Given a choice she would pick the same door again. At least that’s what she tried to persuade herself after knocking on the left door. But Leota was never clever enough to convince herself she’d made the right decision. Not after buying that new hybrid car (a poor investment, she later decided), moving in with Jesse (she should have kept her own place), or driving away after hitting a parked car after a night of drinking (she felt someone must have seen). She considered regretting decisions a talent. In this case, Leota had picked the left door, but instantly wished she had chosen the right.
It wasn’t as if I had many hints, Leota thought. The only one was the letter. Already open and torn, it had been forwarded to Jesse’s mailbox even though Leota’s old address was hand-written on the front. Inside the envelope was a half-page with a short message: 4024b Jackson Ave, just go around back. Leota must have read it a hundred times. She inspected it with a magnifying glass, checked for invisible ink, Googled it, wrote it out in Pig Latin, anything to decipher the note. She memorized every marking on the message: the folded right corner, the coffeish stain under the word around, a smudge at the bottom that looked like an erasure. In the end, she decided the simplest explanation was the most likely. So Leota went to the address and was prepared for anything. She brought a knife with her, but didn’t tell anyone where she was going. Just around back behind 4024b Jackson Ave were two nearly identical doors. Both appeared boarded up. Neither had a doorknob, a bell, or any lettering. She knocked on the left door. For a moment nothing happened. And then it rolled open. Leota stepped inside and clutched the knife in her bag. It had been bright outside and it took a second for her eyes to adjust. The room was a garage, and standing center was a middle-aged man staring under the hood of an old car. He introduced himself as Mr. Martine. “I see you found the place alright,” he said. “I guess you know why you’re here.” Loeta nodded, and relaxed the grip of her knife. Next to Mr. Martine was the car that she’d scrapped up against a few weeks ago. He said the damage wasn’t too bad. A few hundred dollars would cover the paint. Classic cars were his hobby. It was his garage, and he’d done the repairs himself. He explained that he’d watched the incident while sitting on his porch. “I was close to calling the police, but I figured you’d come.” “What made you so sure” she asked. “Because of that new car you were driving. No one drives a hybrid unless they feel really guilty about things.”
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About meI’m a producer, writer and storyteller with expertise in digital, print, film, TV & stage productions Archives
March 2018
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