Curtis, part two

For nearly two hours that morning, Leta cried, sitting in the small living room, with its rough and broken furniture, worn carpet and torn draperies pulled tight against the light. One question burned in her soul: How did she get here?

On her first morning in the house, after she awoke and made her way down the narrow staircase, she had opened the drapes to let in the morning light, what little light that could penetrate the thick film of grime that had grown over the small glass. She ran her finger over it, and could barely make an impression.

With hesitation, she turned to face the rest of the room.

“Oh boy,” she said spontaneously. While she had no doubt that the house would be dusty, maybe even a little cluttered, she was stunned to observe the devastation that faced her.

The first thing she observed was an easy chair with tears in its upholstery, where the stuffing was leaking out and one wooden arm missing. Later she would learn that the other arm was cracked and only appeared to be whole.

The sofa, such as it was, had only two of three cushions, both with ripped upholstery. Where the cushion was missing, two springs were exposed. A side table against one wall, coffee table and end table and were cluttered with dirty dishes, food crusted or moldy, and covered in layers of grime and dust. All of the furniture and the walls had animal scratches, but she didn’t smell any cats. Old newspapers and magazines had been strewn carelessly, dropped where they had last been used and then stepped on or kicked out of the way.

Three wooden table chairs were thrust haphazardly against one wall. Two had seats that were split. One had a loose arm that bounced when she touched it. All of them had cracks in their backs or rungs. One had a rung broken out, leaving broken, splintering wood.

The brick around the fireplace and the adjacent walls were black with soot. Several of the bricks were cracked and others missing chunks. Ash spilled onto the floor and stirred every time a draft worked its way down the chimney.

Cobwebs flowed across the ceiling, like a canopy, and the air was heavy with stale cigar and pipe smoke, burned wood and body odor. And to top it all off, there was an open crack on one wall.

At least the room was small.

But just then, a rat ran across the floor, and she screamed. Holding her hand against her mouth, she then took a closer look at the side table. It was covered with rat droppings.

Her intention was to wake early, make her way to the kitchen and cook a delicious breakfast for her new husband. They had arrived late, having celebrated their nuptials at the Stony Ridge Inn until the place closed. Curtis drove them to his house, and helping each other along, they made their way inside and into an unmade bed, where both almost immediately passed out.

She needed to relieve herself, and although apprehensive about the condition of any lavatory in this dingy abode, she proceeded to the kitchen, the most likely location. Although the state of this room was very much a continuation of the living room, she tried not to look too hard at it by focusing on her more urgent need. The only door in the space took her onto a back stoop. Looking across the mostly bare dirt yard, she saw the unmistakable tall, narrow shack in a far corner.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said aloud.

To be continued.