• • •
Mason knocked on the Brands’ front door. Up and down the block he could see lights on in the living rooms, televisions, families. The storm door rattled, and Mrs. Brand appeared in the glass. She pushed the door open to him. “Mrs. Brand,” he said. “It’s Mason Kirby. Do you remember me, Hilda and Ted’s boy?”
“I knew it was you, Mason. Come on in. I’ve seen you down there at the house.”
He stepped into the small carpeted front room. Mr. Brand stood from his big red recliner and shook Mason’s hand. He wore a blue plaid shirt and a pair of clean overalls, and he looked the same to Mason: a large man in working clothes. “What are you doing? Selling the place?”
“Good to see you, sir,” Mason said. “Yeah. I’ve been proven to be an ineffective landlord, and my sister has no interest in returning to Wyoming.”
“Where is Linda?” Mrs. Brand said. “She was a sharp one.”
Mr. Brand sat back down and motioned for Mason to take a seat on the couch. He turned the television down with the remote.
“She’s out in California, which was always her goal. Her two kids are almost in high school, married a guy who is something in UPS, middle management. She’s doing well.”
“And you’re a lawyer,” Mrs. Brand said. “Craig told me that you’ve done well too.”
“Is there much work in it?” Edgar Brand said. “All you hear now is lawyer this, lawyer that.”
“There’re plenty of lawyers,” Mason said. He sat on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees. “There’s some work in it. You meet with people who are pretty torn up, and you try to figure how to help. It’s been interesting. I’ve had some luck, and mostly I think I’ve been on the side of the good guys, but that’s my opinion. I am a lawyer.” He opened his hands and shrugged. “I’m having more fun fixing up the old place than I ever have in Denver.”
The little room with its carpet felt terrifically close to Mason, especially after all the air and stars and leaves. They’ve lived their lives in these rooms, he thought. He didn’t know anybody anymore who lived in one place. There were several family photos framed on the wall, and he picked out Matt Brand in his football uniform and a studio portrait of all four Brands taken when the kids must have been eight and nine. The muted television was on to an evening news program, 20/20 or Primetime or such, but the room itself was decades removed from Mason’s world.
“We didn’t see much of your last renters.” Mr. Brand said. “They had a daughter, and the old man drove an El Camino, which is a vehicle I never did understand. Light blue.”
“They had some problems,” Mason said. “I think the bottle had him by the neck. It happens. Listen, I understand Jimmy’s here”—Mr. Brand’s face changed in the lamplight, went blank—“and I came down to see if I—”
“Come in the kitchen, Mason,” Mrs. Brand said, holding the door open for him. Mason stood and followed her into the bright back room. As the door closed behind them, he could hear the television resume. Mrs. Brand moved about the kitchen for a minute, preparing two cups of tea for them, and then she sat opposite him at the gray swirls of the Formica table, which swam suddenly into his memory.
“This table’s served me more than once,” Mason said.
“We had fun here.”
“But you’ve changed the room.”
“Yes, we did. We moved the fridge and changed the back door. Remember, you used to come in here by the basement stairs?” She showed him the arrangement.