The Circle of Eight by J Robert Kennedy Page B

horror of regret, not only at the
cost he had already borne, but what his future of loneliness would bring.
    And tonight, with the knowledge he had nothing to live
for except The Order, he made one final commitment, then a silent prayer for
his lost Heike.
    He stepped through the entrance of his master’s home,
and resigned himself to his fate.
     
     

 
     
    Westover Hills Blvd, Richmond, Virginia
     
    Sylvia Dawson-Biggs entered the driveway and sighed. Every time she
pulled up to her house lately it pissed her off. Things had been tight since
her husband George had lost his job. He had looked for almost a year for
something in his field, banking, but as their savings rapidly dwindled, and
their house barely maintained a value above their substantial mortgage, he had
finally announced he was going to take anything, even minimum wage, just to
start bringing in something.
    She had
been the sole breadwinner that year, and for the past three years might as well
have been. She had a decent paying job as a nurse, but their lifestyle demanded
more, much more. They had cut back everywhere they could, including house
maintenance. The lawn wasn’t getting mowed by a service anymore, the weeds
weren’t getting sprayed, the gardening wasn’t getting done, and the
driveway hadn’t been sealed since he had been laid off. They needed a new roof,
the shingles curling badly, and the trim desperately needed a paint job.
    It was
embarrassing.
    They
kept driving the same cars, the Jaguar already paid off, but the constant
repair bills now that it was out of warranty were higher than the monthly
payments they were supposed to be now saving. It was bankrupting them faster
than the house, but George insisted on keeping it, wanting to maintain appearances.
She begged him to sell the albatross to some other poor fool, but George
wouldn’t hear of it.
    Instead
he had set up an eBay account and was selling off everything that he could to
try and make ends meet so they could pay their mortgage and keep food on the
table. Neither of them had parents with enough money to help out, no rich aunts
or uncles, no big inheritance that might be just around the corner.
    They
were screwed.
    If George
couldn’t get a better job soon, they’d have to sell the house. She had long
argued they should—it didn’t matter to her. It was just a building they lived
in. But to George it was a sign of failure to give up. To drop from high-middle
income to low middle-income was just something he couldn’t bear.
    Eventually
things will come to a head.
    She
reached up and pressed the garage door opener out of habit, then cursed as it
did nothing. The opener had stopped working two weeks ago. No money to have it
repaired.
    She
climbed out of her car, grabbed her gym bag from the backseat and released her
nine year old Jenny from the booster seat. She followed Jenny up the front
walkway, eyeballing the weeds and lack of flowers. No money for annuals this
year. Or last.
    She
unlocked the door and went inside, Jenny sprinting up the stairs to her room,
she entering the code in the unmonitored security system. The panel beeped
twice, then she closed the door. The answering machine sitting on a console
table near the door was flashing with several messages. She prepared herself
for more bill collectors as she pressed the button.
    The
machine beeped and the misery began as she kicked her shoes off and made her
way to the kitchen.
    “This
is Franco from Tim’s Autopalace. The new ABS module for your Jag is in. Can you
give us a call at 555-7838 to arrange an appointment to have it installed?”
    George had
learned how to do his own oil changes and basic maintenance like topping up
fluid levels, rotating tires, and what not, but not the big things, which were
constant. Her car needed new tires, his were probably on their last five
thousand miles and with the damned Jag it was one thing after another. ABS
module, new battery, alternator, electrical problems coming out of