It may sound strange to hear that I go to work each morning. With the investments in the town and the literary ball beginning to roll downhill, it may seem I could live a life of luxury. And maybe I could, but I do in fact have a job. I like the routine. I need it. It makes me write. And you never know with the new ‘improvements’ we’re trying to implement. It could end up being money flushed, and then I’d need a little something to keep me solvent.
In the year after the passing of my half-brother, Mt. Hope couldn’t find a new caretaker. After so many decades, it didn’t feel right not to have a member of the family in charge.
I’ve moved back in to the caretaker’s cottage. It had remained unlived in since Ma left. Santiago never moved down from the apartment above the shed.
I left the old apartment alone, choosing to leave any memories it might contain to it. I had enough nostalgia to deal with being in the cottage again after so many years away. In my mind Pap still held court at the dining room table and Gram hummed away in the kitchen baking coffee cake. Ma came through in a hurricane of hugs and kisses hopping from one job to the next. I slept in a hammock on the porch the first week I was back, letting the place adjust to having an occupant again.
With the writing before dawn, labor in the cemetery and visits to my new properties, my days were full. I hadn’t done anything more physical than walk a few city clocks during my years in the city. Yes, I had spent time in the gym, but that was nothing compared to a day of manual labor.
For the first month, I would collapse into bed, or the hammock, if I made it out of the chair in the living room. I slept hard, better than I had in the city, where my nights had been haunted by doubts and self-loathing. Now, I didn’t have the energy for either.
Just after the one-year anniversary of my return to Mt. Hope, I ventured up to Santiago’s apartment. It was the first day of fall and a cool west wind cut a swath of relief through the unseasonable heat in the cemetery. The breeze was a welcome sign of the shift towards the cooler temperatures of the dying season.
When I brought the tractor into the shed that evening, the sun was falling over the Melanski and shadows were covering the shed. I was about to lock the door and head to the cottage when I heard a creak coming from above me.
Thinking it might be some high school students who had snuck into the place, I tested the door leading up to the apartment, but found it as it had always been, locked. The floor creaked again. Twice. Almost as though someone were walking upon it.
I was certain it was just the old bones of an old building making their aches and pains known. The cottage reminded me of its age with the same noises each evening. I unlocked the door and started up the stairs just the same.
The steps gave easy groans under my feet as I cut fresh tracks through the thick layers of dust covering them. Had anyone been up there it would have been impossible not to leave a sign.
I reached the landing and looked into the interior. The fading light cast deep shadows over the apartment. Particles of dust danced in the few shafts that cut through the blinds.
I walked around, kicking up more dust as I acclimated myself within the tiny space. Memories of evenings spent sharing a beer with the man who was my brother came flooding back to me.
I moved into the small kitchen area and found the same coating of dust. On the table where my brother took his meals was an unopened bottle of Jameson and a yellowed envelope with Juniorwritten across it in a neat, faded script.
I thought to leave the apartment, go back downstairs and pretend I’d never been up there, never seen the letter. I told myself it would be easier.
But I’d already made tracks through the dust, so I grabbed a glass from its place in the cupboard and opened the bottle of Jameson. I poured a few fingers and took them back at a swallow. I poured a smaller amount and tugged on the chain of the light above the table. It crackled to life. I took a small sip from the glass and sat down to read.
