61
The black sedan slowed to an idle in the cul-de-sac. Birds warbled overhead. From his place in the driver’s seat, his eyes ran over the curb shaded by the cottonwood tree and cut across the nearest corner of the lawn, patchy as it was. The black driveway met him there, one large crack running down the very end of the lane. Sloping up just enough to be noticeable, the driveway stretched to the house and down along the right side of it. White paneling met amber brick as the ninety-degree angle of the house stood as open arms, welcoming weary travelers. On the left, the large white garage door sat closed, guarding the overworked lawn mower and the copious amounts of golf balls. On the right, an oversized bay window, with off white curtains drifting just out of sight. Flowerbeds stood underneath, proudly holding up the frame of the window for onlookers. In between, where the angle met, the covered porch, two old wicker chairs sat comfortably underneath two golden numbers – 61 – guarding the door. The screen door first opens, giving way and giving breeze. Not far behind, solid and white, but most importantly always open to those in need. Just inside the threshold, a small entry way crowded with shoes, every shape and size, on a good day there’d be just over twenty pairs. As shoes were set down gently, or if no one was watching, tossed against the wall; the nose began to pick up those familiar scents. The smoke of Pall Mall’s drifted overhead, coming from more than one direction. Just a few steps further in, the den opened up to the right. Papa’s recliner greeted first, well-loved. An ashtray lay on the table next to it, a cigarette turning to ash, its smoke joining the rest on the popcorn ceiling overhead. Floral couches extended down the walls and under the bay window, reaching all the way to the television. An old wood paneled tube set, hand dials right on the front, the faint hum of it permeated the air. The warmth of an open oven and the wafting smell of fresh baked cookies grabs from behind. Past the carpeted stairs leading up, ascending them would find three bedrooms, fit for an Irish Catholic number of children. And a bathroom decked in pink and silver flowers, a pink tub to match. Even here, the nose would find the smells from downstairs. Past the stairs, and through the doorframe, no door blocked entry to the kitchen, an undersized room for the levels of foot traffic. Here two scents mixed, tobacco and cookies filled the air in the tiny space. The cabinets lined with cups and glasses of long missed fast food chain promotions, Pooh Bear and Flintstones were among the favorites. Light bathed the floor as it drained in from the side screen door. Feet away, a line of bird feeders hung, gracefully swaying in the wind. Opened with a squeak, the side door gave way to grass, patchier than the rest, covered in acorns and dying leaves. To the right, further along the house the lawn opened up to the backyard. A vast stretch of green mostly unburdened by trees or shrubbery. In the distance, the slice and subsequent CRACK of a golf club bombing its target down the lane. Turning to the rear of the house, its breadth was made known. At the grass line, the white panel siding gave way to a paved set of descending stairs. Followed down and let in through the door, opened upon the downstairs family room. Filled with the laughter and rough housing of cousins. The walls stood strong, lined by dark woods. The furniture worn heavier than that in the den. The bathroom just to the right held the crowd pleaser, walls lined with foil wallpaper displaying a safari’s variety of animals. And back to the left, a young boy would sit at the edge of an open door. The door was wood, same as any other interior door in the house. The stairs it hid, would creak under his small frame were he to ever step foot on them. A lightbulb, extinguished, swung above the stairs to the cellar. The light from above was eaten up by the damp dark that crept from below. A cool breeze drifted up to hit his face. He tossed a ball, arcing down the steps it bounced against the hard cement floor that would be at the bottom of the steps and rolled to a stop. The CRACK of another club, the warmth of tobacco and cookies, the warbling of birds at the feeders. It all seemed a thousand miles away. A cold breeze drifted up to hit his face. The sound of his ball bouncing beneath him in the dark.
Except, he wasn’t a boy. He was a man, sitting in his black sedan. Idling at the edge of the curb baked in sunlight. No patches filled the grass and any crack in the driveway had been repaired. Up the drive, the garage sat on the left, painted blue to match the new front door, unguarded by wicker chairs. Just inside there would be no pile of shoes, and no cloud of smoke. The den held no recliner, nor floral couches, the air hung scentless and silent. The bedrooms redone and the bathroom re-decked. The kitchen, still cramped, held no character glasses. The room not warmed by an opened oven. Outside, the birds flew past, no birdseed set out. Overgrown and underkept, the field behind was returned to nature. Down the paved steps and through the door to the family room, a silent house awaits. No longer lined by zebras and hippos, the bathroom has changed. Though the door to the cellar remains the same.
The black sedan began to roll once more, inching through the cul-de-sac in procession. As it pulled away, he glanced back one last time and could almost hear. Though he knew. If a ball bounced, no ghost would hear. There were no forlorn ghosts here. Only those that lay in his own head. And in his heart. The many ghosts of house numbered 61, just off of the Fairway.