else in the house, this lock worked fluidly. I swiftly opened
the door
and found an e
mpty, good-sized shed inside
.
Good enough for a motorcycle.

“I’ll take it,” I said instantly.

Mr. Wilkes nodded once, self-assured. “Knew ya would.” He then handed the rest of the house keys to me while quoting a price for the rent.

It was slightly higher than what the ad had listed
,
but I didn’t mention it. Mr. Wilkes didn’t strike me as a man who would negotiate. I could walk away from the property
,
having
plenty of money stuffed
in
the backpack slung over my shoulder
,
and
f
ind
a far more luxurious house.

But this place had already settled in me. I was home.

I dug through my backpack and gave Mr. Wilkes the amount he quoted. Taking it, he gave me a serious gaze. “Same amount…every first of the month…no exceptions.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Hope not. Kin rent this place any time. Best place ‘round hea.”

I had trouble keeping myself from laughing. I wasn’t sure if he seriously believe
d
what he said or not and didn’t want to offend him either way. “I understand, sir.”

He gave me one final, long stare
,
spun on his heel and marched back
toward
the street.
At least
he
was gracious enough to help
me unload the bed frame and move it
into
the
upstairs
bedroom
…
for fifty bucks
.
It was the only piece of furniture I owned as my frequent moves inhibited me from ever buying more. I had learned to live on very little.

A few minutes later
,
Mr. Wilkes left. I heard his car
engine turn on and saw
it pass by a few seconds
later
from where I stood on the balcony
.

I pulled a piece of paper from my back pocket and looked at the directions. There was one stop I needed to make before returning the
U-Haul
truck.

It took me an hour to get there since the house was on the outskirts of the city.
I knew I’d reached it when I saw the broken
,
wooden sign hanging across the gate entrance that read Hicker Ranch.
The property was thick with overgrown trees and boasted several decrepit buildings
,
but the main house wasn’t hard to find.
Still
, it
was
a challenge to reach, surrounded by
weeds that reached my knees. I learned this after I jumped down from the cab.
Watching my step as
I walked closer to the house
hidden in old oak trees,
a frail woman in her seventies crossed the wide, sagging porch and stopped at the steps. In a scratchy voice
,
tarnished by years of liquor and cigarettes, she greeted me. “It’s around back in the barn.”

With that, I made a sharp right and walked through the dead weeds of her property to
find
a dilapidated ba
rn
. The barn doors were unlocked but it took me a good amount of muscle to push them open.

T
here
,
in the dusty shadows, I could see it.

My Harley Davidson 883 Sportster. It was a beautiful mesh of silver chrome and black metal that
could take me just about anywhere I wanted
at speeds of up to 1
2
0 miles per hour if I chose. It didn’t look like much on the eBay ad and I didn’t know much about motorcycles to begin with
even
if it ha
d. But, it
t
ook my breath away
when I first saw it.
Even t
hough it was
not the wisest pur
chase for someone who had never owned any mode of transportation before,
t
hat didn’t matter.
It would be all mine
.