Cole Dust Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

  The gate had a large nail driven into the wood just above the latch. Cole tugged but it was not about to budge so he hopped over and landed on the stone and pebble walkway leading to the front door. The pebbles did their job well and the pathway was the only spot free of weeds in the entire front yard.

  The lattice work covering the crawlspace below the house lay in pieces in the weeds. As Cole approached the front steps a cat darted from the hole in the lattice work and disappeared into the dry overgrowth. He followed the sound of the cat rustling the weeds like a huge serpent slithering away to safety. The porch creaked under his foot but felt solid. The railing was strong under his grip and did not move at all when he pulled on it.

  Before he tried the key in the lock Cole ran his hand along the nearly paintless wall to the left of the door. Dry as it was, it still felt smooth, except where patches of white paint still clung defiantly to the wood. The top corner of a sheet of plywood was bowed away from the wall. He grabbed the corner and pulled. The nail squealed and gave way. Cole saw himself reflected in a large window with unbroken glass. Energized by the uncovering of the window he quickly made his way around the house tearing off the plywood coverings and letting them lay where they fell.

  In a moment of levity when Cole returned to the porch he knocked on the front door.

  “Anybody home?” Cole called out as he slid the key in the lock. “Ready or not...” The key turned hard but gave way with a soft screech and a metallic click. Cole pushed the door. He put his shoulder against it and pushed harder. Slowly it groaned and the hinges gave way and the door opened. Like the Wizard of Oz in reverse, Cole went from a world of color to a world of shades of grey. The interior of the house was covered in a thick layer of dust.

  The smell of hot stale air burned Cole’s nostrils. As he stepped inside, the soft layer of fine dust puffed out from under his steps. The living room to his right was spacious with a alrge, stone fireplace on the far wall. On either side of the fireplace were bookshelves of dark wood. Old books, magazines, newspapers and file folders covered the shelves. In the center of the room were a broken chair and a torn lamp shade. Against the wall was a rolled up carpet home to a large number of rodents. The backing of the carpet was chewed away and nests of thread were visible through the holes. Paper and several articles of clothing were strewn about the room and covered in dust. Rat or mouse droppings were evident everywhere.

  To his left was an area he took to be the dining room. Bits of broken china were swept up in the corner and a stack of newspaper that must have been intended for packing was badly chewed by the rats and bits and scraps were scattered across the floor. A large built-in hutch stood against the wall with all the doors open and drawers out. Cole crossed the room and snapped one of the doors closed; he rubbed his finger across a shelf. The wood was dark with a red cast to it. The dust was fine as cornstarch and felt smooth and cool between Cole’s fingers.

  A door was propped open with a wedge of wood and beyond it the kitchen. The cupboards were white and the counter tops were a pale green. The floor was an industrial tile that reminded Cole of the hallways in his elementary school. The oven door was open and the racks were stacked with cast iron skillets and a couple of copper-bottomed pans. The counter tops held a stack of plastic bowls, an odd assortment of kitchen gadgets, more newspapers, and a stack of mismatched plates.

  Several breakfast cereal boxes were on the floor at the foot of the counter with holes large enough for a good-sized rat to crawl into. The boxes on the counter had the same kind of holes and the flaps at the top were all pushed in. The cupboard doors under the sink stood open, exposing an assortment of cleaning products and the dried carcass of a rat that chewed into the wrong box. There was no curtain on the window above the sink that looked out to the side of the house. In the yard stood a six sided aluminum clothes rack, a storage shed and a wooden chaise lounge.

  Just beyond the side yard was the charred remains of what must have been the barn. In the center was the burned and rusted body of a tractor. The giant rear wheels were burned away and the boxiness of the engine and fenders gave the sad old workhorse a deformed embarrassed look. The partially burned spires of the support timbers fenced in the old tractor and leaned in a snaggled rectangle. Odd shapes of rusted steel and iron lay about inside the charcoal fence where they must have been stored; the springs of a harrow, an old engine and frame of a truck, and an assortment of pipes, all took their place in this strange skeleton. Cole turned away from the forlorn ruins, saddened he could not have seen the barn standing strong.

  At the end of the counter stood a refrigerator that Cole judged to be at least forty years old. Scrawled across the front in what appeared to be blue crayon was a desperate message. “The Rat Race is over...The Rats Won”. Cole stood reading and re-reading the words. Who were the last occupants of this house? he thought. There are many reasons to move, to leave a house. Often it is the joy of new prospects, the excitement of a new job, a new opportunity and rebirth, and starting afresh. Just as often though, it is the hand of fate dealing out loss, failure, despair and even death. In this case the rats won. Cole shook his head and moved on.

  Off the kitchen was a door with a glass window at the top. Cole opened it and stepped out onto a screened-in porch. The screen around the porch drooped a bit but all in all was still intact. A set of shelves lined the wall left of the door and every shelf was full of quart jars. Row after row was crowded with jars full of peaches, cherries, pears and string beans and okra. The lids and tops of the jars were thick with dust. The contents were dark and discolored. The syrups long ago thickened, and a thick mass of sugar, and darkened fruit, settled at the bottom. On the top shelf neatly stacked and segregated were several dozen jars of jams and jellies. Each had a white and gold trimmed sticker neatly labeled, and in a fine hand, peach, strawberry, raspberry and plum.

  At the end of the porch against a half wall were stacked magazines and newspapers. Copies of Outdoor Life, Field and Stream and Ladies Home Journal were bound with twine and neatly stacked against the wall. Copies of the Oklahoman were in stacks of various heights. The dates on the magazine and newspapers spanned a two-year period: 1976 to 1978. Eldon Seifert was the name on the subscription label on the outdoor magazines and Louise Seifert was on the journals. Long gone, Cole thought.

  He made his way back into the house and moved back through the kitchen to the stairs leading to the upper floor. The carpet runner was chewed bare in several sections. Rats obviously had the run of the house for a long time. The damage seemed nearly as old as the dust that covered it, deserted long ago by the hungry rodents.

  Upstairs were three bedrooms. The master bedroom faced the front of the house and the two smaller were at the end of a hallway that faced the rear. The doors of the smaller rooms stood open and Cole could see what seemed to be a few articles of clothing scattered on the floor in one. Two doors along the hall were closed, one of which Cole figured to be a bathroom, the other a closet. Cole opened the door to the bathroom first. A small mirror hung above a cabinet and sink. A toilet stood next to a tub and was dry and badly stained. At the bottom of the tub were the dried, dusty fur and bones of a large rat that must have fallen in and was unable to get out.

  What Cole thought to be a closet turned out to be a staircase leading to the attic. He didn’t investigate the attic; there would be time enough for that later. The bedrooms were bare. The walls in one were pale blue and the other white. The trim on the windows and doors were the same cherry wood as the bookshelves and hutch downstairs. What Cole thought was clothing, turned out to be cleaning rags. The master bedroom was large with a high ceiling that ran along the roofline. The walls were covered with wallpaper of a pale pink rose pattern. Around the room were the traces of the pictures that hung on the walls, evidenced by the darker rectangle patterns left behind.

  Cole made his way back downstairs. Behind the stairs was a hallway he not seen before. Off to the left was a large bathroom. It showed the mark of a
late sixties remodel. The paisley print of the linoleum and the avocado green tile of the counter top and shower were a dead giveaway. Across the hall was a large room that appeared to have been used as an office. Along one wall under a large window sat a sofa that sadly, served as dinner for the rats. Large sections of the leather on the seat cushions and back were gnawed away exposing the fluffy, white material used by the rats to build their nests, and the manufacturer to assure the sofa was as comfortable, as it must have surely been years before.

  On the wall opposite the door sat a large desk. Above the desk was a large framed print known as the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Cole always loved the picture. This black and white mass production of John Trumbull’s famous painting probably dated back to the end of the nineteenth century. Oddly, the painting usually identified as the signing of the Declaration actually shows the presentation of one of the first drafts being presented to the Congress. Showing the value the previous owner placed on it, the picture was framed in a dark intricately carved wood, far more valuable than the print it adorned. Cole smiled, knowing he finally owned a copy of the picture he so long admired.

  Cole pulled out the top drawer of the desk. Two pencils, a small pile of paperclips, several sheets of graph paper and a bronze letter opener with Chicago World’s Fair in raised letters on the handle all rested peacefully in the drawer. The other three drawers in the desk were empty.

  It was a fine old house. With a little love and care it could be a home that anyone would be proud of. Cole thought of the scattered bits and pieces of the people that were left behind. Tomorrow he would begin to sweep away their memory forever. It would soon be as if they were never here at all. For a brief moment Cole wished that he could live in this old house and be part of what it could become. Don’t be silly, he thought, this is not your home, just a house.

  Cole went back out to the front porch. The sun was beginning to sink into the western horizon and a cool breeze blew gently. The idea of sleeping in the house was out of the question. Cole figured there would be no furnishings, but he never expected the volume of dust and dirt that he found. Along with his luggage, Cole thankfully, brought a sleeping bag and a backpack. He walked around to the side of the house and examined the Adirondack style chaise he saw from the kitchen window. It was still in one piece, and although a bit rough, Cole decided it would at least get him up off the ground his first night “on the farm”.

  FOUR

  Sunrise came at 5:48. The light rose softly in the violet dawn and Cole pulled the top of the sleeping bag up to cover his eyes. It had been a rough night. Never a great camper, Cole always found sleeping outdoors a challenge. Every bug that buzzed, every rustle in the weeds and the occasional car that passed by, all woke him. The wooden chaise that he carried to the porch was soon abandoned for the seemingly softer planks of the porch, but wood is wood.

  Cole fought the light for fifteen minutes but it was no use. The sun was up and the glare of morning reflected off every surface on the house, even the red plaid flannel of the sleeping bag liner seemed to radiate with light. Cole stretched and felt the gentle snapping of his vertebrae. He put his shoes on sitting at the end of the chaise. Looking around through blurry eyes, and not yet fully awake, still Cole was taken by the beauty of the land around him. The field across the road that he hadn’t noticed driving in was a lush, billowy green with thick alfalfa. Lines of sprinklers sprayed across the field. The water sparkled like diamonds as the sun hit the spray at nearly a right angle.

  Just beyond the fence of the front yard Cole heard a rustle in the weeds. He watched the spot where the sound came from and a moment later saw the long ears of a jackrabbit. The animal moved in short deliberate hops and sniffed and looked about before disappearing again into the tall weeds.

  Cole stood and stretched again. His full bladder required relief but he remembered the dry dusty condition of the toilets in the house. He made his way around to the back of the house. With his big city sensitivity guiding his actions Cole was leery of a passing car catching him watering the weeds. The dry stump of a long downed tree seemed the perfect target. He smiled and closed his eyes as the draining of the night’s collection eased his discomfort.

  “It ain’t gonna grow!” a voice thundered from behind him.

  The urine stream stopped as if someone turned a faucet off. Cole tucked in and zipped his jeans.

  “Don’t let me stop ya’! Ga’head and finish your business!” the voice called again. Turning, Cole saw Ernie Kappas about fifty feet behind him heading his way.

  “Good morning, neighbor!”

  “Thought I’d come see how you survived. Figured you’d need this.” Ernie lifted two thermos bottles and a brown paper bag splotched and stained with grease.

  The two men walked to the front of the house. Cole sat on the top step of the porch, and Ernie landed beside him with a grunt.

  “Made these this morning.” Ernie unrolled the top of the bag and handed it to Cole.

  The bag was warm in Cole’s hand. “What have we got here?” He said, looking in the bag.

  “Doesn’t have a name. Just something I made up. Well, my ma did actually. Its grits and chicken meat mixed with jalapeños, then I fry ‘em up.” Ernie nodded his head signaling Cole to try one of his offerings.

  Cole reached in the bag and brought out a golden brown object about the size of an unsplit English muffin and took a bite. “Man, that’s good!”

  “You being from San Francisco, I figured you wouldn’t drink my Oklahoma Crude coffee, so I brought hot chocolate too,” Ernie said, nodding to the thermoses on the step.

  “I just might fool ya,” Cole said, taking the cup lid off one of the thermoses, then the other. He glanced over at Ernie who frowned trying to figure out what his new neighbor was up to. Pouring a third of a cup of the coffee in the cup, he then filled it with cocoa and stirred it with his finger. “Mocha.”

  “The hell you say.” Ernie took the other cup and copied Cole’s recipe and took a sip. “I’ll be damned, that’s pretty good.” Ernie smiled and nodded.

  “Seems I have quite a cleanup job around here. What does a person do with all these tumbleweeds?” Cole said, looking out at the field in front of them.

  “Burn ‘em,” Ernie said flatly.

  “Isn’t that kind of dangerous?

  “We’ll dig a pit. I’ll dig a pit. With the backhoe. Pile ‘em up. Light a match.”

  “Thanks.” Cole thought a moment. “But won’t all the weeds catch fire?”

  “Not after I plow ‘em under. Take about an hour, maybe less.”

  Cole was not sure how to respond to the generous offer. He did not want to insult his neighbor’s gesture with an offer to pay, so he said, “Then dinner will be on me!”

  “You pass.”

  “Pass?”

  “The test. If you’d offered me money I told myself I would write you off as another California asshole. Just let you be. But you passed. Dinner is just right. You’re OK, Sage.” Ernie smiled, pleased with his evaluation.

  “Thanks.”

  An hour later Ernie had a pit dug in the field a hundred yards behind the house. Cole walked to the edge of the pit. A bit of gahnite and some plaster, he thought, and I’d have a swimming pool. The hole was at least six feet deep and eight to ten feet around.

  Ernie killed the engine on the tractor and waved. “That should do it,” he said, jumping down from the cab. “Now fill’er up.”

  Cole walked over to the small mountain of dirt removed from the pit. He looked back at the tumbleweeds piled against the house. Without comment he walked to the nearest tumbleweed and tossed it into the pit. He guessed that it would hold about twenty-five the size of the one lying at the bottom. As he went for another ball of prickles, it occurred to him that he needed a pair of gloves or would soon have hamburger for hands. He tossed a second tumbleweed into the pit.

  “Got a match?” Ernie asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll
bring a box when I come back. I gotta go switch this shovel for a fork. At the rate you’re goin’ we’ll be eatin’ Christmas dinner by the time you’re through. Keep workin,’ I’ll be back in a bit. Here!” Ernie took off his heavy pigskin gloves and tossed them to Cole. He climbed back up into the tractor seat and with a pop of the engine and a ball of blue-black smoke from the exhaust pipe, he was roaring back toward his place.

  Cole continued to drag the big weeds over to the pit for thirty minutes. When he stood back to admire his work he couldn’t tell where they came from. He blew out a big puff of air in disgust. Across the field he saw Ernie returning with an attachment on the front of the tractor that looked like something out of Mad Max. Several long tines protruded from a vertical attachment that resembled a pitchfork on a forklift.

  As Ernie came roaring onto Cole’s property he lowered the tines and began collecting tumbleweeds like a giant lint brush across a sweater. By the time he reached the pit, the tines held at least thirty tumbleweeds. He halted the tractor at the edge of the pit, tilted the tines, and backed away. He finished in seconds what Cole struggled to do in thirty minutes.

  “Here!” Ernie tossed a box of matches to Cole. “Let ‘er rip!”

  Cole took two matches from the box and struck them. He tossed the matches into the pit and within seconds the pit became a raging inferno. Cole jumped back as the blazing heat roared, swirled and curled around the edges of the pit. The deep orange flames leapt into the air and the fire cracked and snapped with an amazing intensity. Then just as quickly as it began the flames were reduced to a fine powdery ash at the bottom of the pit. Cole moved toward the pit and stamped out the embers of several small patches of dry weeds that lay crushed around the edge.

  Ernie was off and combing through the field, collecting another load of the incendiary balls. On his return to the pit his new load burst into another orange inferno as, tines lowered, he backed away. Several trips to the pit produced a wide swath of tall grassy weeds freed of tumbleweeds. Again and again the tractor combed the ground behind the house and brought them to be burned in the pit.