Falling for June: A Novel (3 page)

3

T
HERE’S SOMETHING VERY
relaxing about driving north out of the city, especially in fall. Maybe it’s the almost imperceptible fade from the gray sidewalks and glass skyscrapers to the golden leaves of turning trees; or maybe it’s the smell of clean, moist air spilling in through the cracked car window; or maybe it’s just the simple relief of knowing that you’re leaving the hustle of the city streets behind for an afternoon. Whatever it is, I felt my mood lifting the farther north I drove.

It was raining like hell when I left Seattle, and hailing by the time I hit Marysville, but when I finally exited the interstate, I came out from beneath the dark clouds and dropped into a wide sunlit valley, surrounded by pine-covered hills. It was nice, it really was. A rainbow even followed me. I got my first glimpse of Whitehorse Mountain as I rounded a bend. It stood framed between two heavily forested peaks and its shady folds and sawtooth summit infused me with a sense of mystery. I wondered if it was possible to feel nostalgia for a place one had never been before. The mountain played peekaboo on the hilly skyline, appearing here and then there as the road twisted through the valleys of eastern Snohomish County, until at last it was above everything else on the horizon and lit by shafts of morning sunlight piercing through the dissipating clouds. I
was beginning to feel glad that I had decided to come. So glad, in fact, that as I passed through the small timber town of Darrington, I was not nearly as bothered by the sight of a lumber mill as I thought I should be, even though the smell of damp sawdust reminded me of my childhood home.

I consulted my map until I found Whispering Willow Lane. The sign was nearly obscured by the overgrown willow trees, and the overarching willow branches hung so low above the roadway in places that I could see them in the rearview mirror rustling in the breeze created by my car as I passed. I sure felt a million miles away from the city, even though I had left it just an hour and a half before. The road took me across a river on an old covered bridge, and then about a quarter mile past the bridge I came upon the address. His letter had not misled me. The mailbox was red with rust, and it was attached to a weathered-timber archway that leaned so precariously above the gravel driveway that I almost hesitated to drive beneath it. There was a wooden sign hung on chains that read:

ECHO GLEN

The property was densely overgrown, and as I drove through it I caught glimpses of its prior glory through the brush—peekaboo orchards scattered with unpruned apple and cherry trees; snapshots of barns and stables in various stages of dilapidation, losing their quiet battles with brambles and brush. I had the sense I was entering a place shrouded as much in mystery as it was in shade. The property opened as the drive turned to follow a fence line up toward the house. The house was white. At least it looked like it had been before years of weather had stripped most of the paint away and turned the wood siding a silvery gray that stood out against the dark trees rising up the mountain behind it. There was a quiet stubborn
ness to the house. As if it had long stood there at the base of that mountain, guarding the valley against the advancing forest that seemed to press against its back, or perhaps served as a final gateway to the wilder, enchanted lands beyond.

As I got closer I saw that the house possessed a strange cheerfulness too. Despite the faded paint, it was well kept and bordered by green, freshly cut lawns. Rhododendrons flanked the covered porch, and bright flower baskets hung from hooks in the low porch eaves. The contrast between the manicured look of the house and the wildness of the surrounding property created the impression of a slow retreat by the caretaker to the confines of the home and its four walls. As if he maintained what he could as an act of defiance against the advance of time. I parked in front of the house—backing in for a quick exit if necessary, as was my habit on these visits—and got out of the car. I could hear a creek running somewhere unseen and I paused to breathe in the country air. Who knew the Center of the Universe smelled like wet grass and pine trees?

The steps to the house had been built over with a wheelchair ramp, and I wondered if Mr. Hadley was disabled. I’d been on a few appointments with homeowners who were and it always made my job much harder. That, or if they had young kids or anything. Or if they had lived there a long time. Actually, it was never easy telling people they had to leave. But as I said before, even though it wasn’t the kind of career one was proud of, I was good at it. And if it weren’t me at their door offering them a check to vacate now, it would be the sheriff in a few months offering them nothing.

I knocked on the door. I’ve learned to ignore doorbells and instead always knock lightly three times. It’s the least intrusive, I think. I waited, and then knocked three times more. I was just raising my hand to knock a third time when the door flew open as if it were on springs and an old man stood in front of
me squinting into the light. He was noticeably shorter than I am, but he had a presence about him that filled the doorway. I guessed him to be in his late seventies or early eighties by the look of his thinning gray hair and the white stubble on his cheeks. You could tell he was really old by his clothes too. He wore brown corduroy pants and a colorful patchwork sweater that appeared to have been knitted by someone who was blind. The door opened so fast it kind of surprised me, though, and I was still taking all this in when he spoke.

“If you’ve come to preach to me about Jehovah, I’ll kindly tell you as I have the others that I’ll be finding out the truth a lot sooner than you will, young man.”

His voice was gravelly and gruff, but it was also kind.

“I’m from the bank,” I said. “I’ve come about your letter.”

I opened the file I had carried with me from the car and held up his letter. There were two enormous breast pockets sewn into his sweater, made of what looked like leather and both bulging with the weight of whatever personal possessions he felt necessary to store there, and he reached into one of these pockets and pulled out reading glasses. Then he took the letter from me and looked it over, as if verifying that it was in fact his handwriting. When he appeared satisfied, he handed the letter back and said, “I didn’t expect you to come so soon.”

“Well, I just had to see the Center of the Universe,” I said. “And meet the man who can lick forty-nine one-cent stamps.” Then I stuck out my hand. “I’m Elliot Champ.”

He didn’t shake it right away, asking instead, “What happened to Mr. Spitzer?”

I didn’t want to tell him that he’d written to a fictional person and that Ralph Spitzer was just a made-up name for our computer-generated form letters. But I didn’t want to lie either. In the end, I fell back on my training and ignored the question
altogether, shrugging and saying, “I’m Elliot Champ, sir, your housing transition specialist.”

My arm was getting heavy by this time, but I kept my hand out for him to shake. He dipped his head a little so he could look at me over the reading glasses. Then he retrieved a small notebook and pen from his other sweater pocket and wrote something in it. I had the feeling he was taking down my name. Now my arm was really getting heavy.

“Elliot Champ, you say? Sounds more made-up than Spitzer to me.” He tucked the notebook away in his bulging pocket. Then he finally shook my hand, and when he did, it was as if everything had suddenly changed. He smiled and stepped aside, pulling me into the foyer. “I’m so glad you’ve come, Mr. Champ. You have no idea.” He caught me too off guard for a response. This certainly wasn’t the welcome I was used to on these visits. “May I take your coat?” he asked as he closed the door behind me.

I thought it was nice of him to offer, but I still told him no. I’d learned long ago to keep everything with me on these visits. You just never know when you’ll need to clear out in a hurry. I took a moment to look around the small house. All the visible walls were hung with watercolors in homemade frames and several windows had been covered with old stained glass, infusing the rooms with soft, colorful light. It sounds funny to say, but I thought the whole place kind of matched his sweater. Or maybe his sweater matched the house. Anyway, when he brought me into the living room, I thought it even more.

The living room looked about as lived-in as a living room can, with rainbow-colored afghans draped over old leather chairs, a red sofa so faded it looked pink, and books and newspapers spread everywhere. There was an old tattered recliner parked in front of the TV, and I got the sense he spent most of his time there.

“I’m glad you’re not that Ralph Spitzer fellow anyway,” he said, stepping over and switching off the TV. “Every time I get a letter from him his name reminds me of that man on CNN. Such doom and gloom. I don’t know why I even watch it, except maybe to remind myself that I won’t be missing much when I’m gone.”

But I was hardly listening to him because I was looking at a brightly painted wooden rooster standing in front of a window bay—and not just any rooster either, but one that was five feet tall with a seat carved into its back. The old man saw me looking at it and smiled. Then he broke into a kind of tap dance right there on the living room floor—as best he could anyway for being so old and all—and as he danced he belted out a corny campfire refrain that went:

We had an old hen that wouldn’t lay eggs, until that sly old rooster flew into our yard and caught our old hen right off her guard. But we’re having eggs now, soft-boiled and poached hard, oh we’re having eggs now, ever since that sly old rooster flew into our yard.

The whole song-and-dance display really was strange, and I wondered if maybe he wasn’t quite right in his mind. I’d been on sits like that too, and they weren’t easy either. But then he finished the song with a laugh, as if it had been a perfectly ordinary thing to do, patting me on the arm and asking, “Can I get you some coffee or tea, young man?” When I told him coffee would be great, he said, “I actually don’t have any coffee. The doctor tells me I can’t drink it with the medicine I take. But I do have tea.” I told him tea would be just fine, but I was still wondering why he had offered me coffee when he didn’t even have any as he shuffled off toward the kitchen.

When I was alone, I stepped over to inspect the rooster. It looked hand-carved and old as hell; the paint was all cracked. I love that sort of thing, though. Anything with history. I could have admired that rooster all day, but then the view outside
drew my eye. The window was wet yet from the earlier rains, giving the backyard a watery, faraway appearance through the old leaded glass. The creek I had heard earlier came down from the mountain and turned and ran along behind the house. A narrow footbridge crossing it was covered with wisteria. It really was a great view. The land on the far side of the bridge was quite wild, of course, but a well-worn footpath was visible disappearing along with the creek up into the shaded wood. I wondered who used the path often enough to keep it clear. Surely not the old man.

“I hope you didn’t have a big breakfast.” I turned at the sound of his voice and he handed me a steaming mug of tea. “Smooth Move,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s the only tea I have left. It’s supposed to loosen you up, but I’m sure it’s mostly marketing. The bathroom is just down the hall on your left, however, just in case you need it.”

Perfect, I thought, since I’d had a bran muffin and a latte before driving out. He indicated that I should sit in an old leather chair, saying something about its being the most comfortable. But he must not have sat in it himself for a long time because I sank so low into the worn cushion I wondered how I would ever get up out of it again. The old man took quite some time getting himself settled across from me, and I sipped my tea and watched him with idle curiosity.

After setting his mug on the end table, he turned the chair to face mine. Then he retrieved his cane from the corner and used it like a handrail to lower himself into it. When he went to retrieve his tea, however, it was just out of his reach, so he hoisted up the cane again and used its curved handle to hook the mug and pull it across the table toward him. I’m not sure why he went to all the trouble, though, because he lifted his tea and blew on it, and then set it back again without taking a sip. Then he sighed. We were easily six feet apart, with
the book-covered coffee table between us, but I could clearly see that he was sizing me up in the silence. After a while, he reached into his sweater pocket and consulted his little notebook. Then he looked up at me and said, “Elliot Champ, eh?” I nodded and he slipped the notebook back into his pocket. “Is it chilly in here, Elliot? I can light the fire.”

“No,” I replied, “it’s fine.”

“Are you too warm then? I could hang your coat.”

I told him I was actually quite comfortable—which wasn’t exactly true on account of being sunk into the damn chair so deep—and he just nodded and let another silence pass. Then he cleared his throat. “This is very embarrassing for me, you know.”

Sometimes I ran into this on sits.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” I said.

“I’ve never failed to pay a bill in my entire life,” he replied, pausing to look down at the rug before adding, “I used to be an accountant, you know.”

This was the part of my job I hated most—seeing this sadness, this shame. It was always the same. And the worst part about it was that the judgment was all theirs. No one I ever knew really cared two cream puffs whether or not anyone else could pay their mortgage. They were too damn busy working to pay their own. And I sure as hell wasn’t judging him. I was still in the habit of borrowing newspapers so I could save enough dough just to buy my first place.

“Well, sir,” I said, “everyone falls on hard times now and again. No shame in that.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I guess everyone does.” He was still looking at the floor, or maybe even through it, and his voice seemed to be as distant as his gaze. “But it’s not falling that’s hard,” he said, almost under his breath. “It’s holding on.”