"Fuck! Damnit!" David threw the socket wrench to the ground and clutched his torn thumb. He sat hard on the cement. That was the last straw. Five hours he'd spent trying to get the junkyard-restored radiator in place, but the blasted thing refused to fit - this despite Juan Marco's assurance that it was "just de one". Now he was out fifty bucks and he was still without a ride. That last cross-country trip took a toll on his old Mustang. The tires were shot, the windshield pitted from the dusty Midwestern highways, and the steering made an odd noise. Unfortunately, his financial state was such that buying another vehicle was out of the question. Hell, even next week's groceries seemed a questionable prospect.
The job opportunity in New York City dissolved before he hit Texas, but the company didn't bother to get in touch with him the cell phone number he'd supplied with his resume. Instead, they left a message at his apartment, and like an idiot he didn't bother to call in to check his messages at home. What a waste of a trip, he thought. Wrecked car, dashed job hopes...why did he take the damn trip in the first place.
A silver house appeared in his mind, then disappeared.
He took his key ring out of his pocket. He fondled the strange, silver key - the only "souvenir" of his trip, if you could call it that. If you asked David, he'd say it was also a "souvenir" of his brush with his own latent insanity. It had all seemed so real...the strange silver house, the girl with the green eyes, the incredible lovemaking.
Sighing, he tossed the keyring to the ground. It landed with the strange key on top, reflecting sun straight into his eyes. He squinted. What did it all mean?
He went into the house and grabbed a cold Sam Adams out of the fridge. His phone rang. He slumped dejectedly into his La-Z-Boy as the answering machine clicked and whirred. A woman's voice crackled through the small speaker. His mother.
"David? Are you there? It's Mom. I have some very bad news, dear. Gramma Jane has passed away. They're holding services-"
He jumped up, grabbed the receiver. "Hello, Mom?"
"David? Are you screening your calls again?"
"Yes, Mom, I am. What were you saying about Gramma Jane?"
"She passed away, David. In her sleep." She paused. "I'm sorry, baby."
"No..." David slumped back into the recliner, disbelieving. Gramma Jane was only 67, for crissake, and healthier than anyone he knew. She was also the only family member David gave a crap about. He had planned to stay with her in New Hampshire for a few weeks while his New York apartment was readied, but after his would-be boss gave him the news that not only could they not hire him, but they were also laying off 20% of their sales force, David had driven straight home to the West Coast, disgusted. Fuck. She was going to cook him chicken pie, and they had planned a fishing trip, just like they'd taken when he was a lonely, awkward young boy. Now there would be no more trips with Gramma Jane. Ever.
"...$50,000, plus the house. You were always her favorite, so it's no surprise, but you'll need to get all the legal stuff sorted out, and-"
"What? Huh? I'm sorry, Mom, I missed that. This is...overwhelming."
"I know, dear. It's just that Jane left you her house on the East Coast, along with what's left of her savings, which looks to be about $50,000."
"Fifty THOUSAND dollars?" David repeated.
"Yes, dear. Gramma was quite a saver, you know that. Too bad her money skills never rubbed off on you!" his mother chuckled. She was always pleased at the opportunity to needle him about his lack of financial smarts. Money came and went for David, though it was less a matter of his intelligence (as he was a bright guy) as it was a matter of apathy. Money just didn't matter to him. Saving it, maintaining it, watching over it - all that bored him to tears. He liked the freedom money could buy, but just couldn't bring himself to care enough about the stuff to mind it well. Thus, despite a string of high-paying sales gigs, he still sat near penniless, busting ass on his broken down Mustang convertible.
Until now, that is.
Grief still sunk into him at the news of Gramma Jane's passing, but the life raft that the money and house represented buoyed his mood a bit. Certainly, $50K wasn't a fortune, but it was a tidy nest egg - enough to help David get back on his feet and then some. And the house..he'd dreamed of living in that New England cottage on a tidy 2 acre plot since he was a kid. He finagled the necessary info from his mother, then got off the phone before the guilt tripping could begin. He sat in silence, wondering how such a wonderful new start could come from such a sad event. Unconsciously, he rubbed the silver key between his thumb and forefinger.
The funeral was a crowded affair. Gramma Jane was the type to get involved in her community, and representatives of an assortment of clubs and charities attended. Then the reading of the will and the probate garbage began, but thanks to Jane Belman's excellent planning the transfer of all properties and monies went exceptionally smoothly. By summer, David had packed up and was on his way to the lovely cottage at which he spent most of his childhood.
As he drove into the maple-framed driveway he was struck by how small the cottage looked. But it wasn't until he was actually inside the small white ivy-covered building edifice that he realized how much he'd grown, and how little the house had grown. The countertop that he once jumped onto lay at hip-level, and the endlessly long kitchen tile now seemed a tiny, cramped space.
Shaking aside his nostalgia, he unloaded his belongings, went into town for a pizza and groceries, then settled in his new bed for a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning, he made a ham & egg omelet with toast, then spent the next week dusting away cobwebs, cleaning, and painting. 8 days later, the cottage was restored to his childhood cheerfulness, and David finally felt at home.
