Faith by Bill Noel

Author:Bill Noel [Noel, Bill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Enigma House Press

Chapter Twenty

Martha’s house was four long blocks from the Tides, so I suggested we drive. Charles said it was a great idea, which, I suppose, wasn’t as good as his “brilliant” idea that Martha would take Ty, the stray. Her house was a large, two-story, relatively new structure that backed up to the ocean. Martha met us with a look she probably would’ve given a Mormon missionary. She was no more than five-foot-two, slightly overweight, with dark black hair pulled in a bun. She opened the door a crack.

“Young men, I don’t want any.”

It was hard to understand what she’d said for the barking dogs nudging the door.

Charles, who didn’t accept the concept of rejection, stepped forward, tipped his Tilley, then said, “Martha, I’m Charles Fowler. We met last year when we came looking for Pluto, Dude Sloan’s dog. We’ve also talked in church a time or two.”

I hadn’t remembered, but Martha was a member of First Light where Charles was a regular.

Martha leaned on her cane, smiled, then said, “Oh, I remember. Sorry, I thought you were some of those church kids going door-to-door, or worse, traveling salesmen. Give me a second to put my killer dogs in another room.” She chuckled as she said it. It was at least two minutes before the door opened all the way. “Come in.”

“Martha,” Charles said as we followed her in the door. “You remember my friend, Chris Landrum, don’t you?”

“Sure,” she said, in a tone that failed to sound sincere. “Shall we retire to the sitting room?”

The room looked the same as it had a year ago, resembling an animal playhouse more than a sitting room. A three-foot-high, triple deck, carpeted cat tower occupied one corner. On a small table beside the cat tower, there was an oak cabinet like one I remembered from my childhood that contained a record player, or turntable, as they’re called today. Assorted animal toys were scattered around. My eyes immediately went to the large aquarium beside one of the three wingback chairs. I was relieved to see the aquarium occupied, relieved because it held a boa constrictor that had to be a mile long. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. On a previous visit, Martha shared she often let Squeezy—no, I’m not making that up—roam around the room. She’d said roam, I translated it to mean slither. I took the chair farthest from the aquarium.

Martha had already taken the second farthest chair from Squeezy, so Charles slowly lowered himself in the dog and cat hair infested remaining seat.

“Charles, want to hold Squeezy?”

“Perhaps another time, Martha. Speaking of pets, how many do you have now?”

Instead of answering, she popped up from the chair. “Fellas, want a hot toddy?”

One of the things I’d remembered about our visits last year, was her fondness for the drink, regardless of the time of day.

“No thank you, Martha,” Charles said, and repeated, “Perhaps another time.”

She lifted the top of the oak cabinet, fiddled with the record player, then said, “Then you can’t say no to music of the season.

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