THE DEAD MAN'S HOUSE

When I was a 12 year old boy, I lived with my grandparents. I possessed an insatiable curiousity that often brought me wonder, but also misery and fright at times, and yet it was a part of me, no matter which way it went. Living with them, I relaxed, taught myself juggling, and watched my very eccentric relatives do their own odd things. I loved my slow moving grandfather Arty far more than he ever seemingly loved me. I hung on his every word regardless. He had a very quiet methodical way about him. Arty was a unique type of guy, sitting next to him was soporific.He could sit there quietly, puff on his pipe, and relax anyone who ever lived. He spoke rarely, and always kept it short. I only ever remember him doing one joke to me as a boy. Sitting at the breakfast table, I once asked him was he tough? He responded: “Johnny, I’m so damned tough I can eat nails for breakfast, I just choose not to, they taste bad”. Of course I laughed heartily. This was for what passed for humor at the breakfast table for me. As it turned out, in the house next door to ours on the corner of Rhode Island and Prospect street, the sole resident and owner of it suddenly died one week. It was a large 3 story house, and quite old. The newly dead owner was a personal friend of Arty for at least 30 years. I’d often witness them taking slow morning walks and smoking pipes together. I watched them from the porch sometimes, and they didn’t actually talk, just shuffled and puffed flavored tobacco shuffling down the street, seemingly satisfied in silence. I don’t recall his name, but had seen him before on many occasions, he lived alone in that giant place, and had no living family, and from what Arty told me, he had lived in that house for over 70 years, since he was a kid probably; It was a family house I suppose, and existed almost as long as my own family’s place, since the 1800s certainly. They’d drift together down Prospect street together, like two slowly moving smokestacks, puffing away quietly. They were a curious duo, and Arty never mentioned how they met,, but I wonder, maybe they’d met so long that they didn’t need to talk anymore, just nod to each other and walk, and everything that could be said between them was talked about long ago. Either that or they were possibly telepathic, I have no idea to this day. So he died that week, and as it turns out for some reason Arty had a key to his house, and they must have had some verbal agreement, since the guy had no living family. Arty was welcome to come in, and explore, and take anything he wanted, before either the lawyers, or the state took his property. This guy was literally the last one of his line, as I am many years later writing this. It’s a lonely place, I understand now, but it’s life as usual for me. At least he had Arty though. So that weekend, even though my grandfather didn’t seem too broken up about his friend’s death, he invited myself and Tucker, my Aunt Linda’s new husband, to join him and explore this large old house, and take whatever we’d like. What an irresistible offer, for both a young 13 year old boy, who was fascinated with old mysteries, and Tucker, a good guy in his 30’s, whom I always liked. He looked exactly like the actor William Katt, but with thick glasses. Same curly blonde hair, same features, and similar kind disposition. He was always nice to me, but I have very few memories of him sadly. What follows is one such odd memory.. It was Friday night, and both Aunt Linda and her husband, plus Red and Sonny were visiting us upstairs, when Arty invited all of us to join him, but only Tucker and I were truly curious enough to join this small adventure. The rest bid us goodluck, and went back to their coffee, and conversations and cigarettes. We three curious guys left down the front inner stairway, and headed outside and walked next door to the big corner house that patiently awaited our visit.