Yellow

The double gate creeks as I push through the cold, black iron fencing. The sections groan inward toward the yard as I put my shoulder into them. The road I came from is mostly dirt now with crumbly blacktop mingled with tall, flowering weeds. Yellow. The color of Judy’s sheets when she was on her deathbed. I shake it off. The flowers are pretty, for weeds. I force the gate doors closed behind me to keep out the dread.

It’s been two months now, and I am still not comfortable with being alone in this huge place. It’s oversized, and I keep getting lost in it. And it’s cold and hot at the same time. I didn’t even know Judy owned such a place until she was dying. She had no one. No children. No man. No siblings. Dead parents, like her now.

“You belong in the old place,” Judy would say.

“I don’t need that huge place,” I would say.

“That’s not the point,” she would say, “It needs you.”

She had been right. The house and the yard and the road and the driveway are a mess. It’s a good thing she also left me a small fortune to restore it. It was a family estate, but she wouldn’t live in it. It’s as if no one had lived there for decades. Every time she went there as a child, it swallowed her up. Now it’s swallowing me up.

“Why does it need me?” I had asked.

“Because you see me. You can see what’s meant to be. I just know it. And I trust you.” She had coughed up blood, and I had wiped it away.

I start walking up the five extra-wide steps to the veranda that need to be repaired. The wood shifts beneath me, and I stub my foot on an uneven board, losing my balance, dropping the box in my arms; it tumbles down the steps. I twist my ankle in my clumsy effort to save the package from falling while my backpack dangles from my forearm. In the process, I fall to my knees on one step with my hands on another. I cry out with the pain of it all, then I breathe to gain control. My ankle throbs as if my heart lives in it. I breathe again. I turn myself around and sit on the offending step to inspect the damage. My ankle swells as I watch. 

“Hello there!” A male voice booms from across the circular drive in front of me.

I look up and shield my eyes against the sun that found its way out of a cloud.

“Are you okay?” I watch a short, round man in a black suit bustle toward me, like a penguin. “I saw that spill you took. It was quite comical if not for the—oh, never mind. It looked awful.” He puffed as he got closer, pinching his side with his hand, as if he’d just run a marathon. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” he says. “Please forgive me. How rude.”

“Who are you?” I’m squinting now, my hands not enough of a shield.

“Yes. Yes. Hello,” he says, while regaining his breath and composure. “I am Nicholas Nougat.” He stretches out his right hand to shake mine. I decline. He shrugs.

“Didn’t you not notice the closed gate?” I ask, trying to pull myself up to standing while my ankle protests.

“Oh, please. Please don’t get up. I can see it inflating from here.” I settle back down on the step. “Yes, well, it didn’t say not to enter.” His eyes dart around the yard and up and down the house, like he’s checking out a blind date. “He settles his eyes on me and puts on a big smile. “But, really, are you okay? Do you need a ride to the clinic?”

I ignore his generous offer.

“And who are you, Mr. Nougat?”

“Yes. Yes. Who am I?” He chuckles and a bead of sweat rolls down his plump cheek. “I am the county tax assessor,” he says. “I also happen to be a real estate agent by night.” He almost forgets to smile, then he corrects his mistake, and his full lips lift to reveal straight, extra-white teeth. The sun disappears behind dark clouds, and the temperature drops as the wind picks up.

“And why are you here?”

“I heard you are new; that you inherited this property.” He picks up my package and pushes out his arm to help lift me up. “Perhaps I can help you into the house, so you can get some ice on that.” He nods toward my ankle. I no longer refuse his selfless offers of help, and I reach out with one hand to grab his arm and the other to grab my bag.

“So, Miss Lawson, what are your plans with this place?” I remove my hand from his arm to open the door. He knows my name. He stands in the doorway, his mouth agape, taking in the grand scene of the foyer with two grand staircases leading to a grand balcony between a grand stained-glass window that is now distorting flashes of sheet lightening through its etchings. The chandelier above my head flickers, and a sudden drop of temperature flows in with the wind through the open door. “It must have been breathtaking in its day.”

I am startled by his voice. “Excuse me, how do you know my name?” I wave him into the middle of the foyer, so I can close the heavy door; he apparently forgot he meant to help me.

“Oh, dear,” he says. His face changing from blush pink to a soft red. “I forgot my manners. Where would you like to sit?” He sets the package down near the door. “And where can I find ice for you?”

“The study to the right, please. Ice is over there, in the kitchen.”  I wave to the left, opposite the study, and once again take his arm. He helps me hobble to an oversized reading chair in the study. He emanates a sweet scent, bordering between pleasant and repulsive, like a pack of powdered doughnuts. I sit down, and he pulls a footstool over to me. Then he disappears.

I pull my pant leg up and tug my sneaker off, dropping it to the floor. It’s been minutes. Where is he? I call out to the man roaming through my mansion. “Mr. Nougat?” I crane my head behind me, the back of the reading chair facing the tall study doors, so I can’t see outward. The fireplace ignites and comes to full flame, flickering and crackling. “How are you doing, Mr. Nougat?” Nothing. I like quiet, but the silence unnerves me—it’s unexpected. The floor creaks. “Nicholas?” I yell a bit louder. Still nothing. A wind gusts outside, and unruly tree branches scrape and screech against the window next to the fireplace, sending a chill down my spine.

“Nicholas? Mr. Nougat?” I shout out with a little more concern. Still no answer, so I pull myself up. My ankle throbs, but the swelling is numbing, making standing on it just bearable enough to hobble into the foyer. Almost out of nowhere, the short, pudgy man pops out of the kitchen with a baggie of ice cubes.

“So sorry, Lauren, I had to find the gentleman’s room,” he says as he places his hand on my shoulder and turns me around, marching me back toward the study. He’s removed his suitcoat, and a kitchen towel drapes over his shoulder. “Now back to the chair with you,” he says. “I’ve taken the liberty to make a little lunch for us.”

“Lunch?” I am confused why I don’t mind that this stranger makes himself comfortable. But my stomach groans, and I feel more grateful than annoyed.

Thunder crashes, like it hit the roof, and I jump out of my skin.  

“Hmm. Darkness is rolling in,” he says. He helps me to the chair, lifts my foot to the stool, and drapes the baggie of ice over my ankle. The fire dances, and although I want to close my eyes to savor the cooling of ice on my flesh, I watch the swaying of the flames, so mesmerized that I don’t realize Nicholas left until he returns with two plates on a tray—a sandwich for him and one for me with three tablets of ibuprofen and a glass of water. “And here we go,” he says as he sets it down on the small, round table he must have placed between us with a guest chair opposite of me.  

“You’re stealthy,” I say. I laugh. “I didn’t even notice you left or moved this furniture.” I wave my hand at the seating arrangement he created.

He hands me my plate and sits down. “It’s a gift. I know I don’t look the type.”

“Well, I appreciate your hospitality,” I say.

“Thank you,” he says. “I love it here.”

“Mr. Nougat,” I say, “I’ve come here to talk with you about your taxes. Since this an heirloom property that is also an historic site, the county would like to waive your property taxes for the remainder of the year, so you can restore it and make it a place people love to visit.”

“Oh, wow, Ms. Lawson,” he says, his face illuminating. “That’s amazing.”

“Under one condition,” I say, words tumbling out that I can’t control. What am I saying? He fumbles with the fireplace remote, turning up the flames, so the crackle noises escalate.

“And what is the condition?”

That you marry Judy in the afterlife. She is waiting for you. I shake my head. It makes no sense. But I can’t make the words stop. In the afterlife?

“Yes. Yes.” He says with his white teeth shining. “That will do just fine. Thank you. Thank you, Lauren. I was hoping that’s why you came.” He pulls out a pen from his shirt pocket.

“If you will just sign here,” he says. “I promise to love her through all the universes.” He hands me the pen and a clipboard embracing a piece of paper. I sign on the bottom line.

The fireplace roars. Tree branches scrape. The wind whistles through the walls while the floor creaks, and yellow catches my eyes from a vase of flowering weeds on the mantle. Judy?

“The love of my life,” he says. “Shall we set a date?” He asks while handing me the ibuprofen and the glass of water.