As instructed, I left the package behind the smallest headstone — Josiah Davies.
“That’s it?”
“Yup.”
“Kind of bizarre, huh?”
“Yeah.” It was bizarre. And sad. For some reason, I found this place incredibly sad.
We strode back to the van in silence.
We had traveled no more than a mile when Ted called out, just as he had when we were kids.
“I need a washroom.”
I slowed the van and began rolling to the shoulder.
“Not a piss. I have to take a squat.”
Great.
As it turned out, Anadale Corners was not far, just on the other side of an apple orchard that spanned both sides of the road. A four corners collection of buildings, the first few abandoned, then a general store with a somewhat bizarre list of offerings posted on a shingle by the front door — “Key Cutting, DVD Rentals, Spring Seeds, Ice Cream”. Gas station with adjoining diner, a church, and Anadale Depot — the local farm equipment sales office.
Pump and a dump would have been logical, but there was no one home at the station. A letter posted in the window said the owner was traveling for three weeks. Back in June! We opted for the general store, where Ted was able to pick up some Benadryl and a box of Kleenex. Plus, the owner was kind enough to allow Ted the use of the facilities. He may not have been feeling so kindly after we departed. Seemed Ted was having some intestinal issues.
By the time we arrived at Crazy Lady’s place, Ted’s mood had improved, in part thanks to the Benadryl. Didn’t hurt that he had taken three times the recommended dosage.
The neighborhood seemed to be mostly Victory Homes, 1940s bungalows built as low cost housing for returning war veterans. If this neighborhood had been closer to the Big Smoke we might have seen the occasional monster home where a buyer had torn down the original home and used the lot to build a three story behemoth. Instead, all of the original homes remained — simple one story homes, no basements, decent-sized lots. Well taken care of, with green lawns and lush flowerbeds benefiting from the humid spring.
The house at 441 Bristol Crescent was an unfortunate exception to the rule. Instead of a well-manicured lawn extending to the ditch at the road, the home bore a front yard of dirt, the occasional flowering weed adding a bit of color to the fallow brown stretch. A pseudo-walkway of stones split the dirt in two, and a plain wire fence shut off access to the yard from the road or the walkway.
Beside the front door, and thankfully on the other side of that fence, stood a dog house that must have been five feet tall.
“Nice.”
“Beauty. You think she lives in the big house, or the little one?”
At least he had kept his sense of humor.
We approached the front door cautiously, expecting to see a vicious attack dog emerge from the dog house in a rage of spit and teeth. Seemed Fido was asleep, though, and our approach went unnoticed. Spotting no doorbell, I banged on the rotten door frame.
The girl who came to the door was tiny. Maybe four and a half feet tall at most. Jet black hair, light skin but Asian features. And scary skinny, like a skeleton wrapped in skin-colored Saran Wrap. In her frilly black microskirt, beaded crop top and strappy leather sandals she seemed to be striving for a Jarvis Street hooker look. Her eyes betrayed her, though. Wide, fearful eyes that spoke of mistrust.
“Yes?”
“We’re here to see Mrs. Lucas.”
“Mrs. Lucas?” That seemed to startle her. “Moment-.”
She bustled to the back, glancing back over her shoulder as though not trusting us to stay where we were. From the door we could hear her footsteps carry down the main hall to a room out of our sight, then a knock and voices. One voice gradually rose in volume. I was able to hear just a few words — “who”, “interrupted” and “sister.”
Moments later, an elderly woman worked her way down the hall towards us.
“Come in. C’mon, don’t stand out there like a pair of idiots. People are watching.” Her voice was like sandpaper on glass. I glanced at Ted and shrugged. In we went.
The girl who had met us at the door squeezed by me as I entered the front hall, and closed the main door behind us.
The home before us was as impressive as the exterior. Having no doubt consulted with an interior designer, the old lady had left the ceiling exposed, further emphasizing the decrepit institutional feel of the place. The result was an enticing combination of exposed beams, pipes and fiberglass wool insulation. The walls were in place, though several stretches of dry wall were unpainted. The floor was a patch-work of mismatched linoleum strips. Furniture was second hand, to put it politely.
She stepped aside, waving for the two of us to move further into the home. We followed her to a space that might have been called a common room, had this been a frat house. There we came upon another girl, this one stretched out on a garish plaid sofa bed, watching a TV with rabbit ear antennas. I hadn’t seen those things since I was in pre-school. She glanced at us with the mildest curiosity, then turned back to her show.
Lucretia Lucas was Crazy Lady’s name, and she was five five, maybe five six. Short grey hair, tousled and greasy from not being combed or washed. Oversized round tortoise-shell eyeglasses, a blue cardigan top with a dark stain in the shape of the state of Maine, and black slacks. The lines on her face were etched from frowns, not from smiles, and her direct stare and thin lips convinced me this was one tough broad. I was guessing eighty plus years of age.
She matched Jamar’s description so well I felt like I had seen her before.
“You want one of ‘em, or both of ‘em?”
“What?” That eloquent statement came from Ted, though I’m not sure I could have done any better.
“One or both? You stupid? They’ve had their shots.” She turned the first girl by the shoulder and clutched the cheek of her buttock. “They don’t leave the house. You can use any room except the bathroom and my room. That’s the one at the end of the hall.”
I looked at the first girl, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. As I stared, a tear welled in her eye then trickled down her cheek.
Wow. Was she-? Were they-? Was this-?
“Hang on a second, lady. We’re not here for the girls.”
“What? The what?” Ted was taking a second to catch up, which was a good thing. It scared me that I had caught on so quickly.
“Then who the hell are ya?” She shoved the first girl aside, and stepped forward. Both Ted and I took a half step back, as though a Rottweiler had bared his teeth at us. I was starting to wonder whether the old lady did sleep in that dog house by the front door.
“I’m here about a ring you gave to my friend a few weeks’ back.”
I held a photo out, and the lady took it and glanced down with the eye of a pawn shop jeweler. There was a pause while she assessed the ring in the picture, and I glanced at the girl on the sofa bed, who was now ignoring the TV. Apparently our arrival was somewhat out of the ordinary. She and her friend were eyeing the interaction between us, murmuring in an anonymous (to my ears) Asian language.
“What about it. Never seen it in my life.” The glare she gave us, and the way she said it, together constituted one of the most bald-faced outright lies I have ever experienced. The corner of her mouth even turned up a little, so difficult was it for her to say with a straight face.
“Nice try, lady.” Seemed Ted had recognized that social correctness would get nowhere with this woman. I happened to agree.
“Listen, you gave this damned ring to my friend, and we want you to take it back.”
“Oh ho!” The denials were quickly gone now. “Take it back. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get rid of? If not for these stupid girls,” with that she cuffed the back of one’s head, “I never would have been stuck with it. I’m not taking it back.”