This Olde House Part 2A Story by StanMaisy and Jared have breakfastThis Olde House
Part 2 By Stan Morris Copyright 2013 “Your gas line is fine. I pressurized it and waited twenty
minutes. No leaks.” If they had lived in a city, the man would
have been wearing a uniform instead of jeans and a cheap t-shirt with a cracking
logo on the pocket. Maisy emitted a sigh of relief. The house was in bad enough shape as it was. In country this dry, they did not have to
worry that much about termites, but the wind, rain, and sun had taken their
toll on the old house. “Can you fill the tank?” “Sure. Do
you have an account with us?” Maisy shook her head. She had never had to set up an account with
anyone other than her cell service provider. “Well, now I don’t mind setting up an account for
you, but I need half payment in advance.” Maisy’s heart sank, but Jared stepped forward and
said, “I’ve got the money. Will you take
cash?” “We love cash.” Jared opened his wallet and counted out the bills. “I’ll start filling it now.” Maisy did not know what to say. She and Jared had not spoken about money
yet. In fact, they hadn’t spoken much at
all. They had chosen separate rooms last
night and had retired to bed. This
morning they had woken to the knock on the door by the man from the gas
company. He knew Maisy’s father, so he
came to test the gas line, even though it was Saturday. The gas man walked out the door, and Maisy
turned to Jared. “Thank you.
I have a little money in savings, but it’s in the bank. I’ll get some and repay you.” “No need.
Is there anything to eat?” “My mother stocked the frigerator. Let’s see what we’ve got.” The old refrigerator was noisy, but it was cold
when Jared opened it. It contained an
unopened gallon of milk, margarine, several partly used bottles of condiments,
and other odds and ends. “See any bread?” he asked. “No, but we have pancake mix and maple syrup. Why don’t I make us some pancakes? We can go to the bank and the store later.” “Sounds good.” Jared sat down at the old yellow Formica covered
metal table. The serviceable metal
chairs matched the table, but the seat pads were worn out. Their vinyl was cracked and torn, and cotton
stuffing was showing. “What should we do today?” he asked. “I wish I knew.
Make a list of things we need. Do
you have a job?” “I work for Roach Construction.” Maisy gave him a half glance as she searched for a
frying pan. “That could come in
handy. This place will need a lot of
work. Are you a carpenter?” “No, I haul stuff for people. Do cleanup.
That kind of thing. How about
you?” Maisy reddened involuntarily though he hadn’t
asked that in a way meant to be demeaning. “I used to work at Woody’s Grocery until…” “Oh.”
Jared’s face reddened also. An uncomfortable silence followed. “I guess you heard.” “I might have heard something,” he said evasively,
trying for tact. There was another uncomfortable silence, and then
Maisy blurted, “I didn’t know he was married.” Jesse couldn’t think of anything to say in response
to that, so he wisely kept his mouth shut. “He told me he was searching for the right place
to build a call center. He said small
American towns were best, because people spoke better English.” “You don’t have to tell me.” “Yes, I do.
We’re married, even if it is a sham marriage. I want you to know the truth. I thought he was going to marry me and take
me to California. He claimed that he
lived in San Francisco. That’s how I got
to be the town…” She could not make
herself say the last word. It didn’t
matter. Other people had said it for
her; lots of people.” “And then we were found in bed together...” Jared didn’t finish. “That’s how I got here. How about you?” “I got busted for selling dope.” Maisy’s eyes widened. “You’re a drug dealer?” “No!” Jared hesitated only a second before
continuing. “I was a freshman at
BYU. I was in a club that had a lot of
students, and I met this graduate student.
He was popular and friendly, and one day he asked me if I could get him
some marijuana. He claimed he needed it
for his glaucoma. I asked around and
bought him a couple of joints. When I
gave it to him, he pulled out a badge. I
got arrested and kicked out of school.
The judge gave me probation, and I was sent home. Now the government wants me to pay back the
money it loaned me.” “That was the only time you sold drugs?” Her voice was filled with suspicion. “That was the only time.” “Okay then.
I mean, I know a lot of people who smoke. I imagine you do too. I don’t mind it. But I don’t want to be married to a drug
dealer.” Maisy sprayed Pam on the frying pan and set it on
the gas stove. She poured milk into the
bowl containing the pancake mix and stirred it. “Did your grandmother leave you this house?” Maisy shook her head as she poured the mixture
into the frying pan. Seconds later it
began to sizzle. “She left it to my
daddy, but he promised that he’d sign the title over to me. There’s no mortgage, but we’ll have to pay
the property taxes.” A thought struck her, but she flipped the pancake
before she turned to fix her stare on him.
“Do you plan to stay married to me or get out of it?” © 2013 StanReviews
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1 Review Added on July 25, 2013 Last Updated on July 25, 2013 Tags: Stan Morris, This Olde House, short story, midwest, small town, rural, marriage, young adult, new adult AuthorStanKula, HIAboutSpeculative Fiction writer. Born and raised in California, Educated and married in New Mexico, Lived in Texas before moving to Maui, Hawaii. Operated a computer assembly and repair business before r.. more..Writing
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