The Choice ( a serial work of fiction) Part 7

Collecting the damp towel from my hair , I reentered the bathroom which was art deco in design with a white and black tiled floor. I hung the damp towel over the edge of the tub. Looking at myself in the mirror, I was surprised how little I had physically changed for I felt in the last day, that I had changed a great deal.

I continued across the landing into the second bedroom . It was a small office of sorts with a large desk also made of mahoghany. On it sat a desktop computer, I opened the drawers- there were papers and pens, even a calculator in one drawer, but it held no clue as to who the hosts of my new dwelling might be. I turned the computer on. It was available for inhouse use but like the phone downstairs , was not connected to the internet for the phone lines were inactive in the house. I decided that this might be a good place to write a letter to Maria in the days to come. But it was too nice a day for that to stay inside.

I returned downstairs, recovered the keys from the half moon table. My jacket was where I had left it the night before, on the arm of the couch next to my purse. I fished for and found the envelope of money that my uncle had given me the previous night. I pulled a crisp twenty, secured it into my pocket , along with my pepperspray and id , slipped my stockinged feet into my sneakers. I walked to the front door, unlocked the dead bolt and returned the key to the cuphook. I stepped outside and stood for several moments on the porch. I must have been still tired because the sunlight felt overly bright bright but, I decided that there was a coolness underlying the late morning and that I would need my jacket. Minutes later , I returned outside and tried the various keys on the ring in the various locks. I even had the mate to the deadbolt. House secure, I turned on the small cement porch , walked down the stairs and across the bluegrey flagstones to the sidewalk. I took a long look at the house, noted the number 302 and the large Maple tree at the end of the driveway. I turned to my left , and decided that I would see what lay in that direction .

The neighborhood had seen more affluent times . The few residents that did venture outside were older,almost all of white or maybe Italian decent, some in wheelchairs. The gardens were well kept but it was obious that some of the owners had converted to aluminum siding which looked cheap compared to the residents who maintained their paint jobs. I felt if I were on exhibit- that they were waiting to see what change I had brought to their neighborhood. I kept walking. As I walked , I heard the sound of the Blue Tick Hound who had frightened the rabbits in the garden. He bounded up to see who I was , as I walked past his house which was surrounded by well trimmed hedges. He bumped against me in greeting. I offered my hand, palm up and he rubbed his head against it. He left me as I walked further up the street. Looking ahead, I could see that the street inclined to what appeared to be a more main street ahead. So , Uncle, let's find out what lies beyond Dracula's walls, I thought. A car passed me on the street blaring the latest violent pounding lyrics , making the joints of the car creak. I ignored it and kept on.

I had been correct. I reached the top of the small hill, and looked around me. It was a small area of shops, mostly mom and pops. I was living on Belcourt street. So now I knew where I was presently. I took note of what was available. Across the street was Colliers furniture store, to its right, there was the Sharp Spot salon which said that it accepted walk ins. Next to that , was an old fashioned drugstore, whose Rexall sign had faded after many years. A small white house had a green and gilt lettered sign which proclaimed it to be the local library. To my left, what appeared to be more houses, to my right, a small grocery store nestled back from the road in a grove of Elm, White Birch and Maple trees. It had a newspaper rack outside which bore a loud orange sticker proclaiming that if one really wanted a news paper , one had to go inside to get it. Well, a newspaper would be a place to start looking for a house...so I headed to the small market.

The door chimes as I pushed it open. An old man watched me as I walked in. I smiled briefly and he turned back to the small tv behind the counter. I noted that the newspapers were at the counter. local produce lay in bins . I chose some fresh corn and some apples. I had not really taken the time to check, but I did not recall seeing pizza in the freezer at the house. I found the frozen foods and carried that as well as some cans of Coke to the counter. An old woman with white hair and the palest blue eyes that I had ever seen , shooed the old man out of her way as she began to ring things up.

" Where did you come from , Dear? " She asked.

" Oh , I am just house sitting for a little while, " I answered. I remembered the paper before she finished ringing me out.

"Oh that's nice. Do you have people here?" The pizza was being wrapped in enough paper bag to let me walk across the country and for the old woman to learn something about me.

" Not immediately here."

" Well, he," pointing towards the old sullen man " Is Benjamin and I am Bertha Crowell. We have owned this market for over forty five years so we know eveyone pretty much here. I noticed when you came up, that you walked. Do you live far? we do deliver , you know. " She handed me a card with their phone number on it. I pushed it into my wallet as I handed over the twenty. " Thank you, " I added almost as an afterthought.

" Pleased to meet you, " I added. " I am Rae. I am staying over on Belcourt. I am sure that we will be seeing more of each other. I reached for my bag, as she counted the change. I heard come again as I left. Must be hard to stay independent when the world was more and more being run by chains...Well, at least no one, yet anyway , had delivered the obligatory " Beware , young Miss of ...speech." But then this was twenty first century Untited States, not fifteeth century Romania or Victorian England.

The walk home was easier as most of it was downhill. I checked the mailbox for junk mail or letters for the owners. There was nothing. I opened the door, locking it behind me, hung my jacket in the closet to the left of the stairs . The groceries, I took into the kitchen. I preheated the oven for pizza, placing one of the Cokes and the newspaper on the table. It was almost one. Probably a nap would be in order sometime after lunch. I did not know what lay ahead for the afternoon and evening.