The shrine had been in the little nook at the far end of the master bedroom, the one that overlooked the patio they had just come from. It had held old, brown photos of a young man, and then a photo of a coffin with a photo of the same young man on top. There had been a stool by the window, and Micheal supposed that the wife or mother or sister of the young man had sat and stared out the window at the garden they had built together, and then back at the brown and white photos. Micheal, always the storyteller, had made up stories about the young man, though he had never had a name for him. He didn’t even know the family that had lived there then. They had left at least 10 or 15 years before, and those photos, and the look of the young man was far older than that. The house had been built in the 1930s, and the style of clothes the young man wore bore that time. Perhaps he had even built the house for his lover. Who knows?
The bothersome agent was trying to get his attention, to show him the other rooms, and so he went with her, wondering when she would show him the basement, that lay between the main floor and the garage. When he had first sheltered there, it had felt like a warren, and he was a rabbit, safe from the coyotes that might be chasing him.
The view from the other bedrooms on the top floor did not have quite as good. The rooms looked out on the houses next door. He wasn’t sure what he would do with those rooms once they owned the house.
As they strated down the stairs, he turned and looked back, but the painting that had hung at the top of the stairs was long gone. He had played, though never really believing, that it’s eyes followed him when he walked, as he had seen in the old horror movies. It hadn’t though.
As Michael expected, they went down into the basement next, though the agent called it a rec room. The walls were smooth and cold, despite the heat of the spring day, and the saloon was still intact, though the pool table, which had been in a state of disrepair was long gone. He imagined that Brian would have grand plans for this. God, he fell into that stereotype so well, wanting to decorate, though that wasn’t his occupation.
As they turned to go down into the vaulted garage, he spied the door to the little nook of a room. It was unlocked, which it hadn’t been before. It had no windows, which made sense, being in the depths of the house.
The agent smiled, and took his arm as if to guide him away. "That, I have been told, was the sewing room."
What an odd room for a woman to sit and sew in. It didn’t make any sense at all. He stared. It had a lower ceiling than the other rooms, and he almost hit his head. The agent had finished going down the stairs and was pointing out the garage, and the driveway. This was the end of the tour.
Michael had never hidden in the garage. It was quite cold, like a cave. The ceiling was two stories high it seemed. What had they kept in here, a blimp? What odd people had lived here. He had felt that as a child and he was feeling that now. As he stared up at the ceiling he though he saw hocks. So, they had suspend things, but what?
The agent stretched out her hand, and he took it, giving him his card. "Tell them I’m interested," he said. Micheal walked out to his car, and drove away, but he only for a block, and only until he saw the agent leave. Then he returned, and parked in front of the house, staring at it, thinking.
