Fred, the fat tomcat, always seemed like he was about to
speak. He did it mostly with his eyes. Very intense. Right then he wanted me to
get out of bed.
It was our first morning in this perfect dream of a house. I had made a point of buying out in the middle of nowhere, America. The romance of the remote and mysterious had called me there.
Chase was a dusty little town still peopled by a few store keepers and such. Just what I was looking for! Plenty of sunshine. No traffic. It was darn near to being a ghost town.
Also, I was looking for cacti in the front yard. And I had them. Those small ones with pads. Not the Saguaro unfortunately.
Remembering suddenly the little cactus clusters out in front, I leapt up, as Fred had intended, and ran out to sit on my porch in my nightgown.
Fred and I sat on the porch steps watching morning approach. First the sun lit the distant hills, then light raced across the land to splash against the few buildings visible on Main Street from our vantage.
“This house you bought is haunted, Terry,” said Fred. “You know that right?”
“What makes you think that?” I asked Fred. He looked at me and then turned away. No comment. A slight breeze ruffled his orange fur. I know what they say about orange tomcats, but Fred was neither stupid nor combative, so far.
I gazed happily at the front yard of the huge old house we had just moved into. It was just desert ground. If there had ever been a lawn here it had died long ago. Long enough for these cacti to flourish here. It was so perfect.
We were located on the very outskirts of Chase, right next to fenced pasture. If I was lucky, I would get to watch cattle. Along this tan and dusty street there were four other old houses of similar vintage, with great wraparound porches and second stories. Mine was painted white. No. 7, 2nd Ave., Chase. AZ.
While we were sitting there a small owl, just little, like a little brown and speckled jug with wings lit on the nearest pad of catus. It settled itself into that perfect owl posture. Looking straight at me, it winked one eye.
“Who goes there?” said Mr. Owl. Then, message delivered, he took off.
“See?” said Fred, looking back in my direction. People say cats show no expression in their faces. These people just haven’t been around.
“See what? A random talking owl doesn’t mean the house is haunted!” I told him.
A rather owlish pun I thought, on the owl’s part.
“I’m going in to make breakfast, Fred. You coming?” I opened the door, holding it for Fred who walked in as if he owned the place. I stood aside and then closed the big old heavy door. Fred walked across the dark wooden planks heading for the kitchen. I had almost no furniture, so the room was echoey and huge. The walls were white painted plaster, but still the effect was shadowy, dim and cool.
Another good thing about this old house was the size of the kitchen. It’s funny how they used to build. The kitchen was very large, but without a lot of built in storage. Of course, when this house was built, there had been no electric power to it, let alone electric gadgets and appliances. It was fine with me Fred and I don’t need a lot of gadgets. I hadn’t brought much with me anyhow. I sold and gave away everything left in my parent’s place, then I sold the property itself.
The centerpiece of the room was a heavy wooden table capable of seating at least eight around it. Judging by the size of the house and the number of bedrooms upstairs, I thought it entirely possible that it had seated eight at one time.
Though no one had lived here in years, the last of the last owners having died, and with no one inheriting, everything worked, after a few phone calls. I wasn’t sure about getting internet out here, but there had to be a way.
The stove and the fridge were that rounded white style dating from the 50s, but they worked fine, once the power was on. In fact, in some ways those old things, heavy and stolid, were better than the more disposable versions made now.
There was a short length of countertop, covered with green marbled linoleum. Fred hopped up there to watch me cook. Fred eats just about everything I eat. He’s not good with salad.
There was an old fashioned sink, heavy and deep, with a nice window over it, facing east. The morning sun came blasting in, lighting up the whole room. It searched into the glass doored cabinet where I had stashed my dishes and cooking paraphernalia.
I yawned. That sun light made me sleepy.
We had shipwrecked eggs and yogurt. I had coffee. Fred had water. Then I washed up. Thankfully, the water heater worked too. It was a fine morning.
“Thanks, Terry,” Fred said. I let him eat on the table. It’s okay. He’s not messy and it’s only us.
The bathroom tucked at the back of the main floor was also enormous by modern standards. The floor was tiled in black and white octagons. The tub was enameled cast iron. The enamel was worn through on the bottom. Not a big deal. Very nice, indeed.
Fred found a sunny spot to sleep in and I got into that big tub for the first time. No showers for Terry around here!
Wrapped in my big robe, I padded across the hall to the main bedroom. It had a twelve foot high ceiling and was lit by an ornate hanging light fixture, which cast a glamorous golden light, after I had put new bulbs in it, that is.
There was a small built in closet. These people didn’t have a lot of extra clothing apparently. In the middle of the floor was my futon, very authentically Japanese style, so it was right on the floor.
In the middle of the futon, there in the middle of the floor, on top of my rumpled Japanese quilt lay a tossed dozen or so of white and pink roses, still cool to the touch, with drops of water on them. I know this to be so, my trembling hand reached out to touch them in disbelief.
“Oh no. No way. This is not possible…”
Why was Fred always right?
It was our first morning in this perfect dream of a house. I had made a point of buying out in the middle of nowhere, America. The romance of the remote and mysterious had called me there.
Chase was a dusty little town still peopled by a few store keepers and such. Just what I was looking for! Plenty of sunshine. No traffic. It was darn near to being a ghost town.
Also, I was looking for cacti in the front yard. And I had them. Those small ones with pads. Not the Saguaro unfortunately.
Remembering suddenly the little cactus clusters out in front, I leapt up, as Fred had intended, and ran out to sit on my porch in my nightgown.
Fred and I sat on the porch steps watching morning approach. First the sun lit the distant hills, then light raced across the land to splash against the few buildings visible on Main Street from our vantage.
“This house you bought is haunted, Terry,” said Fred. “You know that right?”
“What makes you think that?” I asked Fred. He looked at me and then turned away. No comment. A slight breeze ruffled his orange fur. I know what they say about orange tomcats, but Fred was neither stupid nor combative, so far.
I gazed happily at the front yard of the huge old house we had just moved into. It was just desert ground. If there had ever been a lawn here it had died long ago. Long enough for these cacti to flourish here. It was so perfect.
We were located on the very outskirts of Chase, right next to fenced pasture. If I was lucky, I would get to watch cattle. Along this tan and dusty street there were four other old houses of similar vintage, with great wraparound porches and second stories. Mine was painted white. No. 7, 2nd Ave., Chase. AZ.
While we were sitting there a small owl, just little, like a little brown and speckled jug with wings lit on the nearest pad of catus. It settled itself into that perfect owl posture. Looking straight at me, it winked one eye.
“Who goes there?” said Mr. Owl. Then, message delivered, he took off.
“See?” said Fred, looking back in my direction. People say cats show no expression in their faces. These people just haven’t been around.
“See what? A random talking owl doesn’t mean the house is haunted!” I told him.
A rather owlish pun I thought, on the owl’s part.
“I’m going in to make breakfast, Fred. You coming?” I opened the door, holding it for Fred who walked in as if he owned the place. I stood aside and then closed the big old heavy door. Fred walked across the dark wooden planks heading for the kitchen. I had almost no furniture, so the room was echoey and huge. The walls were white painted plaster, but still the effect was shadowy, dim and cool.
Another good thing about this old house was the size of the kitchen. It’s funny how they used to build. The kitchen was very large, but without a lot of built in storage. Of course, when this house was built, there had been no electric power to it, let alone electric gadgets and appliances. It was fine with me Fred and I don’t need a lot of gadgets. I hadn’t brought much with me anyhow. I sold and gave away everything left in my parent’s place, then I sold the property itself.
The centerpiece of the room was a heavy wooden table capable of seating at least eight around it. Judging by the size of the house and the number of bedrooms upstairs, I thought it entirely possible that it had seated eight at one time.
Though no one had lived here in years, the last of the last owners having died, and with no one inheriting, everything worked, after a few phone calls. I wasn’t sure about getting internet out here, but there had to be a way.
The stove and the fridge were that rounded white style dating from the 50s, but they worked fine, once the power was on. In fact, in some ways those old things, heavy and stolid, were better than the more disposable versions made now.
There was a short length of countertop, covered with green marbled linoleum. Fred hopped up there to watch me cook. Fred eats just about everything I eat. He’s not good with salad.
There was an old fashioned sink, heavy and deep, with a nice window over it, facing east. The morning sun came blasting in, lighting up the whole room. It searched into the glass doored cabinet where I had stashed my dishes and cooking paraphernalia.
I yawned. That sun light made me sleepy.
We had shipwrecked eggs and yogurt. I had coffee. Fred had water. Then I washed up. Thankfully, the water heater worked too. It was a fine morning.
“Thanks, Terry,” Fred said. I let him eat on the table. It’s okay. He’s not messy and it’s only us.
The bathroom tucked at the back of the main floor was also enormous by modern standards. The floor was tiled in black and white octagons. The tub was enameled cast iron. The enamel was worn through on the bottom. Not a big deal. Very nice, indeed.
Fred found a sunny spot to sleep in and I got into that big tub for the first time. No showers for Terry around here!
Wrapped in my big robe, I padded across the hall to the main bedroom. It had a twelve foot high ceiling and was lit by an ornate hanging light fixture, which cast a glamorous golden light, after I had put new bulbs in it, that is.
There was a small built in closet. These people didn’t have a lot of extra clothing apparently. In the middle of the floor was my futon, very authentically Japanese style, so it was right on the floor.
In the middle of the futon, there in the middle of the floor, on top of my rumpled Japanese quilt lay a tossed dozen or so of white and pink roses, still cool to the touch, with drops of water on them. I know this to be so, my trembling hand reached out to touch them in disbelief.
“Oh no. No way. This is not possible…”
Why was Fred always right?
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