The House in the Apple Orchard

Part 2

     When Tony saw me walking toward the restaurant, he just nodded. I ran inside to the phone booth.
     “Are they still there?” Cooper’s muffled voice answered.
     “What’s going on?”
     “They haven’t paid rent for months, but they won’t leave. Help me out with this. You tell them you bought the house and you’re the new owner.”
     “That’s not true, though.”
     “As the real owner, I’m giving you permission to say that, okay? Kick them out and charge me whatever your trouble is worth.”
     I looked at my piles of belongings in the car with slight regret, but I went back on the dirt road, drove up the hill, and knocked at the door again.
     “It’s you again.”
     This time two men stood behind the door, the same middle-aged man and a younger one in a round-neck shirt—and the same familiar odor of marijuana wafted out. I’d never done well with pot. I told them I’d purchased the house and wanted to move in.
     “Since there are so many rooms, you’re welcome to stay until you find a place to go. But please start packing.” I crossed my arms. 
     The two exchanged glances. The middle-aged man said, “But we’re renting this house from the previous owner.”
     “But you haven’t paid the rent for months.”
     “Oh, we don’t have to,” a woman’s voice called from inside. “The water supply isn’t working.”
     “Oh, yeah,” the younger one joined in. “The spring dried up. We have to fetch water with buckets from the brook.”
     “We don’t need to pay rent.” A puny old man came to the door. “And we don’t need to move out until the house functions properly. That’s the law. Goodbye, hippie.”
     Laughter burst from the others, and the door closed. A loud click of the lock followed.
                                                  ~~~
     The descriptions Cooper had written down said the house received water from the spring about fifteen yards away, and the inlet to the water was at the back door to the kitchen. I found a hose clamped to the inlet, but the other end lay loose on the ground. 
     Jerks.
     I stretched the hose toward the backside hill and to the rocky surface near the brook. The rocks glistened with water seeping out of the ground. A tiny dam, made of cemented pebbles, sat on a rock shelf that acted like a pan, catching water falling from above. But inside it was almost empty. The spring had truly dried up, yet only several yards away, another spring gushed from a tiny gap between boulders.
     Morons.
     I walked back to my wagon to fetch a box of PVC pipe, rope, and my toolbox. I joined the segments of pipe and tied the end piece to the tree roots growing between the rocks. The pipe successfully drew sparkling water to the small dam. I secured the hose with a clamp and went back to the house.
     “Now you have water.” I shouted from the back yard.
     A door opened, and a middle-aged, chunky woman appeared with her hands on her hips.
     “No, we ain’t!” she yelled.
     “Turn on the faucet!” I yelled back.
     A boy inside the house cussed over the sound of water splashing.
     “Now, please leave,” I said to the woman.
     “How can you do that to us?” she whined. “My whole family’s living here. My old pa, my husband, our kids—all seven of us. We ain’t got nary a place to go. My poor pa’s suffering from asthma.”
     “You gotta be kind enough to put yourself in our shoes.” The old man came out with others standing behind him, some crossing their arms on their chests. “Then you’d be more sympathetic to us.”
     “Don’t play that game with me!” I barked, feeling my whole face getting hot. “At least my standing here is legal.” I paused and calmed myself down.      “You know I’m not kicking you out. I’ve told you you’re welcome to stay here until you find a place to go. It’s nice of me. I could have you evicted and tell the police what you’ve been smoking in there.”
     The family left soon after. It didn’t take them long to drive away with what they had—clothes, toiletries, banjos, shotguns, and AK-47s. I might have been lucky that they were a bit slow from smoking pot. I hurried to lock the doors and windows on the first floor and stayed alert until I was fairly certain they weren’t coming back.
                                                  ~~~
     The house was truly large. The living room jutted out to the porch, the kitchen and bathroom faced the back yard, and the family room and three bedrooms sprawled in between. A fireplace in the living room and a woodstove in the kitchen provided the major heat sources. The old floor didn’t even squeak. It was a vintage house built with proud craftmanship,—but with trash left by the family, half-eaten pizza, junk-food boxes, empty glass bottles, and scattered ashes on the floor. Scrubbing, painting, and a few small repairs were what the inside needed most.
     Stairs at the back of the living room led to the second floor. At the top I found a wide hall flanked by eleven bedrooms. The first room, closest to the stairwell, lay right above the living room. It was the only room whose door was closed. When I touched the knob, I received a small shock. “Why, the air’s not that dry.” I shook my hand.
     Inside, a potbelly woodstove squatted directly above the fireplace in the living room below. But there was nothing else, not even a curtain.        Accumulated dust covered the floor, the top of the stove, and the windowsill. Cobwebs adorned the corners. Stale air and sadness lurked in that space. My few steps had made footprints on the dusty floor, and I noticed several other footprints made before mine. None of them reached beyond the center of the room. I stepped out and closed the door, relieved to be out in the hall again. I wasn’t afraid, but something like longing stung me.
     I should not disturb this room.
     The other ten rooms had been trashed like the ones downstairs. Only the front bedroom was untouched.

To be continued