Simon Says Chapter 17
By Paula Andrea Pyle MA, 8th Feb 2011 | Follow this author
| RSS Feed | Short URL http://nut.bz/23rs1w9d/
Posted in WikinutWritingShort Stories
Background
The unimaginable ‘awful' day Wilma Rae Downs, the 69 year old mountain recluse,had dreaded for so long, has arrived. The insensitive wrecking crew workers are banging on her front door. She has no other option other than to let them in to destroy
Chapter 17: It's Your Home A Living Personality
It was 8:00 o'clock the next morning, when the demolition team arrived at Wilma's front door. After about 15 minutes of considerate knocking, the men from the wrecking crew lost patience. The facts were clear enough. She was deliberately ignoring them.
The foreman, Roger Blankenship 55, had been thoroughly informed of her persistent reluctance to abide by the notices of permanent eviction for the process of demolition. Her days had run out.
"In other words", he told the two other men, "We're to have no mercy."
And, since they possessed, in hand, the explicit pin-pointed accurately defined orders, with no possible loop-hole to be found in the official legal papers, the workmen were marshaled to take possession of her home. No matter what she intended to do to dissuade them; orders were, 'no further sympathy'. They banged and slammed on the old wooden door, nearly dismantling it from the hinges.
"Hey, old lady, we know you're in there. Open the door before we have to break it down."
Wilma did not come.
Roger tried coaxing.
"Miss Downs, please come to the door. I don't want my men to use undue force but if you don't comply with the regulations, you leave us no other choice."
Wilma refused to budge.
Irritated, Roger looked at the other two guys for a nod of affirmation, before he started demanding, saturated with additional threats.
"I'm giving you exactly five minutes, then this door's grass and I'm the lawn mower. Do you understand?"
Wilma still did not come to the door.
At precisely 8:25 a.m., two of the three boisterous men, armed with a door breach, some may refer to it as a battering ram - 23 kilos and 29 inches or so, rammed into the bolted front face entranceway of the of the old wooden door. It snapped from its frame with no resistance. The three anxious rowdy men forced themselves into Wilma's house uninvited.
Nosily, they stalked and plundered the entire contents of the living room, eyeing cautiously every inch. Unsympathetically, Doyle Bedford, 42, pushed aside the green and white braided rug that lay beneath the wrought iron rocker.
Roger Blankenship yelled loud, but respectfully harnessed, Wilma's entire name, three more times.
No answer.
The old chair squeaked a reaffirmed intolerance toward the men who had entered the sanctified home. It continued to rock from the jar of the intrusion. The gold-plated peacocks, which had been dismantled from the wall, dangled sideways over the mantel piece, next to the gold trimmed mirror.
An enormous ornate cherry wooden frame, which contained an immaculately rendered oil painting of two seagulls' unswerving glorious flight into a sun's setting below a pink/purple haze, lay broken on the floor in the foyer. A massive royal purple high-back sofa stood proudly in front of the bolted and secured picture window in the parlor mocking their unholy intrusion.
Steve Nesmith, one of the three workers, a 25 year high-spirited young man, whose black hair plastered an up-swirled point at the front of his wide forehead, noticed the crocheted armrests and the soft lavender afghan.
"Sure is some mighty fine stuff in here; reminds me a lot of my grandma's house." He picked up one of the crocheted dollies twirling on his fingers.
The octagon based unusual shaped tulip flowered floor lamp lay shattered under the oval entrance into the kitchen. The house revolted against the assault as the blank-faced, emotionless, workmen plundered through the front portion of the house. In the kitchen, a red and white checkerboard 50's dinette set disgustedly paid them no mind. Red plastic pig salt and pepper shakers ribbed the middle of the table dared them to look in their direction.
On the left side of the old gas white stove, a wooden handled copper teakettle watched attentively. A dried used red and white dishcloth hung on the stainless steel rack directly beside the stove. Crisp white curtains stood in occupied salute, as the unwanted guests made way through the kitchen and side door to the multi-shelved pantry in search of the old woman.
"I can understand why the old lady wouldn't want to leave this old house. It ain't much to look at on the outside but she does have it looking good in here. It's almost a shame. I feel a little sorry for her. Don't you?" Steve affectionately remarked.
"Shut your damn mouth, Steve. It ain't our place to feel sorry for nobody. She got paid damn good money for this old shack. Near 'bout a million bucks."
Roger cut Steve off at the pass.
"That's right", Doyle Bedford, the unkempt, overweight, balding other worker blunted nervously.
"Can you believe it, for this weather beaten wreck? With that kind of money, she can buy herself something, a hell of a lot nicer; and have money to spare."
"Has she already been paid?" Steve wanted to know.
"How the hell should I know? I didn't take her to raise." Roger, the foreman, sliced through the concern of Steve, the hired help.
Doyle backed away from the other men. He stared at the black wrought iron rocking chair before he plumped down into it.
"Don't you have any shame?" Steve blared. "There's such a thing a respect, you know."
Doyle rocked on, laughing copiously too loud.
"Respect? No, what I'd respect is a check for a million big ones."
"Get up!" Roger snapped, "We've got to find where the old woman is hiding."
"I have a feeling she's not going to go without a nasty fight." Steve enlisted.
The house repugnantly tolerated the unwanted guests, with an air of graceful disdained distinction, but the distracted men hardly noticed; all except for Steve.
"Is it my imagination or do you feel what I feel from these walls?" Steve queried.
"What do you feel?" Roger sarcastically replied.
"Almost as if I don't belong in here; I'm not worthy. Like this has been a sanctuary or something. I can't explain it, but it's real, whatever it is."
"You're a damn fool, Steve." Doyle dug. "I don't feel nothing but disgust for the old bitty making us hunt her down like this. If the house wasn't so damn big..." his brusque voice trailed off as he looked own the long hall way.
"Joke, if you want to boys, but I say this old house has a soul." Steve felt as if he needed to ask permission to move through the rest of the hallowed house.
The three men hesitated before proceeding with their petulant search. Each one gathered their own thoughts regarding what kind of life Wilma Rae Downs must have experienced in the 69 years she had resided in the gigantic old house.
The spotless walls would have passed the most stringent government standard inspection. The mirrored shine on the hardwood floors refused to acknowledge the careless impudence of the unwanted men's intrusion.
"Miss Downs" Roger hollered again.
No reply.
The men redefined their search. They cautiously and civilly scrambled and searched the four front rooms, searched behind doors, opened closets. They had no way of knowing but with a brute turn, they had stumbled upon Simon's bedroom first. They respectfully stood outside of the door.
"I hope you're dressed Miss Downs, cause our instructions are to tear this old place down." Roger announced indiscriminately. "And, if we have to move the bed out with you in it, that's exactly what we'll do." He waited for a reply.
None came.
"You've had more than enough time to get your things together. I've heard all about you. I know all the trouble you've caused the people at the main office; the ones who pay my boys and me each week. So, get up and out here this minute. No more hiding and no more excuses. It's all over; the gig is up."
Still, no answer.
Steve, the youngest of the trio and the most curiously rambunctious, pushed the door back slowly but with tremendous difficulty.
Chapter 18
Chapter 16
Comments