Reminiscence (Ch 2: Housekeeping)

Perhaps my fatigue got the best of me, or perhaps the locks on the door rusted shut, but the front door of the house would not budge. The door, exposed to the intense sunlight for God knows how long, had its hinges welded tight against the frame. My efforts to open it were useless.

The shattered windows were not a suitable method of entry. Countless shards of glass lay scattered across the floor, and I had no energy to traverse the gauntlet of sharp glass to cut myself in an attempted entry.

Water.. I must find water..

The sun became unbearable; my canteen lay as barren as my chapped lips. My hair started to unfurl and cover my eyes, and the caked sweat stuck my forearms to my biceps. A relentless headache overcame me, and the fear of collapsing creeped in. I really needed to drink water.

As I looked for another way into the house, certain aspects of my surroundings came into focus. While the front of the house was barren, its sides teemed with life. Hearty palms flowed in the wind, whose outstretched leaves motioned like a lover motions their partner to follow them. Well, I did follow them, to be met by a steel fence consumed by vines and weeds. With nobody to trim these plants, they grew wild and enveloped every aspect of the fences.

If they are growing so much, there must be water nearby.

The plants around the house's perimeter obstructed my pathway. Sharp thorns hid between each branch like landmines in a field. With no other options, I weaseled through the foliage. I scraped my skin and clothing as I tried to avoid the thorns. This painstaking effort, however, would not be in vain.

When I finally overcame the vines, I found myself within an aging garden, whose white walls and fences had long been surrendered to the gentle touch of things that grow. A few Le Conte's thrasher birds scampered about the grass, chattering as they walked. They were unbothered by my presence in their habitat, and I was relieved to find some sort of life in this desert.

In this pleasant atmosphere, I appreciated the ambience of the crumbling house of Dandridge. The abode, at one point, existed as a magnificent Spanish colonial residence. Its thick yet molded stucco walls, chipped red tile roofs, and symmetrical architecture all gave indications that this home belonged to the Dandridge family for centuries. Many fault-like cracks etched across the walls, whose patterns seemed to be made by the claws of a giant hand.

As I traced the trail the cracks made with my eyes, I found what lay in the center of the courtyard. Camouflaged behind the overgrowth stood the source of water I had been searching for: a cobbled, dilapidated well. The abandoned water source, much like the house itself, crumbled under the passage of time. The structure, no more than ten or so feet in diameter, had most of its bricks scattered. The well appeared to have been haphazardly constructed in the early 20th century, when Coyote Creek started to dry up due to the change in climate.

My mouth watered in anticipation as I observed the rope that would bring forth, from beneath, the elixir of life I craved. As I reached for my flask, the garden plunged into a deep shadow. The sun began to slip behind the house of Dandridge. I checked my watch and realized the clock struck 4:00pm.

Strange, the Sun should not set this early.

As this thought crossed my mind, I simultaneously comprehended the sheer magnitude of the abode I stood in. Whilst everything else in the area still experienced the radiance of the harsh sunlight, the home casted a dark shadow across the ruined gardens. This shadow also facilitated a miniscule yet necessary cool breeze. While I welcomed the shade's protection from the heat, the sudden temperature changes nevertheless filled me with a sense of dreadful anticipation, akin to the one I had experienced at the restaurant in Riverside when I completed the transaction with the grinning businessman.

What was his name? He did present his personal card from the Whateley Notary. Did I throw the card away the moment I darted out of there with bag in hand? His name must start with a V, right? Did he call himself Vance? Vicente? Victor? Curse my memory!

As my mind wandered, a sudden change in the environment started to stir. The thrasher birds hastily flew away, and the bugs fell silent. The wind, too, stopped blowing, yet the vines and the leaves trembled, as if they shivered in fear of knowing what lurked beneath them.

My body tensed up, and the adrenaline started kicking in. This sensation was all too familiar, especially after confronting scavenging coyotes in the streets. When all goes quiet in the wilderness, a predator must be looming nearby.

Something was stalking me. I knew of its presence. I felt its breath. My blood ran cold, and the shadows closed in. It suspected me. My awareness of its existence. Yet it moved undeterred.

The bushes surrounding me rustled ever so slightly, as the creature darted from one location to the next. The unseen assailant to the left of me, to the right, in front, then behind. It was everywhere and nowhere at once, causing the hairs in the back of my neck to stand in fright. The entity circled me in unison with the raspy hissing vultures overhead.

By now, the adrenaline coursed through my veins. With no other weapon to defend myself, I resorted to wielding the valise in both my hands and readied it over my shoulder for my inevitable conflict with the assailant.

Suddenly, it burst forth from my left. I shifted my defensive stance to face the source of the commotion, in time to hear the muffled squeaks of a mouse halfway down the throat of a rattlesnake.

I lowered the suitcase and sighed in relief. The snake was, indeed, a potential hazard, but it preoccupied itself with its recent meal. In addition, the serpent lay in between me and the well. I reached down and picked up a hollow stick, which I precariously slid beneath the belly of the rattlesnake. I then raised the stick and gingerly walked towards the perimeter of the garden, where I safely deposited it outside the fence.

By this point, the sun started to set nearer to the horizon. It reached behind the Slot Canyon just a few miles away from the house of Dandridge. A new thought occurred to me: if I did not enter the house in time, I would be met with the blistering cold of the desert night. This realization had me rushing back towards the well to retrieve whatever water I could before I would retry my efforts to find another way in.

I struggled to pull the rope to bring up the bucket from beneath the earth. I could not contain my joy as I investigated the half full container. I peered inside and saw the pristine groundwater. I devoured the water as quickly as the ants destroy their prey. Such rapid consumption hurt my stomach, but I overlooked the pain.

A more imminent threat, however, made itself known.

As I brought down the bucket to catch my breath, I distinctly heard the dueling click of hammers being readied to fire. I knew that sound, too. That was the sound I came to expect from storeowners who wanted me to leave their property. The ever-familiar sound of a loaded shotgun, poised inches behind my head, followed by a raspy:

"Who are you?"