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was my great-grandfather’s traveling trunk and stacks of 14

old newspapers that were yellow and brittle from fifty 15

years or more before. We had old furniture and rugs and 16

straw baskets filled with two hundred Christmases of 17

toys. The cobwebs looked like they belonged on a movie 18

set, and it was cold down there too.

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Eighteen wooden crates of empty beer bottles were 20

stacked in the middle of the cobblestone floor. They were 21

all I was interested in. It meant twenty-four dollars at the 22

beer-and-soda store at the Corners. I dragged the boxes 23

out into the light, rubbing my face now and then to get 24

off the tickle of cobwebs. When I got all the crates, I 25

looked around some more to see if there might have been 26

something else of value there.

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It was a big basement. Thirty feet in either direction.

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The ceiling must have been ten feet from the floor. An-2

niston Bennet was right: it would have made a nice apart-3

ment without all that junk. It was a well-built hole. Dry 4

as a bone and cool year round because it was deep in the 5

rocky earth. I used to think that ghosts lived in that cel-6

lar, that the spirits of my dead ancestors came from out of 7

the graveyard behind my house and played cards or talked 8

all night long in the solitude of that room. I left them 9

Kool-Aid and lemon cookies in the summer. When the 10

food was still there the next day, my father would tell me 11

that the spirits had eaten the ghost food that lives inside 12

the food for the living. He told me that it was like a bless-13

ing and now the food left over had to be buried in the 14

trash like the dead.

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Late the next day I was in my newly cleaned kitchen, C 14

ready to cook.

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Twenty-four dollars can buy a lot of canned spinach 16

and baked beans. I also got rice and polenta and a big bag 17

of potatoes. One whole chicken with celery and carrots 18

could make a soup to last me a week if I stretched it.

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I’m not a good cook, but I can make simple dishes.

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That’s because I used to love spending time with my 21

mother in the kitchen. She never made me work. All I 22

had to do was sit around and make her laugh. That was 23

until eighth grade. Then, when she got sick, I helped out 24

a lot. Brent said that my mother had to work through it, 25

that being sick was all in her head. He was healthier than 26

she was and still expected to get waited on.

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My chicken was boiling and I was cutting celery into 2

slantwise strips and suddenly it came to me. I dug Annis-3

ton Bennet’s card out of my pocket and dialed his Man-4

hattan number. It wasn’t until the fourth ring that I 5

remembered it was Saturday. I thought that at least I 6

could leave a message. He didn’t give me a home phone 7

anyway. His name, in lowercase blue letters, was centered 8

on the white card, and the phone number was in the 9

lower right-hand corner in red.

10

“Hello,” a woman’s voice said. I almost answered but 11

the surprisingly natural-sounding recording continued, 12

“You have reached the Tanenbaum and Ross Investment 13

Strategies Group.” Then there was a click and the same 14

woman, in a different mood, said, “Mr. Bennet,” then an-15

other click and she was back on track saying, “is not in at 16

the moment but will return your message at the earliest 17

possible time. Please leave your name and number after 18

the signal.” Then there came a complex set of tones that 19

sounded something like a police siren in a foreign film.

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“Mr. Bennet? This is Charles Blakey from out in the 21

Harbor. I guess I’d like to talk to you about what it is you 22

want exactly. I mean, maybe uh, maybe we can come to 23

some kind of arrangement. I don’t know. My number 24

is . . .” Leaving information on an answering machine al-25

ways seems useless to me. Most of the messages I’ve left 26

have gone unanswered. I didn’t have much hope that any-27 S

thing would work out. Anyway it was early May and all I 28 R

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The Man in My Basement

had was a pocketful of change. A summer rental wasn’t 1

going to do much for me right then.

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So I called my aunt Peaches. That was her real name.

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Her mother was Clementine and her father was actually 4

named Apollodorus. My father used to say, when we were 5

going to Clemmie’s for Thanksgiving dinner, “Well let’s 6

go over and visit the mouthful.”

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“Hi, Aunt Peaches. It’s me — Charles.”

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“Yes, Charles?” She wasn’t sounding generous.

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“How’s your family?”

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“Everybody’s fine.”

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“That’s good,” I said and then waited for her to ask af-12

ter my health.

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She did not.

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“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Peaches.”

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“Has it?”

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She knew full well that it had been more than three 17

years since I had been by, and I was only allowed in then 18

because her husband was at work. We didn’t live more 19

than two miles apart, but the only time I ever saw her was 20

if we happened to bump into each other in town. That 21

was because of her husband, Floyd. Floyd Richardson was 22

a lawyer who practiced in Long Island City. When I 23

dropped out of college, he hired me — to make something 24

out of me, he said.

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Well, I was only twenty-one and not really ready to 26

work that hard. I didn’t like the law or research. I wanted S 27

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Walter Mosley

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to be a sailor. Floyd and I had a rough time of it. When 2

he finally fired me, he told me that I was a shame to my 3

race. That reminded me of Uncle Brent, who always 4

added, “The human race.”

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After that I wasn’t a welcomed guest in their home.

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Floyd rarely gave me a nod if we passed in the street. I 7

didn’t mind much. Floyd wanted to act like he was my fa-8

ther, like it was him who did for me. Aunt Peaches was 9

nice, but she was so formal that talking to her was like be-10

ing read to from a book of etiquette.

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“I needed to ask you something,” I said, having given 12

up any hope that we could be friendly.

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“I really don’t have much time, Charles. Floyd’s coming 14

home soon and I have to get his dinner.”

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“Well, you know I lost my job,” I started.