Franck breathed in the feel of the house. Old, well used, abandoned.
"Lucky for me you came by today," said the banker.
"Lucky day all around, I guess," Franck said with a grin.
"How come you happened to come by today, Bob?"
Franck hoped his sharp intake of breath wasn't too obvious. "How did you know my name?" But there was no way this fellow could have known that Franck had gone by the name of Bob when he was a kid. That must be the name of the owner.
"Oh, I've worked on this mortgage for a while. This place feels like no one lives here any more. Why's that?"
"I don’t really live here much, just pop in now and then. See how things are, get my dose of being here."
"Had a good time while you were here, did you?"
"Oh, yeah. I could tell you stories you wouldn't believe."
The banker ushered Franck up the steep stairs. At the top was a square landing with a banister surrounding the staircase. Photos were mounted on the wall to the left. Straight ahead was a bathroom, and next to it, a hallway leading toward the back of the house. A door marked each corner of the landing. The banker ducked into the room to their right, and Franck followed. The low door frame made them feel like ducking even though neither was close to six feet tall.
"Nice room," said the banker. "A little dusty."
"Yeah, I never dust. Too much else to do, you know how it is."
"I suppose your wife took care of it when she was still well."
Franck pursed his lips and made no reply. He pivoted into the next room and gazed out the front windows. Fall colors, trees tossing in the wind, cars going by the busy street out beyond the horseshoe driveway, cemetery across the street with old tilting gravestones, bright in the sunshine. A huge black bird perched on a tombstone. Maybe it was saying "Nevermore." A crow cawed loudly outside the window from a tree.
"What happened here?" called the banker from another room.
Franck found him outside the bathroom. The window in the bathroom was smashed, with shards of glass on the floor. Rusty streaks traced from the window sill to the floor.
Franck sighed and shook his head. He looked around distractedly at the photos on the landing as if he didn't want to talk about what had happened.
"Well if you really want to know, it was that guy who saved my life here."
The banker edged over to the photo Franck was pointing to, the first one in the row. It showed a distinguished elderly black man posing for the camera with a grim smile.
"Yeah? This photo looks like it's from the 1930s or 40s. This fellow must be long dead," said the banker.
"Oh yeah, he is," said Franck. "He's over there. Come here." He walked the banker into the front bedroom and pointed out the window. "He's in that cemetery there. I was sleeping one night right here in this bed, and was about to get up to go to the bathroom when that fellow – his ghost, you know – he came to the foot of my bed and sat down – I felt his weight on the bed – and he said, ‘Don't get up. Don't get up. Don't get up.' So I lay back down and covered up to my ears in blankets, completely spooked. The wind was picking up, the rain was wild, and all of a sudden there was a microburst. Do you know what a microburst is?"
"No," said the banker.
"It's like the most violent little storm in one little place. It swept in here and before we knew it, the bathroom window was busted in, half the tree outside was down on the lawn, another tree by the street was twisted out of the ground. And in ten minutes it was over. That man, or ghost, spirit, vibration or whatever he was, saved my life. I would have been in the bathroom with the glass blown all over me. I say a little prayer to that man every day. He was my great grandfather, came back to save me."
"That fellow's black, Bob."
"Yeah, where do you think I got this frizzy black hair, huh?"
The banker eyed Franck cooly. "No one's been here for a while, Bob. What's down that hall?"
"Oh we used to call that the Tunnel of Pain. When one of us did something bad, we'd have to go down the Tunnel of Pain to the bedroom down there to get spanked."
"You grew up here?"
"Oh yeah, lots of memories," said Franck.
"So your mortgage was to buy it from your parents, or to refinance, or what?"
"This hallway still gives me the creeps. I don't know why they didn't put in a window along this side until the end of the hall. Then finally you get to the bedroom behind the bathroom." He opened the door and froze for a moment.
The banker caught up to him and pushed the door open wide.
"That must be the IV and oxygen machine they were looking for. I suppose this was the sick room your wife used until she … well did you guys leave before she died or did you take off afterwards? Did she die here or in the hospital?"
"I don't stay here because the ghosts and spirits are too strong," Franck whispered meaningfully. "I didn't want to tell you that part, but you pulled it out of me. We better go now."
He started back down the Tunnel of Pain and headed down the stairs.
The banker followed. "Hey hold on, show me the first floor. I saw a banjo in that room to the right. Is that yours? Do you play?"
At the bottom of the stairs, Franck peered into the dark room to his right. An old flowery couch covered most of the wall opposite him. Some of the cushions had stuffing peeking out, and it looked like a cat had used the support at one end as a scratching post. On the dark table next to the couch lay a banjo. On the wall hung a guitar. They looked old and dusty.
Franck took up the banjo as if it were an old friend. It seemed antique, and heavier than his own banjo. It had a string missing and was way out of tune. He tuned it up as best he could. As he did, he heard the guitar being plucked.
The banker was tuning up the guitar.
"What's your name?" said Franck.
"Zeke. Whatcha got for tunes?"
Franck picked out "Oh Susanna," and Zeke found the key and strummed chords. They were a discordant and out of tune duo at first, but when they launched into the tune again, it wasn't so bad.
"Where'd you learn to play guitar?"
"I grew up near Nashville. Played with some good bands down there. If I'd stuck with it I could have made as much playing guitar as I do in this bank gig."
"It must drive you crazy working in a boring bank when you could be out playing guitar."
"No, I like the steady paycheck. It pays the bills, keeps me out of trouble. And I get out of the office, like today."
They put the instruments back on the table. Franck sneezed from the dust they’d stirred up.
"One last thing," said Zeke. "I've read about some flooding in the basement. What did you guys do about that?"
"Oh the usual thing. Mop it up, pump it out, keep things dry, you know, the usual drill in this area," said Franck.
"I understand it's a full basement; let's check it out. Where's the door?"
"Um, just follow me," said Franck. He walked purposefully but slowly into the hall past the front door and the staircase, and through the room opposite, which was full of books, scanning for a door likely to lead to the basement, without breaking his stride. He had to look like he knew what he was doing. The only possible door so far looked more like a closet door, so he moved steadily, through the dining room, into the kitchen. He spotted a latched door under the staircase. "Of course," thought Franck, "A staircase under the other staircase."
He confidently pulled on the door under the staircase and stepped down two steps to a landing. The stairs ran down to his left. He started down into the dark. He had no idea where the light switch was.
"Isn't there a light around here?" asked Zeke at the top.
"Oh yeah," Franck said airily. "It's up there at the top. I usually just go down in the dark and use the flashlight I keep at the bottom."
Zeke searched around and found a light switch just as Franck reached the bottom. There was no flashlight, of course, but Zeke would probably forget he'd said that.
The air was dank downstairs. The wooden beams still had bark on them. The floor seemed to be packed dirt, but some concrete was showing in places, so apparently it was just a dirty floor.
"Smells like there's been water here. Looks like there's been a freakin river down here, with all this dirt on the floor. What's that stonework?” asked Zeke.
"Oh yes. That is a hearth. See how big it is? Huge hearth. That's where the slaves would cook their food. Big copper kettles cooking up gumbo stews at night, porridge in the morning."
"Slaves?" said Zeke. "This wasn't slave country, Bob."
"Right. Of course,” said Franck. “Um, in the old days, the slaves would be here in the basement. Freed slaves. See over there?" He pointed into the dark recesses at the far end of the basement. "That's where the slaves came in through a tunnel. They'd spend a few days here hiding, and then move on. Our family used to take them in secretly and help them out. Big family secret. In fact, my great grandfather, he was one of those slaves himself. Liked it here and decided to settle down."
Zeke narrowed his eyes, taking in this angular fellow with frizzy black hair and a pinstripe hat, who did not in the least look like that black man in the picture, nor did he quite look old enough or careworn enough to have a wife who had recently died.
"Where's that flashlight? I'd like to see the tunnel," said Zeke.
"Hmm. It's usually right here on this turn of the banister. Where did I put it? Oh, I must have carried it back up with me. Let's check upstairs." He stepped quickly up the steps.
"Nope, not here," he shouted from upstairs. "That's weird. I was sure I brought it up here. Oh, well. Hey, Zeke, nice meeting you. I gotta go, though. You stay and look around as long as you need to."
Zeke trotted up the steps. "Hold on, I'll step out with you, Bob. Thanks for giving me the tour. Very interesting stuff."
“Oh yeah,” said Franck, “can you move your car so I can get out?”
Zeke strode out the door after Franck and stopped at his car about the same time Franck reached his own.
"Hey Bob," shouted Zeke. "Could you help me with one thing first?" He yanked open the passenger door of his black sedan and grabbed a clipboard. He strode over to Franck's car.
"Bob, I have to fill out some forms for my boss at work to show that I was here. Could you sign that you showed me the place? That would help me out a lot, otherwise he might think I was off playing guitar or something!" He chuckled amiably.
Franck took the clipboard and the pen Zeke offered. An "X" marked the signature line. Underneath the line was the name Robert McIver. Franck gasped. Robert McIver?
He signed that name with a flourish and a confident-looking smile, and handed the clipboard back to Zeke. Whatever this was all about, he'd fed the bank a bunch of bullshit and had a good time into the bargain. Let them have a blast sorting out all the loose ends.
Franck revved up his engine.
Zeke said, "Thanks, Bob. We've had a rough time getting these documents to you, for weeks now. See you later. Now you’re free. No foreclosure."
He waved and strode back to his car, drove out of Franck’s way up to the door of the house, and watched Franck zoom round the horseshoe driveway and zip down the street, free at last.
Foreclosure. Nothing to do with me, thought Franck. All he could think about was that his roommate, Bob McIver, would not believe what had happened today.