last time you and he went on vacation.” I turned to Eleanor. “Could you watch the store for me for half an hour? Please?”
Serrano helped Martha into her copious red coat. “I’ll go, too.”
Eleanor crossed her arms. “Sure, sure, leave me out of all the fun.”
* * *
A few minutes later, we stepped out of Serrano’s Dodge Challenger into a wintry wasteland. It was impossible to drive all the way up to the trailer that was Cyril Mackey’s home because towering piles of junk barred our way.
The snowfall had softened the sharp edges of car doors, old radiators, and gasoline signs, which were now bumpy, indefinable piles of white. As Martha glanced dubiously around the salvage yard, I fancied that Mother Nature had wanted to make this as gentle an introduction for her first time here as possible.
We trudged across a smooth, untouched crust of snow, heads bowed against the cruel cold that seemed to sink its talons deep into our skulls.
Serrano rapped on the trailer door, but there was no answer. He stuck a hand in my direction. “Give me the key.”
I placed the key obediently into his outstretched palm.
“Stand back, ladies. Do
not
enter until I give the all clear.”
I did a mental eye roll as he disappeared inside the trailer. Serrano was in his bossy mode today.
About thirty seconds later, he came back to the top step and motioned for us to enter.
Martha gasped and grabbed my arm as she stepped into the bright kitchen. Ahead of us was a double doorway to the living room.
“Good God, he’s been robbed! Call the police!”
“Martha, it’s okay,” I said. “Serrano’s already here, and besides, it always looks like this. You know, sort of, um, minimalist. Cyril doesn’t have very much furniture.”
Cyril and I had formed an odd acquaintance before he and Martha ever embarked on their romantic journey. He was surly, cantankerous, and rude, even, but somehow I’d seen beyond the bite of the junkyard dog to the sweet soul beneath.
True, steady, loyal, and ready to lay down his life for those he loved.
The spare décor was clean and neat, in complete contrast to the exterior yard. In the kitchen, near the window, there was a white Formica round table covered with a lace tablecloth, and a vibrant Boston fern hung in the corner. There wasn’t much in the living room except a recliner covered in an afghan, a china cabinet, and a grandfather clock.
“Well at least the inside is somewhat respectable.” Martha sniffed and ran a finger over the spotless kitchen counter.
While Serrano inspected the latches on the windows, I picked up the cat’s food and water bowls and refilled both.
“So where’s this cat?” Serrano asked.
I took a quick look around for the black feline who had a habit of hiding on top of cabinets and ninja-diving past unsuspecting humans. I wasn’t sure Martha’s nerves would survive the shock in her present condition.
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think he’ll show himself with this many people around.”
Serrano was busy opening the kitchen cabinets. I glimpsed some Liquorice Allsorts, a box of English teabags, and a jar of Marmite.
I shifted uneasily. If Cyril came home now, he would be royally pissed at this invasion of his privacy, and especially peeved at the person who had helpfully offered the key to gain access. He’d have my guts for garters, as he would say.
“Look, Serrano, it’s obvious he’s not here and no one has ransacked the place,” I said. “We should get going.”
He gave no sign of listening to me and strode off to Cyril’s bedroom. Martha and I scurried after him. He opened the sliding doors of the closet, which hardly had any clothes hanging inside, but probably usually didn’t anyway.
He shook his head. “Can’t tell if he packed for a trip or not.”
Next came the bathroom, and Martha and I crowded in behind him as he opened the medicine cabinet. No medicine inside, just an old-fashioned shaving brush and mug and a
Serrano helped Martha into her copious red coat. “I’ll go, too.”
Eleanor crossed her arms. “Sure, sure, leave me out of all the fun.”
* * *
A few minutes later, we stepped out of Serrano’s Dodge Challenger into a wintry wasteland. It was impossible to drive all the way up to the trailer that was Cyril Mackey’s home because towering piles of junk barred our way.
The snowfall had softened the sharp edges of car doors, old radiators, and gasoline signs, which were now bumpy, indefinable piles of white. As Martha glanced dubiously around the salvage yard, I fancied that Mother Nature had wanted to make this as gentle an introduction for her first time here as possible.
We trudged across a smooth, untouched crust of snow, heads bowed against the cruel cold that seemed to sink its talons deep into our skulls.
Serrano rapped on the trailer door, but there was no answer. He stuck a hand in my direction. “Give me the key.”
I placed the key obediently into his outstretched palm.
“Stand back, ladies. Do
not
enter until I give the all clear.”
I did a mental eye roll as he disappeared inside the trailer. Serrano was in his bossy mode today.
About thirty seconds later, he came back to the top step and motioned for us to enter.
Martha gasped and grabbed my arm as she stepped into the bright kitchen. Ahead of us was a double doorway to the living room.
“Good God, he’s been robbed! Call the police!”
“Martha, it’s okay,” I said. “Serrano’s already here, and besides, it always looks like this. You know, sort of, um, minimalist. Cyril doesn’t have very much furniture.”
Cyril and I had formed an odd acquaintance before he and Martha ever embarked on their romantic journey. He was surly, cantankerous, and rude, even, but somehow I’d seen beyond the bite of the junkyard dog to the sweet soul beneath.
True, steady, loyal, and ready to lay down his life for those he loved.
The spare décor was clean and neat, in complete contrast to the exterior yard. In the kitchen, near the window, there was a white Formica round table covered with a lace tablecloth, and a vibrant Boston fern hung in the corner. There wasn’t much in the living room except a recliner covered in an afghan, a china cabinet, and a grandfather clock.
“Well at least the inside is somewhat respectable.” Martha sniffed and ran a finger over the spotless kitchen counter.
While Serrano inspected the latches on the windows, I picked up the cat’s food and water bowls and refilled both.
“So where’s this cat?” Serrano asked.
I took a quick look around for the black feline who had a habit of hiding on top of cabinets and ninja-diving past unsuspecting humans. I wasn’t sure Martha’s nerves would survive the shock in her present condition.
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think he’ll show himself with this many people around.”
Serrano was busy opening the kitchen cabinets. I glimpsed some Liquorice Allsorts, a box of English teabags, and a jar of Marmite.
I shifted uneasily. If Cyril came home now, he would be royally pissed at this invasion of his privacy, and especially peeved at the person who had helpfully offered the key to gain access. He’d have my guts for garters, as he would say.
“Look, Serrano, it’s obvious he’s not here and no one has ransacked the place,” I said. “We should get going.”
He gave no sign of listening to me and strode off to Cyril’s bedroom. Martha and I scurried after him. He opened the sliding doors of the closet, which hardly had any clothes hanging inside, but probably usually didn’t anyway.
He shook his head. “Can’t tell if he packed for a trip or not.”
Next came the bathroom, and Martha and I crowded in behind him as he opened the medicine cabinet. No medicine inside, just an old-fashioned shaving brush and mug and a
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