The Estate

The Estate

The car died suddenly. A spectacular death of choking white plumes, shuddering clanks and a small engine fire.

The man in the suit watched it burn, an unlit cigarette between his lips. He hung his suit jacket over his arm, picked up his nearly empty briefcase and started up the wooded hill on the side of the empty road.

Two times he stopped to find his hat that had been swept off by reaching branches. Once his shoe became lodged between the roots of a tree trunk. Each pause would bring gust of wind occupied with dead leaves, feathers and occasionally an acorn to scrape against his face.

He lost his cigarette.

It was almost noon when he reached the clearing. “Goddammit”, he said softly when he saw the bog circling the estate.

Twenty past noon, he reach the little blue house in the center of the clearing. It had red shingles and matching shutters. Two squirrels frolicked on the roof, a apple pie lay cooling in the windowsill.

He knocked.

“I’m out back”, came a quavering voice.

He circled around the house, finding the owner. The woman was sitting on a painter’s stool, brush in hand, with a canvas and paint at her side.

“I hope you found the place okay”, she chuckled.

“It was a bit of a hassle.”, he replied.

He looked closely at her painting. It was done in fluttery brushstrokes, edged in deep dark lines. It was a portrait of his mother and younger sister, as he saw them this morning at the breakfast table. Mother was wearing the exact outfit this morning, Susan had the same mismatched ribbons in her hair. The painting was beautiful.

“Yes”, he said, nodding decisively, “you will do.”

She looked at him indulgently, “Glad to oblige.”

“Now”, she said rising, somehow seeming not as indulgent as before, “tell me why you have come here.”

He looked away, momentarily embarrassed. “We discussed this in our correspondence”.

She shrugged, smoothing the canvas with a crooked finger. A hint of black paint smeared into the picture. “If you are too afraid to ask the question, why should you get an answer?”

He nodded mutely. “What is the price?”, he whispered finally.

She cackled, “The price of an answer to a unvoiced question?”

She stood next to him, the top of her chestnut head barely reached his waist. Yet, somehow…somehow she was taller than him.

She bent over, touching his hat-less forehead.

“For the answer, I want nothing. For your question – everything. Yes? It is so agreed?”

“It is agreed”, he whispered.

She gripped his wrist, thrusting her finger towards the painting – “You will sacrifice everything, everyone? All that you have worked for – to ask this question?”

“Yes, yes… yes, everything.” He strangled the cry that threaten to rip through his throat.

“Very well.” She stood straight then, her eyes deep and unfathomable. “Then ask.”, she said.

Swallowing, he bent down, reaching into his nearly empty briefcase. He brought out a shining ring, small yet cut to perfection.

“Will you marry me”, he asked.

Recent Related Posts

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.