The Blue House of 1478 (13) (Patreon)

Great.

Liza hid my bike lock key from me before leaving for work because I went over on the internet plan watching Ghost Trappers with Hunter, and Liza was born with passive-aggressiveness brimming from her pores.

I call her for the sixth time, groan in frustration, and throw her fancy gluten-free bread into a pan of water in the sink before I leave.

I'm running, of course, because I don't have a car, and stick one of her favorite tennis shoes into Mrs. Thomas' garden gnome as I fly past it.

Who needs a car?

I've asked myself often, only because Sleepy Birch is unimaginably tiny, and I like to take my bike on the trails regardless of the weather.

Cars are wasteful and a hazard to the environment!

I say.

Now I hate myself a bit for my fears, sending a parting gaze at my poor, chained bike with disdain, and think of other ways to get back at Liza before our lease is up.

"I would have paid the overage fee," I grumble to myself, out of breath as I sprint towards my work building, backpack flopping and empty on my back. I'm regretting the decision to wear my raincoat, even though it's sprinkling because the jog has me melting underneath it.

"She's so ridiculous." I think of her little post-it note above the fridge,

Hope you like walking

And fume a bit more at our similarities.

—

The day isn't so bad after all, despite my bike being permanently chained to a rack outside my home.

I am in charge of an article about the farmer's market this week, and that means that more people will see it than just Sleepy Birch locals — because the farmer's market here is pretty enticing for Doveport's hipster population.

It's exciting, and although I'll probably just be bragging on our area's small-town feel and excellent fruit jam, it's better than birthdays and obituaries by a landslide.

My boss also lets me use his grandson's bike, although the tires are flattening from the lack of use it gets when he's not there for the summer. I'm getting used to my knees hitting the steering handles by my third street — and the bell that chimes from the wheels.

I chuck newspapers into the condos next to the lake with relative ease.

I realize that I must have below-average levels of pride not to be embarrassed riding a thirteen-year-old's neon yellow bicycle and shrug to myself, redirecting my energy towards my revenge plan on Liza when my phone buzzes with another message from her.

She's pissed about her bread and wants to know where her other shoe is. I've decided to visit the library after work instead of going home, snickering to myself.

Then I throw Levi's newspaper in a puddle by accident.

—

Levi is at the town meeting.

Of course, he is because he's a Sleepy Birch homeowner, a registered voter, that has been declared truant for years — and now he's within Jasmin Brown's authoritarian grasp. AKA, he's now within walking distance so that she can confront him on her morning jogs.

With Levi's outdoor hobbies, the sucker likely never stood a chance, and he looks positively irate, seated in a booth farthest from anyone, fingers clasped beneath his chin.

His glare, for once, is on Jasmin instead of me.

"Good morning, to all the delightful citizens of Sleepy Birch."  Mr. Adams has a gavel today, probably to keep Ms. Figgs in line, who is on her second warning for indoor smoking. He taps it nervously against his oak podium, a job that Loren Adams typically relishes.  Many think she should've been town-selectman. "We have a different agenda for today, one that may take the entirety of the meeting."

Ms. Kim's hand raises immediately, a wrinkle of her nose the only hint to her dissatisfaction. Mr. Adams recognizes her with a nod.

"The entire meeting?"  She clarifies, with an angry shuffle to her shoulders before she rests her hands in her lap.  “So, no talk of zoning?”

"Yes.”  Mr. Adams visibly cringes.  “Sad to say."

"Oh.  Well if you’re… Sad to say.  What will we do about my bed and breakfast? You said last Saturday that we'd discuss the zoning ordinance.  At this meeting."

"Right — Right, unfortunately, there's been a holdup with your citizens' petition. You need a few more signatures." Mr. Adams sighs, scratching the side of his greying temple with a pencil, "Ah. Do that, and the next meeting is yours. Moving on?"

"...Very well." Ms. Kim follows her disappointment with a large sigh, and Jasmin Brown, the moderator, passes her back a sheet of paper. Ms. Kim glances down at it, then back at Hunter and me with a squint,

"Shit."  I avert my gaze, and Hunter does too, sliding me part of his cinnamon bun. "I didn't sign. Did you sign?"

"Hell no.  I hate horses.  What about you?”

"Hunter."  I groan.  “I just forgot.  You willingly rejected signing it?  She’s going to think we’re — we’re two peas in a pod.”

"Ew.  Are you seventy?  Great.  Anyway.  She's totally going to ambush us." He mutters. I nod, "I can feel her angry eyes staring holes into my skin."

"We should've signed it."

"No way.  She wants stables." Hunter gags. "She's basically my neighbor at the moment.  Horses stink."

"Jesus.  You're not even going to be here by the time they build them!"

Loren Adams snatches the town selectman's gavel, striking the podium. It startles both of us out of our panicked whispering, and we sheepishly look up to find her scowl on our table.

"Mr. Eldory and Mr. Wells.  Please pay attention."

This reprimand, unfortunately, draws Levi's attention, and our eyes meet before Mr. Adams clears his throat.  Levi — winks.

Winks?!

How does a wink manage to look so sinister?

"Moving forward. Today I'd like to discuss a proposition made by Dan Steely. He would like to use a portion of our budget to repave Spring Passage and build a new bridge over Spring Creek. I find this to be a reasonable suggestion."

Hands spring up across the Forget Me Not Café, distracting me from my new Sleepy Birch enemy, and Mr. Adams looks downright nauseous,

"Ah, Mr. Buford." He adjusts his cardigan. "You have the floor."

"Why repave it?" Mr. Buford huffs, his arms crossed against his suspenders — suspenders he only started wearing when Lionel White took a stab at his ever-present plumber's crack six meetings ago. Things got heated. "Why a new bridge?"

"Well, that's —"

"Why're we always wastin' good money on things that don't need fixing?"

"Goodness.  It needs something! It's the only road to the cemetery." Ms. Carey turns at her tea table to face his neighbor, out of turn, her table screeching as her massive handbag pushes it, "Tom broke a headstone."

"Sounds like a Tom problem, not a budget problem!"

Hunter snorts.  I bat his arm, stifling my own laugh.

"No.  It slid right out of his truck on that dirt road, all those damn bumps — cost him a fortune to replace. Grieving family ain't from here, and they were real upset."

"It's a perfectly good road — not our fault he can't secure a headstone.  Shouldn't be lettin' snotty outsiders in here, then we wouldn't have to bury their family."

"Francis —"

"I don't wanna be buried next to them!  I want to be buried next to my friends."

"Like you have friends."

“Oh shit.”  Hunter  whispers, “Ms. Carey isn’t playing today.”

I bat him again, another side-eyed glower from Jasmin thrown in our direction.

"Tom gets paid to do his job right, doesn't he?  Not a town problem, then!"  Mr. Buford gripes, "everything is gettin' replaced. The dirt and gravel roads were better."

"Now, you be nice to Tom, Francis.  He isn't an outsider.  He was here before your kids and your grandkids at that!"

"I am nice. Repaving that road is going to cost a fortune, and then out of town kids and tourists are gonna be speedin' all over the damn place. Gravel roads are a natural speed bump."

"It's a natural swamp, is what it is!  The weather floods those roads into mush every 2-3 business days!"

"Your town is wacky. Why're we even here?" Hunter groans, his whisper undetected beneath the squabble, "you don't have taxable property."

I huff,

"We voted this year.  Your idea, by the way — and your town, too now. You're a legal resident.  Welcome to the wacky little club."

"Shit." Hunter makes a face like contrition, "Let's not do that again. Move with me. Let's move tomorrow."

"I can't do that.”  I swipe another pack of creamer for my now cold tea, “ I'm currently without cable — therefore, this is my weekly entertainment.  Did I tell you Liza is out to get me? Because she is.”

Hunter and I must miss the argument escalating because Francis Buford is now standing as straight as he's able, weight on his cane, turned to address the cramped coffee shop.

"Everyone thinks I'm a bitter old bat, but,"  he clears his throat, chest heaving,  "Let me just ask you all — what happened with the last damned bridge we built, huh?  What did our money do then?"

I inhale, and Hunter's brows gather in confusion.   This is how a good, sunny day goes.  To shit.  This is how they end up in Sleepy Birch— abruptly stormy.  Chilly, with endless rain and grey skies.  I bite the inside of my cheek, then take a swig of my mug, hoping that this isn’t —

"Ooh.  What happened with the bridge?"  My friend leans in, voice hushed to nearly a sigh, just because everyone has grown eerily silent.  Eyes leave Mr. Buford and inevitably find me in timid — pitying glances.  "Oh my god, is he talking about the one we went to?  The haunted one?"

My heart flips unsteadily, palms clammy, and Mr. Buford's tone turns downright steely, right before it cracks with emotion.  I haven't seen him cry since Fredrickson's funeral.

“Dude is freaking out over a bridge.”

I can't see him cry again.

"Talkin' about grieving in Fredrickson's coffee shop.  Talkin' about building another bridge.  How dare you."

I grab my bag, quietly, standing with a creak, stuffing my mug into the empty basin by the trash can.

"Am I the only one who remembers him?  Huh?"

"Theo?"  Hunter reaches for me, but I shake off his grip quickly, filled with an abrupt urgency,  and discomforted by the sudden shift — thinking of how my normalcy with him, how this new best friend of mine, will see what everyone else sees,  "Theo, are you...."

“I just forgot I had plans.”

I shove myself between Ms. Carey and Ms. Kim's tables, who are both looking at me with deep frowns and sad eyes, with sympathy that I've never felt deserving of,

"We decided to refill that damn lake years ago."  Mr. Buford's tears always sound like they collect in his throat first.   He must have really loved him.  He must have loved him too much to let go, "and build that bridge, fancy and new — with an out-of-town contractor who doesn't understand weather for shit.  But it was downright touristy."

Ms. Carey reaches for him.  She touches his hands, cups his angry fists in hers.  No one ever touched me that way.  Maybe I didn't let them — but this is stupid.  It’s six am.  It’s too early for this.

"Francis, please — please calm down."

And now he's really sobbing.

"Wasn't it?"  He murmurs.  "Just how we all wanted.  Just to get money.  Instead, we got a — a death trap.  We killed that baby girl.  We killed him."

No.

I sink my teeth into my lip.  I feel like everyone is staring at me.  Thinking, no,

Theo did.

So I leave, ignoring the murmurs behind me and the chime of the front door.

next chapter