“Double”
William Auten
Copyright © William Auten
The property manager’s not here, so I check out Vickey’s cabin nestled in the tall pines and patches of snow that spring can’t melt up here. The road I took gets lost winding in the mountains before sloping down into the valley and beyond. L.A. isn’t even a blip out there, but it’s there, and I don’t want to go there, but I have to. I face the front door and the For Lease sign staked in the front yard among the flower bulbs waiting on warmer days. I flick the legs of one of Vickey’s horse-shaped pinwheels, and the breeze keeps it going. A truck rumbles around the road, and I hope it’s not the property manager, but then I hope it’s him because I have to get this over with before I head into L.A. The truck passes me and disappears among another cul-de-sac of cabins.
I grab my phone, lean against my rental, and verify the time Hector and I agreed to and make sure I provided my correct number and that the number he provided matches the number on the For Lease sign. They don’t match up, nine A.M. has come and gone, and my phone number is correct. A van slows around the curve and pulls into the driveway. The hand on the wheel waves. The logo on the door and hood is the same as on the For Lease sign. A stout man slides out. Keys jangle at his hip.
“Darla?”
“Yes, sir. Hector?”
He nods yes on his way to the door where he clicks open the lock. “I’m sorry we have to meet under these conditions.”
“Me too.” I hear myself say that, but I don’t believe I said it when I step under skylights that can’t break up shadows weighing down the inside. I jump when something scuttles by.
“That might be a squirrel or a rabbit. I’m just thankful it’s not a bear.”
“I remember hearing about that when we lived here.” I walk around what little Vickey left or—I stop at a dusty, empty bookshelf—had.
“Do you want any trash bags?”
“No, thank you.” I set the rental-car keys and my phone on the kitchen counter.
“There’s the dumpster near the units starting in the 400s. But if you dump food, use the ones with latches.” He clips his keys to his hip. “She was a great tenant. Quiet. Kept the place in line. I’m sorry she died. I was shocked to hear about her.”
“Yes,” I mumble.
“I do have a showing tomorrow, but you’re welcome to come back if you need to.”
“I plan to be done today by…” I check my phone’s clock but can’t tell Hector when. “I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”
He closes the front door and starts his van, and after he leaves, I stagger out the cabin and cannot brace myself fast enough against a tree. The one friend I had when Mark and I lived here is dead, and her property manager and hospice had to tell me.
My heart calmer, I start cleaning out Vickey’s cabin. I toss a blouse she wore to my youngest’s first birthday and I cried into when I told her we were moving back to Little Rock and I never would have thought I’d cry over leaving L.A. I toss a bowl that was her mother’s when Vickey had to sell her family’s ranch in Montana. That bowl held orange peels and artichoke rinds Vickey, Mark, and I picked the first summer Mark and I lived here and we only had jobs and met Vickey. After I finish the kitchen and living room and closet, I need a break. The bedroom is cold, and I’ve convinced myself I smell Vickey’s cigarette smoke.
I click on my phone’s maps, and it suggests three routes to the hospice: two sandwiching L.A. before they bend for the hospice or one straight through. The northern route parallels me against the foothills but takes me far west of the city and onto major interchanges that never speed up, but I still up end up in the city. The southern route loops me outside L.A. and takes me so close to Orange County I might as well avoid going to the hospice and motor on toward Disneyland and spend money we don’t have. I’d work overtime to pay it off, and Mark would badger me about our credit scores taking another hit, and he’d be right, and my kids would never forgive me for going there without them. Vickey would forgive me and, laughing wherever she now rests, understand, but I’d never forgive myself. She once told me going from the mountains to the ocean or the ocean to the mountains in one day beat a trip to Disney or running into a celebrity. “The locals call it the Double,” she said. “Snow and surf in one go. Where else can you do that? We should do it before you leave.” She smiled like she knew I wouldn’t be in L.A. much longer.