Page 18 of The Fadeaway

The key that Alan Berkshire had included in the envelope full of information he’d handed to Ruby on her way out of his officefit into the rusty lock. Ruby can feel the grit of the rust as she slips it in and turns it, pushing the door with her shoulder to open it. There’s a sticky feel to the way it fits into the doorjamb, but it opens with a whoosh, and Ruby nearly stumbles as she steps right into a linoleum tiled entryway.

“Here, let me,” Banks says gruffly, touching Ruby’s arm to let her know that he wants to do a first sweep of the house.

It’s stuffy inside, and Ruby stands there by the door, the cool autumn air at her back, and the musty smell of a house that’s been closed up for far too long in front of her.

“Three bedrooms,” Banks calls out from down the hallway. “Two baths. Everything looks like a time machine took us back to 1973.”

“Can I look around?” Ruby calls, though she’s already doing just that. The front room has a velvety couch in a bright gold color with teal blue throw pillows, and a large console television set sits on the floor across from it. There are beach scene paintings on the wall above the TV, and a lamp with a base made of sea glass sits on a dark wooden end table. ATV Guidedated January 1989 sits next to a coaster on the coffee table. “1989?” Ruby says to herself with a frown.

“Wow,” Banks says from the other room. “This kitchen. I feel like I’m in my childhood home. Ruby, you gotta see this.”

Ruby walks through a dining room with a long table and six matching chairs and then stops short. The kitchen is filled with appliances in the same avocado green as the house’s exterior, and the walls are papered in a floral pattern of orange, gold, and that same shade of green. A bright yellow phone is affixed to the wall, its cord long and coiled. Ruby picks it up, expecting to hear the familiar sound of a dial tone, but it’s just dead air. She hangs it up again.

“What is this place?” she mutters to herself. Banks stands at the sink, his back to a small window that looks out onto a sandyyard. He’s watching her. On the center of the round kitchen table is a bowl—ostensibly for fruit—but in it is a pile of unopened mail. Ruby picks up the first few envelopes and shuffles through them: Evelyn Huberman. Jacob Huberman. Patricia Dallarosa. “Who are these people, and why is my mother getting mail here?”

Ruby knows that mail meant for her mother can only legally be opened by the executor of the will, but at this point she figures no one is watching, so she sets down the envelopes addressed to the Hubermans and slides a finger under the flap of the one addressed to Patty. It’s a notice from the homeowners insurance company, letting her know that a recent hurricane has raised the annual rates for insurance on the island, and it’s dated three years ago.

Ruby drops the mail on the table and moves around the kitchen like a ghost, stopping to look at the photos affixed to the refrigerator with magnets. There is an older couple standing on the beach, pant legs rolled up to their knees, feet submerged in the water as they hold onto one another and grin at the camera. There is one of a little girl sitting in a high chair, her face covered in chocolate, two teeth visible as she smiles and holds up her small, chocolate-covered hands.

There are school photos of various kids that look like they’ve been attached to the front of the fridge since the 70s and 80s, and there’s a postcard from Seattle with the Space Needle on the front. Ruby pulls the magnet off and takes the postcard off the refrigerator, flipping it over.

Evelyn and Jacob?—

We’re thinking of you right now, just as we know you’re thinking of us. These are hard times, and our families have been brought together by both love and pain. We’re so grateful for all that you’ve done. Please visit soon?—

Margaret and Eugene

It’s postmarked June 11, 1971.

Ruby turns around slowly, holding the postcard by its edge like it’s a rare and valuable piece of art and her fingerprints might smudge it. “This is a postcard from my grandparents,” she says to Banks. “Who in the hellarethese people?” She suddenly feels like she’s underwater and needs to sit down, but before she can find a chair, Banks crosses the small kitchen, puts one arm around Ruby’s waist and the other beneath her elbow, and sits her on a chair.

“Let’s open a few windows,” he says. As he leans over the sink and frees the latch that keeps the window locked, Ruby can see the patches of sweat in his armpits. It’s hot in the little house, and the ocean air immediately wafts in, cooling things off and reviving Ruby so that she can breathe again.

“Thank you,” she says, setting the postcard on the table gingerly. She stares at it like it might be radioactive. “I’m really confused.”

Banks leans against the counter and folds his arms over his chest. He’s frowning. “You alright?”

Ruby nods slowly. “I feel like I walked through a portal into another world.”

“One where Carol Brady might pop into the kitchen at any moment,” Banks says wryly, looking at the fake wood grain of an old-fashioned looking microwave with dials rather than buttons.

“The decor leaves something to be desired,” Ruby agrees, pushing herself up by placing both hands on the edge of the table. “But if this place truly belonged to my mother, then why didn’t she change any of it? This isn’t cool mid-century modern. It’s more like someone went to prison in the 70s and the house has been untouched for forty years.”

“Fifty,” Banks says.

“God, we’re old,” Ruby says, giving a long, slow blink as she shakes her head.

“We’re Formica counters old,” Banks says, glancing at the hideous gold and green swirl of the countertop.

“We’re fake plants in macramé hangers old,” Ruby says, tapping a fake jade plant that hangs over the sink.

Banks follows her as she walks into the dining room. “We’re plastic covers over furniture old,” he adds as they pause at a table that looks like it’s made from particle board and is surrounded by upholstered dining chairs slipcovered in clear plastic.

Ruby gives a shudder. “This house,” she says.

“Yeah.” Banks glances around at the curio cabinet filled with Precious Moments figurines and floral patterned china. “But I think that there might be more here than meets the eye.”

“I hope so. Because right now all I’m seeing is several loads of crap that needs to go to Goodwill.”

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