Open House

(a piece from a larger work)

SPILLED MILK

“It’s too late to worry over spilled milk.”

OPEN HOUSE

The late model Mercedes Benz glides smoothly up to the gate, the heavy stone pillars on either side standing sentinel. A security guard dressed in crisp clothing and sheltered from a punishing sun steps out of his air-conditioned office, a twelve-by-twelve foot cubicle with a small desk, executive chair, mini fridge, and a small bathroom with all the necessary amenities. He smiles when he sees who has arrived, pushes a button outside of his small building, and waves the driver through; permission granted, “you are one of them,”.

The day goes by, vehicle after vehicle comes and goes, the process the same, “good morning, sir”, “fine day, Miss,” “lovely afternoon, Sir,”, and the sentinels stand guard, and the gates open and close, the chosen lucky few granted access out and back in again.

Outside of the gates, a realtor jumps out of his car, grabs and folds the Open House sign quickly, and with a touch to his trunk, waits for the lid to lift. He tosses the flattened sign into the opening and quickly presses the button again, hurrying back inside his car to escape the heat and stinging sunshine. Once inside his car, shielded from the sharp rays, he welcomes the air-conditioning and takes a quick glance back before pulling out. He sighs, spotting one of the many homeless crouching nearby, so close to the corner his sign sat on. He has seen this man holding a placard before but never so close to the Links, and this time, he’s not alone. A little girl hunches nearby, her tiny fingers scrolling imaginary figures in the dirt, curlicue after curlicue, as though trying to create some flair and beauty amidst the roar of the traffic, the beating sun, and the powdery soil that creeps up to the pavement. “Someone needs to see about that child,” he thinks to himself. “Such a dangerous place to be sitting with the traffic racing by. That man needs to move her away from the curb.’ He turns his head forward, shaking his head as he pulls away, “I bet they were in front of the sign, too, which might explain why I had so few showings today. Someone really needs to do something about our homeless situation, these poor people, and it’s not doing our property values any favors, either.”

He pulls out, does a quick U-turn back in the direction of the gates, and smiles and waves at the guard who beckons him through, no need to stop. They know him well here, not only is he a realtor who specializes in gated communities, he’s a homeowner here so his face is a familiar one.

He drives down the wide, tree-lined street, takes in the deep greens of the pampered golf course and the glittery reflection of the large duck-filled pond. He shakes his head again, a pity that the huge fountain, once gushing from the center of the pond, has been out of commission for so long. It was once so beautiful, and such an impressive feature to visitors. Oh well, only a matter of time. His pitch to the local Homeowners’ Association was well-received, and very soon a fund-raiser will commence to get the huge fountain going again. He did his homework, got quotes from numerous contractors, made projections of operating costs, and assured the HOA that after $50,000 was raised, the fountain would be flowing again, and the funds would be sufficient to cover any costs to keep it going. He knows this community and its residents well, they all love beauty, they all care about their homes, and gather to support one another. The fountain will happen and once again, the entrance to Links Royale will be beautiful, the “wow” factor back. And everyone knows first impressions are everything when it comes to selling a property.

THREE WEEKS LATER

Another Open House, and he heads to the exit to place his folding sign on the burning concrete a block outside of the Links gates, a great spot for the sign - a corner that sits on a bustling commuter street. The same homeless man and child are there again. He doesn’t recognize the man’s features so much as the feature of the small child and the blue tarp jutting out of a shopping cart. This is the first time the cart has shown itself, but the tarp and the two have become a steady feature of this corner. He pulls over, steps out of the car, and pops the trunk to place his sign in the usual spot, then decides to move it a little farther away from them. Now the sign is not quite as visible from the busiest part of the street near the traffic lights, not the first thing drivers will see, but it just isn’t good if potential buyers kept the vision of a homeless man coupled with The Links Open House sign in their minds. Not good for sales at all. It’s even hotter today than last week, which might work in his favor. People not so willing to spend time outside and more willing to do something on the cool side, like taking in some Open Houses, getting out of the sun, and into the air conditioning.

As he bends over to place the sign, this time a bit further away from the homeless man and child so the two have no connection to the beautiful community only yards away, he hears a squeal that distracts him from his task. Straightening he looks toward the noise and notices the filthy blue tarp rippling, even though the air is quite still. With tentative steps, he takes a wide berth around the squatting man and maneuvers himself close enough to the cart to see what’s inside. A pleasant surprise. Two large brown eyes, long velvety ears, and a tiny little body with a rapidly wagging tail stare back. A puppy! And so very cute. He reaches his hand out and pats him on the head, noticing how hot the little guy is, “he must be parched in this godawful heat.’ He quickly walks to his car, opens it, and grabs his bottled water out of the car’s cup holder. “This should do the trick,” he pours a little water into a dry plastic cup laying on its side in the cart. The puppy is thirsty and quickly laps it up, the Realtor pouring a second cup and emptying his own bottle. “It’s not right, these homeless people keeping animals they can’t look after, what are they thinking?”, he thinks to himself as he jumps back into the cool haven of his car.

The girl watches the man in the suit carefully, a nice man, she thinks, now giving her new puppy some water and she decides he isn’t a threat. Looking up at him, she smiles.

In the following days, the Realtor’s mind strays repeatedly to the forlorn family on the corner. What happened to them? where did they come from? How did they get to such a low, crouching sentinel on the traffic-laden corner? As he shows house after house, his voice gushing over the beautiful decorating, the solid structure, the tech-savvy features, the great Homeowners Association, the lush green golf course so carefully maintained, he sees the little girl smiling as she watches her puppy voraciously lap water out of a dirty fast-food container. And so, his preoccupation grows, becomes an obsession with them, as does his feeling of imperative, to DO something that will change their circumstances for the better. At first, his gestures are small, a leash for the puppy, a dollar an hour to the man for watching over his “Open House” sign, a child’s plastic toy resembling a laptop, deeply discounted because the letter “k” was missing on the keyboard, for the little girl. They are grateful and genuine in their gratefulness and slowly his caring grows. He takes more time for them, brings them food from the local fast-food restaurant, stops by with water almost every morning, pats the puppy and the child tenderly.

As the weeks turn into months, the fountain fund growing, home sales doing better each week, he pictures walking up to them, telling them of his idea, to have them live with him. He sees them strolling grandly down the streets of Links Royale, the little girl and puppy in tow, while back in his home, the old man is nicely ensconced in a recliner enjoying a nice cup of tea while he watches one of the latest game shows on television. The pantry will be full, the guestroom closet will shelter their newly purchased clothes, they will decide each day with gusto what to prepare for breakfast and for dinner, whether to swim or to golf, what sights they want to see. He will find a way to enroll the child in a good school, she will make friends, go to birthday parties, visit the zoo. Will it matter if the HOA lashes back? Not at all. If they can’t accept the new family, he will put the Open House sign out front, on his carefully manicured lawn. He will take the family and everything he owns, and they will relocate somewhere new and fresh where everyone is embraced. He will take his own savings, his profits from his home, even the nearly $50,000 in trust he holds for the fountain, and they will live a great and fruitful life. Each day these ideas revisit him until he can no longer shake them; in his mind, the family is already with him and will be, always. At every showing, every meal, every golf game or casual walk, they are there by his side.

And so, it happens. In his mind, they are so much a part of him, that taking the action of approaching them and bringing them into his world, his life, has already occurred and the act itself is minimal. It is time to make it a reality! He gathers his keys, wallet, and a few water bottles and gets in his car, not even bothering to lock up against unwanted visitors. Quickly and with single-minded purpose he drives through the gates and toward the familiar corner.

His drive back home is slow, the slowest he’s ever driven. He passes through the open gate, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the distance, no wave to the guard who is standing in deference out front. His eyes are glazed, his body numb. They are gone.

He repeats his steps in his mind, as though in the act of pushing a “restart” button, hoping that going through it step-by-step will somehow allow him to change the result, to have the day take a different course. His excitement, running out of the house not even bothering to lock the door, quickly backing the car out of his driveway, and driving over the carefully controlled 25 mph speed limit. Arriving at an empty site, tentatively walking over, hoping with each step that his eyes have made a mistake, that the three of them are waiting for him, the little girl smiling as she holds her happy puppy by his new leash, the old man waving and welcoming his new employer. Nothing. No one. No tarp. No cart. The site has been vacated, cleared of the family’s debris, the only impression of the past an array of curlicues somehow held intact in the soot-like soil. He gently kneels, reaching an outstretched hand over the artwork in the earth when a glint in the dusty soil catches his eye. It is a bottle cap, bent around its rim to take the approximate shape of a square, a coarse letter “k” scratched on its top.