[Critique Group 1] Marcia's November submission

[Marcia Wick]

I'm writing random scenes for my wanna-be book.

 

Chestnut Street

Word Count:  1273

 

 

New to the area, I assumed no one would notice as I drove around the
village, scouting for a place to live, but I would learn over time that
hidden eyes watch strangers warily in a small town. 

 

I picked up a local PennySaver at the corner gas station and scoured the
classifieds for apartments. It was easy to locate most addresses in the
small Lake Holland  community, but some rentals listed were on streets that
I couldn't find. Rounding a corner, I recognized the requisite Town Hall by
its flag pole and turned into the parking lot. Perhaps I could ask for a map
of the township. 

 

When I walked into the dimly lit lobby from the bright outdoors, a deep
voice said, "You're Claudia, the new reporter."

 

It was a statement, so I replied with a question.

 

"Yes?"

 

"You're looking for a place to live."

 

Another true statement. The shadowy man appeared to know me, although I
hadn't been introduced yet to anyone in town but my editor. 

 

"How would you know that?"

 

"Sue is my cousin."

 

I stood, hands in the pockets of my khaki pants, puzzled. 

 

"Who is Sue?"

 

"Sue works in the front office at the newspaper," he said. She told me you'd
be looking for a place to live. You should talk to Betty Fox. She has an
apartment in her house on Chestnut Street."

 

I felt like I'd been transported into an episode of Mayberry RFD. This
strange man knew all about me. I was accustomed to living on a large college
campus, to coming and going without anyone knowing my business. I had
deliberately moved to another state, far from the prying eyes of my parents.
I had envisioned anonymity in my new life, thousands of miles from my
painful history. 

 

Light drifted into the lobby of the Town Hall from an office behind my new
friend. The silhouette of a holstered gun on the man's hip took shape. I
realized He was a cop.

 

"Who are you?"

 

"Clayton. Sergeant Clayton Dixon." 

 

Clayton Dixon is a lyrical name for a good old country boy, I thought. Then
again, who was I, Claudia Krump,  to judge a name?

 

Sergeant Clayton led me into the office and pointed to Chestnut Street on a
village map that was taped to the countertop. 

 

"Look for number 72. See you around." The officer winked at me, and walked
out.

 

Ten minutes later, I gazed at my prospective new home. Painted mustard
yellow, 72 Chestnut Street was a two-story wood frame house built in the
1920s. It was set only one block off the north end of Main Street. The
one-mile "commute" to the newspaper office on the south end of Main Street
would take me all of one minute. That's one advantage to working in a small
town, I smirked. I had been worried that my poor night vision would cost me
my job if I couldn't drive to assignments at night. If I lived on Chestnut
Street, I could walk to evening meetings in the village and avoid driving.
Relieved, my fear of the dark didn't dampen my enthusiasm.

 

I notice a detached two-car garage, painted in matching yellow, was set back
from the left side of the house. Would the rental include a garage space and
use of the tree-sheltered back yard? 

 

I rang the bell. Out the door popped an enormous woman, huffing and puffing
onto the front porch. Mrs. Fox was as wide as she was tall, but she wasn't
tall, half a foot shorter than my average five-foot-four. The landlady
bubbled a greeting and moved swiftly past me despite her extra pounds. She
bounced down the steps and I followed. A flagstone sidewalk circled the
house. Mrs. Fox flapped her apron at invisible gnats and opened a creaky
screen door. She pointed to a private Stairway that led to the upstairs
apartment.

 

"You go first," she instructed.

 

Sweat glistened on the old woman's round cheeks in the high humidity. The
aromatic fall air was warm. I turned and peered up the narrow staircase
attached to the exterior of the home. It appeared to be well-constructed.
The steep steps were covered and screened in from the outside railing to the
roof. The railing was secure. Eager, I ascended to inspect the apartment.

 

I could hear Mrs. Fox straining to climb the steps below me. I twisted the
knob of the door at the top, but it spun without catching. 

 

"Here, here." Mrs. Fox huffed and fished a skeleton key, a for real to God
skeleton key, out of her apron pocket.

 

"Use this."

 

I fit the long handle key into the keyhole and twisted it to the right.
Click. I stepped into a quaint kitchen straight from the 1950s. It was funky
but fully equipped with an ancient gas stove , a single bowl stainless steel
sink, and a cabinet topped with one foot of Formica counter. I peeked inside
the short refrigerator and discovered a small freezer compartment, not
separate, but inside the fridge. A pink table and two chairs like you'd see
at Ye Olde Ice Cream Shoppe was perched in front of a wood sash window. Pink
calico curtains provided privacy.

 

Mrs. Fox opened a door off the kitchen revealing a passageway. An interior
set of stairs led down to the first floor where she lived. The second floor
of the home had been cleverly subdivided to accommodate a rental unit. I
assumed the old woman was widowed and needed the extra income.

 

"That door is always locked. I use the room for storage." Mrs. Fox flapped
her arm to the left. "Here is your bathroom." Mrs. Fox pointed to the right
of the landing. 

 

I stepped in to survey the facilities. An old-fashioned claw-foot tub, a
wood-framed mirror hanging over a ceramic sink, and a squat toilet greeted
me. To my dismay, the tub lacked a showerhead. I would have to wash my
shaggy hair under the tub's faucet.

 

Mrs. Fox called for me to explore the remainder of the apartment. An
overstuffed couch and arm chair crowded the living room that adjoined the
kitchen. A window at the end of the narrow bedroom overlooked the street. An
iron-frame bed filled most of the space. The wallpaper in the bedroom was
reminiscent of my grandmother's house.

 

Upon closer inspection of the living room, I spotted a pigeonhole desk
flanked by tall wood sash windows draped in sheer linen. I grinned. I could
envision myself living here with my meager belongings, perched at the desk
paying my bills, setting up house like an adult for the first time. 

 

"I'll take it," I said.

 

"It's $175 per month plus utilities," Mrs. Fox held out a plump hand. "I'll
need a check for the first two months in advance."

 

I didn't hesitate to write the first check on my new bank account. After
all, I was financially independent. As a reporter, I'd be earning a wage of
$7.50 per hour -a fortune to me at the time. 

 

Mrs. Fox stuffed my check into her apron pocket and said, "Keep the key."
She turned to descend the stairs and I shrieked.

 

A mouse!"

 

A small grey critter skittered across the linoleum floor. Mrs. Fox calmly
fetched a broom that was perched behind the refrigerator. Before I could
blink, she had swept the rodent into a corner, flipped the broom around, and
crushed the intruder with the end of the wooden handle. She fetched a dust
pan from under the sink and scooped the mouse residue into a plastic-lined
garbage pail. 

 

"Let me know if you need anything else." My resourceful landlady descended
the stairs, leaving the garbage for me to take out.

 

# # #

 

 

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