(Upstairs is even hotter.)
Upstairs is even hotter.
It feels like I’m moving through superheated fluid that burns me as I walk. I can only take tiny sips of air. The dust upstairs smells like it’s roasting.
Mr. Engel’s address book is on a telephone table next to his dresser. I grab it and try to keep my eyes to myself. I’m doing him a favor, but it was an unrequested favor. It wouldn’t be right to let my eyes wander.
He keeps a very tidy bedroom.
A comb and a brush are aligned perfectly on his dresser. The seams of the summer quilt are parallel with the edges of his bed. A pair of shoes and a pair of slippers are tucked under a bench. My uncle had a similar bench next to his closet. It put him a little closer to the floor so he could tie his shoes more easily.
In Mr. Engel’s closet, the shirts hang on one side and the pants on the other.
I shut the closet door.
“What am I doing?” I whisper. Sweat is pouring off of me. Any longer and I’ll run out of sweat. Mr. Engel will find my mummified remains when he finally comes home.
I’m almost out the door when I remember one more thing.
“The fan,” I say, snapping my fingers. I turn for the kitchen. “That thing will burn the place down if I leave it running.”
The sign over the bar says, “Work is the curse of the drinking class.” I point at it and nod as I pass.
Wiping my fingers first, and then pinching the plug delicately, I work it loose from the outlet and the fan spins down without shocking me. I might as well mop up the puddle from the ice cube with the dish towel, too. With those things done, the kitchen is back in order. I hang the towel over the edge of the sink to dry.
The hook is no longer through the eye.
I stand there, blinking at it and trying to remember.
I latched the door to the cellar twice, didn’t I?
This time, I listen to my gut. Without turning my back on that cellar door, I break for the doorway and I don’t slow down until I’m out on the porch. Holding my breath and clenching my teeth, I shoot a hand back inside and pull the front door shut. I don’t leave it partway open, like Mr. Engel had it.
That house is closed up tight.
Home
(I'm very proud of myself.)
I’m very proud of myself.
Back at home—I’ve decided to call it “home” instead of “Uncle Walt’s house”—I sit down and play detective. The fans are spinning full blast and the Mountain of Pure Rock is supplying a solid block of Aerosmith.
Mr. Engel’s address book is flat on the table in front of me.
The reason that I’m proud of myself is because I have deduced a clever way of determining which of the phone numbers might be valid.
The older entries are written in pen with a steady hand. Some of those are just a name and four digits. Back when Uncle Walt moved in, you only had to dial four digits for a local number. The more shaky the handwriting, the newer the entry. I figure that if I’m going to find a living relative, it will be one of the penciled in numbers that’s hard to read. Also, friends and businesses are listed with a first and last name. I find the family in the E section, but no last name is listed.
I tap my temple and smile.
“E is for Engel. I knew all that education was going to pay off one day.”
The radio reminds me that I’m listening to the Muh-Muh-Muh-Mountain of Pure Rock.
I lean way back in my chair and pull open the refrigerator door so I can grab the soda that I stashed in the crisper. Uncle Walt’s refrigerator is practically brand new compared to Mr. Engel’s. Uncle Walt wasn’t sentimental about appliances, except his washer and dryer. Those things are both thirty years old, at least. They’re simple, white, and perfectly functional.
In the E section, I find entries for Greg, Denise, and Amber. My finger pauses under Amber. Her number is mostly fours, eights, and twos. In Mr. Engel’s handwriting, those digits are the most discernible. If I have to try Greg, I’ll be guessing between threes and fives.
The phone rings and I plug my other ear against the noise of the fan.
I talk to Amber for a couple of minutes. At the beginning of the call, she sounds suspicious that I’m trying to sell her something. It gets awkward again when I don’t know where they actually took him. She gets on top of her emotions and manages to thank me several times. Then, she’s off to make arrangements for one of the family members to come visit. I tell her to stop by if she makes the trip. She politely blows off that invitation.
I never found out where she lives or how she’s related. I didn’t even find out Mr. Engel’s first name.
When I close the address book, it crosses my mind that I should put it back where I found it.
I laugh out loud, tilting my head back towards the ceiling.
“No, thank you,” I say.
There’s no mailbox to drop the address book in, so I’ll probably put it in a big envelope and mail it back to Mr. Engel. I don’t even plan on slowing down the next time I pass his house.
The Mountain of Pure Rock starts to play a Beach Boys song and I raise my eyebrows and nod appreciatively. Before it can get to the chorus, there’s the sound of a needle scratching across a record and they blast Metallica at me.
I sigh.
(How do you know what to throw away?)
How do you know what to throw away?
I’ve always lived fairly unencumbered. When I was growing up, Mom and I moved around several times. She never had a great reason, as far as
