04 A Misty Mourning by Rett MacPherson

Author:Rett MacPherson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780312977849
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-three

An hour later I was seated on the ground underneath a very large tree that housed a very healthy bird and squirrel population. I’d dodged bird doodoo at least twice already, and I could no longer feel my feet. Sitting Indian-style on the ground at seven months pregnant was something one only did if she were trying to cut off the circulation to her feet.

But here I sat, with Elliott to my right and Chester H. Farnsworth the third sitting across from me. All I could think was what a good thing it was that Gert was mad at me, because she would never have made it up off the ground. And since Mr. Farnsworth the third had insisted we sit under the tree, on the ground, I would have had to go back to St. Louis in a few days with my grandmother permanently employed as Mr. Farnsworth’s new scarecrow, or she would have had to ride on the hood Indian-style for twelve hours. See, some things happen for a reason. I’m just certain of it.

Mr. Farnsworth’s house was set on a hill, nothing new there, and his yard overlooked the two-lane blacktop that snaked around the foot of the mountain. It was a lovely day, mid-seventies, sunny with an occasional wispy cloud. Oh, and don’t forget the soggy ground from the rain the night before that would now have a permanent dent in the shape of my butt. All I could say was this had better be good.

Chester himself was about ninety thousand years old, and at his age I couldn’t imagine being able to even find my legs, much less contort them into the position in which he now sat. I bet he had never taken yoga. I bet he never jogged, ran a race, took karate, ate low-fat, low-sugar, low-caffeine, low-calorie, or low-carbohydrate foods a day in his life. And yet the man was the perfect embodiment of everything healthy and everything I absolutely despised.

I wouldn’t mind being more health conscious as long as I didn’t have to think about it.

“This is Torie O’Shea,” Elliott began. “Torie, this is Chester. His father was a miner for the Panther Run Coal Company and lived at the boardinghouse.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“Who are you, exactly?” the old man asked.

“Clarissa Hart left Torie the boardinghouse in her will,” Elliott said.

Chester’s heavy grey eyebrows rose about an inch, and then he took aim and spit about six inches from where I was sitting. Wonderful. Made me wonder what else I was sitting in, besides dirt.

“ ’S’pose I should say congratulations,” he muttered.

‘Torie was wondering if you could give her some information on the building. On the boardinghouse itself,” Elliott said.

“Like what?” Chester asked.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said. “But what year were you born?” What year he was born would determine my line of questioning. There was no point in asking him things that he wouldn’t begin to know because he wasn’t alive yet.

“I was born on the twenty-seventh of February, 1910,” he said with his head held high.

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