Every
summer, I slid side to side as Dad swerved around each switchback, the red and
black vinyl seats sticking to my bare legs. Wind whipped through the open
windows, tangling my raven black hair into wild knots. At every stop, I glanced
into the rearview mirror and caught Einstein’s droopy eyes staring back at me.
Dad’s
heavy foot pressing the gas pedal to the floorboard. His cigar, clenched
between his teeth, hanging out of the side of his mouth. Mom gripped the seat’s
edges for dear life. Heat dissipated with each climb, gears grinding.
Bubbles
burst against my little brother’s flushed cheeks, sending him into a laughing
fit. In the background, we listened to, “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog,”
Elvis’s baritone voice crackling through the speakers.
When
we arrived, everyone piled out of the 1957 Chevy. Mom ran her fingers through
her frizzy blonde hair. Dad adjusted the tilt of his black hat and fastened the
top buttons of his shirt.
Inside
the parlor, a young bellhop stood at attention, ready to serve. His nails were
short, maybe chewed. His uniform was crisp, pleated pants and a stiff shirt. His
shoes gleamed like he’d spent hours polishing them.
Crystal
chandeliers suspended overhead. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the thick-paned
windows, their jeweled teardrops glistening, casting reflections on the gold
leaf wallpaper.
Everyone
knew his name. Elias Young Evermore.
The
guy at the ice machine, the cleaning lady who banged her cart down the hallway,
even the fellow who rocked away the day on the veranda, reading his newspaper.
But
everything changed the next summer.
The
evergreens still stood around the three-story house. Mail poured through the door
slot, piling like the steep mountains that surrounded the old place.
Mom
refused to touch anything. “Everything must remain as it was,” she said.
But
nothing was the same, no matter how much she wished for it. Dust mounted. Bare
walls echoed. Curtains stayed drawn. And no one, under any circumstances,
ventured into the dark stairway that led to Dad’s office. Only he had the key.
Twenty-seven
years later, my brother and I fought through a lengthy court battle. The place
was worthless, but neither of us backed down.
Cobwebs
covered the rusted iron lock. Windows had been painted shut. The rocking chairs
were barely recognizable, their woven patterns rotted through. The W and E had
faded from the WELCOME doormat.
Yet
somehow the CLOSED sign still hung strong, chain-linked, dangling from the
porch ceiling.
I
made my way to the basement, stared at the locked office door, and inserted the
weathered silver key etched with his initials, E.Y.E.
The
door creaked open.
I
stepped inside and flipped on the emerald lamplight. Nothing had changed. His
brimmed hat still hung on the coat rack. The black telephone cord coiled from
the edge of the desk and looped around the office chair. A yellowed piece of
paper lay beside the typewriter. I leaned in.
I’M
WATCHING, it read.
The
grandfather clock chimed twelve times. Gray cigar smoke filled the musty room.
I grabbed the key, locked the door behind me, and called my brother once outside.
“You can have it,” I said.
