Pepper

Exhausted and tearful, Rita almost closed the bathroom door before it stuck on the pink carpet. A slim beam of sunlight filtered onto buckets of algaed water lining the dirty tub. The toilet, its gullet rusty and stained, stared up at her. Pulling money from her pockets, she lowered herself to the edge of the pink tub, and started counting the cash she had found that day in Pepper’s house. Over twenty thousand dollars! Holding fistfuls of cash, she let her tears flow, confused and baffled.

Rita was sixteen the day Pepper and Earl breezed down the gravel lane in their cream colored Cadillac, dodging potholes and waving. Tractors or farm trucks usually puttered by, not fancy, topless cars with leather seats.

A colorful scarf framed Pepper’s middle-aged face. Curls of bleached blond hair snuck out, freed by the wind, making her look like a glamorous movie star. Her throaty laughter erupted as the car sped past, kicking up dust. That moment lined the photo album in Rita’s mind.

“Who was that?” Rita asked her father.

He stopped digging and leaned on his shovel. “Someone bought the place down at the river.” Sweat shimmered on his muscular arms. “They gotta good deal on it after the flood.” His black rubber boots, work pants and t-shirt matched her work clothes. He pushed his shovel into the rocky soil and said, “If we get our work done before lunch we can go meet ‘em.” She dug faster.

After lunch, they walked down with an armload of vegetables, their work boots scraping the dry gravel and echoing along the silent lane. At the gate, her father saw Pepper and Earl and welcomed them to the neighborhood. Rita was shy. Pepper was not.

Inside their house, Earl chatted with her father while Pepper showed Rita around.

“Our main home is in Vegas,” Pepper quipped easily. “Earl and I work the shows. He handles lighting and sound and I design costumes.”

“I like to sew,” Rita said, shyly.

“Look here.” Pepper opened a giant sketchbook, her hot pink fingernails sweeping across the pages. “These were for a show with Elvis. You know, Presley.”

Rita’s eyes grew wide when she saw naked breasts, and bottoms barely covered with huge feathers and sequins. Warmth flashed under her work clothes. Quickly, she looked over her shoulder and saw her father deep in conversation with Earl. She riveted back to the exotic costumes, craving hot pink nailpolish.

Sitting in Pepper’s filthy bathroom with a lap full of money, she remembered walking down to their house whenever she could sneak away. With Pepper and Earl, she felt noticed and accepted. At her house, ten people lived under one roof and all she heard was “Do this. Do that.” And it was never good enough.

“Study languages, travel, do art,” Pepper encouraged.

Around Pepper she felt grown-up, adventurous, and daring. She had her first beer on their deck overlooking the river. Pepper leaned in and said, “Live a little,” her eyes twinkling. A few years later, Rita strolled down with her future husband. He got the nod from Earl when they discovered her beau played jazz trumpet. Pepper winked at her across the table.

After Earl died, Pepper became stooped and frail. The house grew cluttered and needed repairs. When her well failed, she hauled water from the river till Rita's father noticed and got all the neighbors to pitch in for a new one. $8000. Stray cats snuck in through broken windows and Pepper fed them. Rita’s brothers brought cords of wood for Pepper’s winter heat.

Rita married and had a child and her daughter became a disciple of Pepper.

Pepper’s stories, transported them to exotic places that held perilous adventures. They went on dangerous war missions with Earl. They sat right beside him in a two-seater airplane as he flew with Pepper from Ohio, landing in the desert outside Las Vegas. Pepper enticed their imaginations with accounts of movie stars, Vegas shows and behind-the-scenes shenanigans. She named names.

The house became more cluttered. Mice scampered through the shelves of Pepper’s kitchen. A narrow path led from the door to a tight circle of stuffed chairs in the ‘sunroom.’ Here they sat and chatted, their knees almost touching. Her young daughter’s eyes grew wide taking in the chaos. Faded Christmas cards dangled from wires over her head.

“Is that a piano?” Rita’s daughter asked.

“Yes, but don’t go over there,” Pepper said. “You may never come out.” Her laugh was playful. The girl looked at her mother, and smiled uneasily.

Now Pepper was dead and Rita took on the job of clearing out forty years of clutter for Pepper's elderly sister who lived back east.

That morning Rita and her husband had come armed with gloves and trash bags to deal with the ‘estate’. In the mid-morning light, they scraped open the side door with its missing panes. Various rags, stuffed into the empty windows did little to keep out the elements. It felt strange not hearing Pepper yell, “Just a minute while I put on some pants.”

She felt like an intruder on sacred ground when they stepped inside. The cupboard mice scratched and then fell silent.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been here. I don’t remember it being this bad,” Rita said in awe.

On the sides of the narrow trail, bags of cat food had spilled onto the floor, crunching under their shoes, breaking the silence. Stacks of newspapers, two and three feet high, threatened to fall over. Dishes were piled haphazardly in the sink. A case of Ramen noodles sat near a beaten microwave.

The house was eerily quiet.

Pepper’s sister asked them to find any type of financial statement: Bank, tax return or a will, in order for the estate to proceed. The clutter was stifling. Rita sat in the familiar circle of stuffed chairs wondering where to start. A purse sat on the floor. Black vinyl with a metal clasp and shoulder strap.

She opened the latch and pulled out a wad of toilet paper. Underneath, she found pens, their dried ink dotting the bag’s cloth lining; a mint, unwrapped; a small round mirror absent from its compact; a pair of glasses with one lens missing; and savings bonds, from fifty to two-hundred dollars, listing names including Rita’s own daughter, and names she didn’t recognize.

Chaos ruled as she glanced around. An envelope from a national bank stuck out from a cushion and she opened it. A thin stack of twenty dollar bills spilled into her lap. She checked the other chairs, lifting cushions, and found more cash. She grew baffled by all the money.

A small end table littered with bobby pins, candy wrappers, bits of paper, empty pistachio shells, held even more envelopes of cash. Unopened mail covered the floor. Several envelopes showed return addresses from Las Vegas real estate firms. She opened one and gasped. They offered 2.5 million dollars for a piece of property. The second envelope listed a different address with a four million dollar price tag.

Rita shook her head. None of this made sense. Her Pepper had been wanting, allegedly needing the charity of her neighbors just to survive.

Under the pile of mail rested a small black moleskin notebook. The cover felt smooth and comforting under her fingertips. Its spine, repaired with duct tape, had a thick rubber band hugging the contents secure. Inside were names and addresses, peppered with one line journal entries dating back twenty years. The last page revealed a short list of Vegas addresses, but no names. A photo fell from the sepia tinged paper. Pepper and Earl smiled up at her as they stood next to a slot machine. Rita slipped the picture into her pocket.

Next to Pepper’s favorite chair, a thin, bank account ledger caught her eye. The faded lines listed a balance of over one million dollars! Rita’s heart pounded as she saw Pepper’s unruly scrawl.

Her hands shook as she stuffed the documents into her backpack. Her throat was dry as she wondered about the woman she thought she knew. The Pepper she had brought groceries for. The seemingly destitute Pepper who claimed she couldn’t pay for firewood or a new well. The Pepper whose weathered face looked hungry when presented with a Thanksgiving dinner.

Confused, Rita needed to make sense of the money and letters. She started feeding the nameless addresses from the black book into her phone. A large Vegas subdivision came into focus. Mega houses, each with their own swimming pool wrapped around Pepper’s two empty lots.

Rita shook her head and said, “Just sand in the desert.”

Her knees wobbled as she walked to Pepper’s couch. The couch where she died. It still showed the indentation from her small body. Rita imagined her friend sleeping there and cried. She realized Pepper had not slept in the kingsize bed upstairs since Earl died.

Earl’s trumpet rested nearby and a sword lay hidden along the back couch cushions. Rita crouched down and looked under the couch-bed. Would the will be hidden here? Her hand trembled as she imagined rats or snakes underneath. Squeezing her eyes shut, her fingers pulled out a half pint jar. Ramen spice packets lined the inside, and nestled in the center was a roll of hundred dollar bills. Shocked, she stood up quickly, bumping her head on a hanging lamp that held years of spider webs and more cash. A pair of white Go-go boots coughed up $250. Old brassieres crunched with hundred dollar bills sewn into the sides.

Rita peeled back her memories, but nothing made sense. Pepper was a gazillionaire, worth at least eight million dollars! Her shoulders tightened remembering how Pepper had asked the local funeral home to bury Earl for free (and they did). Only that morning Rita found Earl’s ashes in an urn stuffed into the back of a closet, seemingly forgotten.

This was not the house of a woman with money. The kitchen cupboards harbored mice families, whose trails and neighborhoods Rita had disturbed. Outside, her husband burned soiled newspapers, water damaged books and moldy clothes. Near the piano, a large area had become a massive cat box sans a box. Feces and urine reeked, eating through the subfloor.

Overwhelmed, she needed to think and stumbled to the bathroom. With a lap full of money, she closed her tearfilled eyes to the chaos and filth. Grief and anger swelled in her breast.

It was the abject waste that stuck in her throat.

Rita thought of all the good Pepper could have done with her wealth, like funding scholarships for needy students. She loved dogs and cats. The animal shelter would have benefitted from her millions.

Rita tried to understand her friend, who seemed to fear nothing. Pepper spoke five languages, traveled extensively, and dressed countless showgirls, but could not spend her money. Would death come sooner if she did? Or was it her fear of being caught short?

Rita would never know. Her heart pounded when she made the decision.

Removing her tennis shoes, she laid hundred dollar bills along both liners. Her socks became small money holders, as she wrapped the bills around her ankles. Her sweatpants hid the evidence. More bills were stuffed inside her underwear, and bra.

Rita's anger toward Pepper, the hoarding, the lies, started to ebb as she imagined the good she could do with this money. She felt empowered. When she closed her eyes, she heard Pepper’s throaty laugh, and saw her friend’s eyes sparkle.

In the decaying bathroom, Pepper leaned in, and whispered, “Go on. Live a little.”