back on the scene, walking steadily but shakily through a tunnel of trees, his shoes kicking up small clouds of dust from the road surface.
His house was barely a quarter mile from the road, but hidden from roadside view.
Most of the new construction on the Cape wears the arrogance of money in both design and location. Large homes slapped down on every hillside and promontory, pitched to gather whatever view of the Atlantic can be acquired. And, if no water view is available, then bent so that they look upon glades, or stands of the thick tangles of wind-stunted trees that dominate the landscape. New houses are designed to look at something. Ricky’s house was different. Built well over a hundred years earlier, it had once been a small farm, so it was set at the edge of fields. The fields that had once grown corn were now part of conservation land, so there was an automatic isolation to the location. The house found peace and solitude less in the vista it looked out upon, and more from an ancient connection to the land beneath its foundation. Now it was a little like an old, graying pensioner, slightly tattered and shopworn, frayed about the edges, who wore his medals on holidays, but preferred to spend his hours catnapping in the sunlight. The house had done its duty for decades, and now rested. It had none of the energy of modern homes, where relaxation is almost a demand and a pressing requirement.
Ricky walked through the shadows beneath overhanging trees until the road emerged from the modest forest and he saw the house tucked in the corner of an open field. That the house was standing almost surprised him.
He stood on the front stoop, relieved that he’d found the spare key beneath the loose gray flagstone, as expected. He paused for a moment, then unlocked the door and stepped inside. The musty smell of stale air was almost a relief. His eyes quickly absorbed the world inside. Dust and quiet.
As Ricky recognized the tasks that awaited him-tidying up, sweeping out, getting the house ready for his vacation-an almost dizzying exhaustion filled him. He walked up the narrow flight of stairs to the bedroom. The wooden floorboards, warped and worn with age, creaked beneath his tread. In his room, he opened the window so that warm air would pour over him. He kept a photo of his dead wife in a drawer of a chest, a curious place to store her picture and her memory. He went and pulled it out, and then clutching it like a child would a teddy bear, tossed himself onto the creaky double bed where he’d slept alone for the past three summers, dropping almost immediately into a deep, but unsettled sleep.
He could sense that the sun had scoured the day when he opened his eyes to the early afternoon. For a moment, he was disoriented, but then, as he awakened further, the world around him jumped into focus. The world outside was familiar and much loved, but seeing it seemed harsh, almost as if the vista that was most comforting was oddly out of his reach. It gave him no pleasure to stare at the world around him. Like the picture of his wife that he still clutched in his hand, it was distant, and somehow lost from him.
Ricky moved to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face at the sink. His face in the mirror seemed to have aged. He placed his hands on the edge of the porcelain, and stared at himself, thinking he had much to do, not much time to do it.
He moved swiftly to the ordinary chores of summertime. A trip to the barn to pull the car cover off the old Honda, and plug in the electric battery charger that he kept in storage there precisely for this moment every summer. Then, as the car was being reenergized, he went back to the house and started to strip the furniture covers off, and run a quick few broom swipes along the floors. There was an old feather duster in the closet as well, and he got this out and immediately turned the interior of the house into a world of dust mites, spinning in shafts of sunlight.
As was his custom on the Cape, he left the front door open, when he left. If he’d been followed, which was possible, he didn’t want to force Virgil or Merlin or anyone associated with Rumplestiltskin to break in. It was as if this would somehow minimize the violation. He did not know if he could tolerate anything else in his life being broken. His home in New York, his career, his reputation, everything associated with who Ricky thought he was, and everything that he had built into his life, had systematically been ruined. He felt a sort of immense fragility descending upon his heart, as if a single crack in a windowpane, a scratch on the woodwork, a broken teacup, or a bent spoon would be more than he could manage.
He breathed a long sigh of relief when the Honda started up. He pumped the brakes and they seemed to work, as well. He backed the car out gingerly, all the time thinking: This is what it must feel like to be close to death.
A friendly receptionist pointed Ricky to the bank manager’s glass-enclosed cubicle about ten feet away. The First Cape Bank was a small building, with shingle siding like so many of the older homes in the area. But the inside was as modern as any, so that the offices combined the worn with the new. Some architect had thought this to be a good idea, but the result, Ricky thought, was the creation of a place that belonged nowhere. Still, he was glad it was there, and still open.
The manager was a short, outgoing fellow, paunchy, with a bald spot on his head that had obviously been sunburned too often that summer. He shook Ricky’s hand vigorously. Then stepped back, eyeing Ricky with an appraiser’s glance.
“Are you okay, doctor? Have you been ill?”
Ricky paused, then replied, “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
The manager seemed embarrassed, waving his hand in the air dismissively, as if he could erase the question he’d uttered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Ricky thought his appearance must show the stress of the past days. “I’ve had one of those summer colds. Really knocked me for a loop…,” he lied.
The manager nodded. “They can be difficult. I trust you had yourself tested for Lyme disease. Up here, someone looks a bit under the weather, that’s the first thing we think about.”
“I’m fine,” Ricky lied again.
“Well, we’ve been expecting you, Doctor Starks. I believe you’ll find everything is in order, but I must say, this is the most unusual account closing I’ve ever attended.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, first there was that unauthorized attempt to access your account. That was odd enough for a place like this. Then today, a courier delivered a package here addressed to you, care of the bank.”
“A package?”
The manager handed over an overnight mail envelope. It had Ricky’s name and the bank manager’s name. It had been sent from New York. In the box for a return, there was a post office box number and the name: R. S. Skin. Ricky took it, but did not open it. “Thank you,” he said. “I apologize for the irregularities.”
The bank manager produced a smaller envelope from his desk drawer. “Cashier’s check,” he said. “In the amount of ten thousand seven hundred and seventy-two dollars. We are sorry to lose your account, doctor. I hope you are not taking this to one of our competitors.”
“No.” Ricky eyed the check.
“Are you selling your home here, doctor? We could be of assistance in that transaction…”
“No. Not selling.”
The manager looked surprised. “Then why close the account? Most times, when long- standing accounts close, it’s because some great change has taken place in the household. A death or divorce. Bankruptcy sometimes. Something tragic or very difficult, that causes people to reinvent themselves. Start over again somewhere new. But this case…”
The manager was probing.
Ricky would not rise to answer. He stared at the check. “I wonder, if it’s not too inconvenient, could I have the amount in cash?”
The manager rolled his eyes slightly. “It might be dangerous to carry that much cash around, doctor. Perhaps traveler’s checks?”
“No thank you, but you are kind to be concerned. Cash is better.”
The manager nodded. “I’ll just get it, then. Be right back. Hundreds?”
“That would be fine.”
