The morning was damp and dank, like most of my days since Miriam had left. Seventy-seven is the age when every day begins with aches and pains in different parts of your body and ends with thoughts of those who no longer sit beside you at dinner. I, Obadiah Lamb, have gotten used to being alone in this house in Henlopen Acres that Miriam and I bought back in the eighties.
It’s big, two-story, overlooking the bay, and an area I’m still trying to maintain despite my arthritis. That morning I was making myself oatmeal for breakfast as usual. The TV in the kitchen was broadcasting the local news, the only voice breaking the silence of the house.
I was about to sit down at the table when I heard the sound of a car pulling up. I looked out the window and saw my son Ingram’s silver SUV. What the hell? I muttered to myself.
Ingram usually gave me advance notice rather than showing up on my doorstep at seven in the morning. I stepped out onto the porch, wrapped in an old robe. Four people got out of the car.
My son, Ingram, his wife Beatrix, and my grandsons, Terrence and Alwyn. Beatrix immediately took charge of unloading the suitcases, not even bothering to say hello to me. Daddy! Ingram smiled strainedly as he climbed the stairs.
We thought we’d come to visit you. With six suitcases? I nodded at the trunk from which Terrence was pulling another bag. We planned to stay for a while, Ingram answered, avoiding my gaze.
We’re renovating, remember? I told you about it on the phone. I didn’t remember anything like that. The last time we’d spoken was two weeks ago, and Ingram had only asked about my health and retirement.
How long do you plan to stay? I asked bluntly. A couple weeks, maybe a month, Ingram shrugged. Don’t worry, we won’t bother you.
He patted me on the shoulder and made his way into the house. Beatrix followed him, barely nodding at me, holding a fancy purse and a cell phone. Hi, Grandpa, Terrence mumbled, walking past with two suitcases.
Hello, Grandpa. Alwyn, my granddaughter, at least tried to smile, but she was immediately staring at her phone. I was left standing on the porch, looking out over the bay and thinking that my peaceful life had just ended.
It took me about ten minutes to gather my thoughts and return to the house, which was already filled with other people’s voices and smells. In the kitchen, Beatrix was dumping the contents of my refrigerator. Obadiah, this cheese has been expired for three days, she exclaimed, showing me a package of cheddar.
And what is this horrible sausage? It has so many nitrates in it. You could die on the spot. I watched in silence as she threw away the groceries I had bought only two days ago.
I wanted to say that I had lived to be 77 years old, eating what I liked, but I held back. Ingram, meanwhile, was walking around the house, looking around the rooms and talking on the phone. Papa, he said, coming back into the kitchen.
Beatrix and I will take the master bedroom, will you? You’ll be more comfortable on the first floor, so you don’t have to go up the stairs. I felt something inside me clench. The master bedroom was the room where I’d slept with Miriam for 45 years.
There were still her pictures standing there, her books lying around. I’m quite comfortable in my bedroom, I replied, trying to speak calmly. I take the stairs every day.
It’s good for my joints. But Papa, Beatrix intervened, you are 77. It’s dangerous to climb stairs at your age.
What if you fall at night when you go to the toilet? I have an upstairs bathroom, I objected, and I’ve never fallen down the stairs in my entire life. There’s a first time for everything, Beatrix said. Ingram, tell your father we’re concerned for his safety.
Ingram looked at me with that peculiar mixture of pity and irritation that I had begun to notice in his gaze in recent years. Dad, please, it’s only for a few weeks. Besides, the bedroom on the first floor is quite cozy.
Cozy wasn’t the word I’d use to describe the former guest room. There was a narrow bed, an old dresser, and nothing else. But I realized it was useless to argue….
I nodded and went upstairs to gather my things. Moving into the small room took me all day. Not because I had a lot of stuff, but because every item in the master bedroom was connected to a memory.
The picture of Miriam and me on the beach in Cape May, our wedding rings in a box on the dresser, her favorite vase that I never put away after she died. By the time I was done that evening, the house no longer looked like the one I’d lived in for the past 40 years. Beatrix had hung some modern paintings, arranged her knickknacks on the mantelpiece, and moved my photographs.
The living room now held Ingram’s huge suitcase, which he hadn’t even bothered to put away. The grandchildren had taken over the second bedroom upstairs, where my office used to be, and from there now came loud music and the sounds of video games. At dinner, which Beatrix had prepared from some organic produce she’d brought with her, I felt like a guest at my own table.
Ingram and Beatrix were discussing their plans without even trying to include me in the conversation. We have to repaint the kitchen, Beatrix said. That awful yellow color looks so outdated.
But it’s Miriam’s favorite color, I objected. She chose that paint herself. Obadiah, that was 30 years ago, Beatrix rolled her eyes.
Nobody paints kitchens yellow now. I’m thinking light gray with accents of mint. This is my house, I reminded her, and I don’t plan on repainting it.
Dad, Ingram interjected, we just want to freshen things up a little. It’ll be good for the value of the house, too. Are you planning to sell my house? I felt anger rising inside.
Of course not, Ingram answered quickly, but it’s always wise to keep the property in good condition. I noticed the way he and Beatrix looked at each other. Something in that look made me feel uneasy.
After dinner, the grandchildren quickly disappeared upstairs without even washing the dishes. I started to put the plates in the dishwasher, but Beatrix stopped me. Obadiah, you’re doing it wrong.
The plates have to be rinsed first or the machine will get clogged. I’ve been using this dishwasher for 15 years, I replied. I know how it works.
Ingram. Beatrix turned to my son, who was sitting in the living room staring at his laptop. Tell your father that he can ruin the machine.
Ingram didn’t even look up. Dad, please do as Beatrix says. She’s better at appliances.
I walked silently out of the kitchen and into my new room. I sat on the edge of the bed and for the first time all day I felt how tired I was, not physically, emotionally. I pulled out of my pocket the picture of Miriam I always carried with me.
What would you do if you were me, darling, I whispered, looking at her smiling face. The following days turned into a real ordeal. Beatrix established a new routine in the house without asking my opinion.
Breakfast was now served at eight, not seven as I was used to. My morning coffee was replaced by some herbal tea because caffeine is bad for your heart at your age, Obadiah. My favorite shows on TV were declared too loud and outdated.
In their place, the living room now had endless reality shows that Beatrix watched or sports channels that Ingram switched to. One day I returned from a morning walk and found that my collection of old records, which I had collected all my life, had disappeared from the living room. Where are my records? I asked Beatrix, who was arranging some decorative candles on the shelf where my record player used to stand.
Oh, that old junk? She didn’t even turn to me. I put it away in the garage. They were collecting so much dust and Alwyn’s allergic.
It’s not junk, I said indignantly. Some of these records are rare editions. They’re worth money.
Obadiah, nobody listens to records these days. She finally looked at me with that condescending smile I hated so much. If you want music, Terrence can show you how to use Spotify.
I left the house and headed for the garage. My records were piled in an old cardboard box, some of the envelopes crumpled. I carefully pulled them out, checking for damage.
The first edition of Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue that I’d bought back in the 60s, the Ella Fitzgerald albums that Miriam had loved so much, they were all piled carelessly like junk. I took the box to my room and hid it under my bed. At least there Beatrix wouldn’t get to them.
The grandchildren barely spoke to me. Terrence was constantly busy doing his own thing, either going to job interviews or going out with friends. Alwyn spent most of her time in her room, occasionally coming down to get something from the refrigerator.
When I tried to talk to her about college or her plans, she would answer in one word answers and quickly find an excuse to leave. One day I offered my help when she was working on some project for school. I can help you with your research, I said.
After all, I worked as a postal inspector for 40 years and know a thing or two about organizing information. Alwyn looked at me with that peculiar expression that young people have when they think an old man is hopelessly out of date. Thanks, Grandpa, but I’ll Google it, she replied, and went back to her laptop.
A week after they arrived, I discovered that Beatrix had thrown out my old photo albums that I kept in the hall closet. Why would you do that? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the albums in the trash can in the backyard. Obadiah, they were taking up too much space and we needed somewhere to store our stuff, she replied, without even apologizing.
Besides, all those old photos can be scanned and stored digitally. It’s much more convenient that way. These albums are my life, I said, pulling them out of the trash.
These are pictures of my parents, of my youth, of Ingram’s early years. Dad, Ingram intervened, who, as usual, showed up when the conflict had already started. We’re just trying to clean up.
There’s too much…things. Stuff? I looked at him. This is my house, and these things are my life. I didn’t ask you to clean it up.
But you live alone, Ingram said with the same tone he’d used to talk to me when I was old. It’s hard for you to manage a house this big. We’re just helping out.
I took the albums to my room and added them to the growing collection of things I had to rescue from Beatrix. My little room was slowly becoming a repository for my life, which was being methodically purged from the rest of the house. That night, sitting on my narrow bed and flipping through the salvaged albums, I thought seriously about my future for the first time.
It was obvious that Ingram and Beatrix weren’t planning to leave in a couple weeks, as they claimed. They were settling in, changing the house to suit themselves, gradually displacing me and my belongings. I felt like a ghost in my own home, whose footprints were being methodically erased.
I looked at the picture of Miriam and I standing in front of this house the day we bought it. We were so happy then, full of plans and hopes. We imagined growing old here, sitting on the porch and watching the sunset over the bay.
Miriam didn’t live to see it. Cancer took her five years ago, and now I was in danger of losing the house we loved so much, too. I couldn’t let that happen…
I had to find a way to maintain control of my life before it was too late. Everything changed one rainy Sunday, two weeks after my house had become someone else’s territory. I was sitting in my room, as I usually had been for the past few days, re-reading old letters to Miriam and listening to jazz from my phone through my headphones.
Terrence had shown me how to use Spotify, after all. It was the only useful thing that had happened these days. It was drizzling outside the window, drops dripping down the glass, and I remembered all those rainy days we’d spent with Miriam by the fireplace, talking about books we’d read and plans for the future.
A quiet knock on the door brought me out of my reverie. I took off my headphones and invited him in, expecting to see Ingram or Beatrix with another complaint. But Alwyn’s head appeared in the doorway.
Grandfather, may I come in? She asked tentatively. Of course, come in. I was surprised and pleased.
My granddaughter had rarely sought my company since they’d arrived. Alwyn entered and stopped awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking around. I noticed that it was the first time she’d seen what my home had become, a warehouse of salvaged items, memories, and things Beatrix had deemed outdated and unnecessary.
Wow, she said, looking at the stacks of books, albums, and record boxes. I can see where all the stuff in the living room went. Not all of it, I answered.
A lot of it your mother just threw away. Alwyn grimaced and sat on the edge of the bed. Grandfather, I came to warn you.
Something in her voice made me wary. About what? I overheard my parents talking, she lowered her eyes. Mom’s decided her parents are moving here, Grandma Prudence and Grandpa Garth.
They’re selling their house in Rehoboth Beach. I felt a chill go through me. Even if the house had been twice as big, there wouldn’t have been room for this crowd.
But it wasn’t just about space. Where do they plan to put them? I asked, though I already knew the answer. That’s why I came, Alwyn fidgeted with the edge of her t-shirt.
Mom and Dad think you’d be better off somewhere else. What other place? My voice shook, though I tried to stay calm. A home for the elderly, Alwyn squeezed out.
They’ve already found someplace in Lewes and put down a deposit. They say you’ll be taken care of by professionals, and you won’t have to worry about cooking and cleaning and all that. I felt the anger rising in me in a wave.
Ingram and Beatrix were planning to evict me from my own home to make room for her parents. When are they going to tell me about this? I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Tonight, Alwyn answered.
They’re waiting for Terrence to come back from his interview. They want the whole family together. Except for me, I suppose.
I grinned bitterly. I’m not part of the family anymore, am I? Grandfather, don’t say that, Alwyn objected. It’s just, they think it’s best for everyone.
Mom says you can’t live alone anymore, and they’re too busy to take care of you. Look after me. I rose from my chair, feeling a surge of energy from indignation.
I’ve been taking care of myself for 77 years. I worked as a postal inspector for 40 years, raised your father, built this house with your grandmother Miriam, and now they think I’m an incompetent old man who should be put in a nursing home? Alwyn looked startled by my outburst. She’d never seen me in anger before.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I’m sorry, Alwyn, I said more quietly. I’m grateful you warned me.
At least I’ll have time to prepare. What are you going to do, she asked anxiously. I don’t know yet, I answered honestly, but I’m not going to give up without a fight.
In the evening, just as Alwyn had predicted, Ingram called a family council in the living room. I sat in my old chair, the only thing in the room Beatrix couldn’t throw away because I refused to get up out of it when she tried to clean it, and watch the faces of my relatives. Ingram looked tense.
Beatrix was tapping her foot impatiently on the floor. Terrence was staring at his phone, pretending he wasn’t here, and Alwyn was avoiding looking me in the eye. Dad, Ingram began after a long pause, we want to talk to you about the future.
My future, I clarified, looking him straight in the eye. Or the future of this house. Ingram hesitated, but Beatrix took the initiative.
Obadiah, she said in that tone one uses with a cranky child. We can all see that you are finding it hard to live alone. You forget to take your medication.
You don’t eat properly. Your house is in a state of disrepair. We’re worried about you.
Really? I couldn’t help but be sarcastic. I thought you were worried about where to put your parents, Beatrix. She flinched, and Ingram cast a quick glance at Alwyn, who shrank back in her seat.
Dad, let’s be honest, Ingram said. Yes, Beatrix’s parents are selling their house and moving closer to us, but that’s a separate issue. We’re really concerned about your health and safety, so much so that they decided to evict me from my own home? I could feel my hands shaking with anger, but I tried to speak calmly.
We found the perfect place, Beatrix interjected. Pine Grove is not just a nursing home, but a real community for active retirees. There’s a pool, a library, organized excursions.
I knew she was lying. Pine Grove was the cheapest nursing home in the area, with minimal services and a bad reputation. I’d read about it in the local paper.
It was constantly understaffed and the building was in need of renovation. I’m not going anywhere, I said firmly. This is my home, and I’m staying here.
Dad, be reasonable, Ingram leaned forward. You can’t live here alone, and we can’t look after you all the time. We have our own lives, work, children.
I didn’t ask you to look after me, I reminded him. You came here and decided you could run my life, and now you want to get rid of me to make room for Beatrix’s parents. Obadiah, Beatrix was outraged.
How can you say that? We are only thinking of your welfare. Then leave me alone, I replied. Go away and let me live as I did before you came.
That is impossible, Ingram said. We have already decided everything. You’re moving to Pine Grove in three days.
And if I refuse? I straightened in my chair, feeling my heart pounding in my chest. Dad, don’t make this harder than it has to be, Ingram sighed. You realize it’s inevitable.
At your age, sooner or later everyone has to move into a nursing home. It’s better to do it now while you’re still active enough to get used to the new place. I looked at my son and didn’t recognize him.
When did he become such a cold, calculating man? Where is the boy I taught to ride his bike, the boy I read books to before bed, the boy I comforted after his first heartbreak? This is my home, I repeated. I’m not going anywhere. If you don’t go voluntarily, Beatrix said with ill-concealed irritation, we’ll have to get a guardianship.
Ingram has already consulted a lawyer. At your age, the testimony of a couple of doctors would be enough to declare you in need of guardianship. I felt a chill go down my spine.
They threatened to take away not only my home, but my right to control my own life. Would you do that to your father? I asked Ingram, not believing my ears. He looked away.
Dad, don’t bring it up. Just agree to move in, and everything will be fine. I realized I had lost this fight.
They were willing to do anything to evict me, and they had the advantage. Youth, legal knowledge, resources. I had nothing but my stubbornness and sense of injustice.
Okay, I finally said. I’ll go to that nursing home of yours, but don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for that. The next three days passed like a blur.
I watched Beatrix and Ingram pack my things, deciding for me what I would need in the nursing home and what was unnecessary. Most of my books, my stamp collection that I had collected all my life, many of my photographs, were all declared unnecessary and sent to the garage for storage. I could only take my clothes, a few personal items, and photos with me.
The rooms at Pine Grove were small, and a lot of stuff wouldn’t fit in there. Alwyn tried to help me by sneaking things into my suitcase that Beatrix had put aside. She was the only one who seemed genuinely upset about what was happening…
Grandpa, I’m so sorry, she whispered as she helped me pack the photo album. I’ve tried to talk to mom and dad, but they won’t listen. Don’t blame yourself, baby, I replied, stroking her head.
You couldn’t change anything. The day of the move, I woke up early and walked out to the backyard. The fog had not yet cleared over the bay, and the water seemed silvery in the morning light.
I stood there for a long time, soaking up the view that had been a part of my life for so many years. Miriam and I loved to sit on the veranda on summer evenings, watching the sun set over the bay, coloring the sky and water in shades of pink and gold. Now, I didn’t know if I would ever see that view again.
Ingram found me there an hour later. Dad, it’s time to go, he said, trying to sound cheerful. The car is already loaded.
I nodded and took one last look at the bay before turning and walking toward the house. Ingram’s SUV was parked by the porch, two suitcases and a box loaded in the trunk, all that was left of my life. Beatrix was fussing around, checking to see if everything was locked, if we’d forgotten anything.
She looked almost happy, as if getting rid of me was a great relief. Obadiah, she said as I approached the car, don’t forget your pills. I put them in the side pocket of my suitcase and made an appointment schedule.
You’ll give it to the nurse when we get there. I didn’t answer, just sat in the back seat next to Alwyn. Terrence had stayed home, he had some important appointment, he explained.
I was even glad he hadn’t gone, at least there would be one less witness to my humiliation. The drive to Pine Grove took about 30 minutes. I looked out the window at the familiar places whizzing by the post office where I worked, the park where I walked with Miriam, the store where I bought her flowers every Friday and felt a part of me die.
Pine Grove turned out to be exactly what I expected, a dreary three-story gray brick building surrounded by stunted trees and a neatly trimmed but lifeless lawn. Not a trace of that active retirement community Beatrix had spoken of. Through the windows I could see elderly people sitting in chairs in the common room, staring mindlessly at the TV.
It looks nice, Alwyn said uncertainly as we got out of the car. Don’t pretend, baby, I replied quietly. We both know what this place is.
We were greeted by the receptionist, a full middle-aged woman with a strained smile and tired eyes. She walked us through the check-in process, showed us to my room, a small space with a narrow bed, nightstand, and closet, and handed us a schedule of meals and medications. Dinner is at 1730, she said, looking into her papers, not at me.
Don’t be late or you’ll have to wait until breakfast. Ingram and Beatrix helped me put my things away, which took only a few minutes, so few were there. Then came the moment of farewell.
Papa, Ingram looked awkward, we’ll be visiting you. Maybe not right away. We need to help Beatrix’s parents with the move, but we’ll definitely come soon.
I didn’t answer. What could I say? That I didn’t want to see them. That betrayal was unforgivable.
That they had ruined my life for their own convenience. Alwyn hugged me tightly, and I felt her tears wet my shirt. I’ll come visit you, grandfather, she whispered.
I promise. I know, baby, I replied, stroking her back. Take care of yourself.
When they left, I sat on the edge of the bed, and for the first time in a while, I let myself cry. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I stared at the bare walls of the strange room that was now my home. The first week at Pine Grove was the worst week of my life.
The food was bland, the regimen was oppressive, and the community was depressing. Most of the residents were significantly older than me or had serious health problems. Some suffered from dementia and didn’t even recognize their own children who came to visit them.
I spent most of my time in my room, reading the few books I managed to take with me, or looking at photographs. Sometimes I would go out to the common room and look out the window at the parking lot, hoping to see Alwyn’s car, but it never arrived. On the tenth day of my stay at Pine Grove, something happened that changed everything.
I was sitting in the dining hall trying to swallow something called chicken stew, but more like glue when I heard a familiar voice. Obadiah? Obadiah Lamb? It couldn’t be. I looked up and saw a tall, skinny man with a gray beard looking at me with genuine surprise.
Ferris? I couldn’t believe my eyes. Ferris Dunham? Ferris had been a co-worker of mine at the Postal Service and then moved on to work at the bank. We’d been friends for years but lost touch after his wife died when he moved in with his daughter in Baltimore.
What the hell are you doing in that alms house, he asked, taking a seat across from me. My loving son decided I belonged here, I grinned bitterly. And you? I’ve been here for eight months, Ferris replied.
After my second stroke, my daughter decided she couldn’t take care of me. I was too weak to argue. We talked all through lunch and sat in the common room for a long time afterward.
Ferris told me about his life after the move, how his daughter had sold his house, how he had lost most of his belongings and how he had gradually come to terms with his new reality. But you, he said, looking at me carefully, you’re still strong. You walk on your own, your head is clear, your hands are not shaking.
What about your house? I told him the whole story how Ingram and Beatrix had invaded my life, how they had gradually forced me out of my own house, how they had finally evicted me to make room for Beatrix’s parents. And the house belongs to them now? Ferris asked when I had finished. No, I shook my head.
That’s the irony of it. The house is still registered to me. Ingram should have deeded it to me two years ago, but he kept putting it off because he didn’t want to pay the gift tax, said he’d get around to it, that it was better to wait until I, you know, until you went to the other side of the world, Ferris said bluntly.
He was always a man who called things by their proper names. Exactly, I nodded. And as long as the house is listed as mine, they just use it.
Ferris rubbed his chin thoughtfully. You know, Obadiah, he said after a pause, if the house is legally yours, you can do whatever you want with it, like sell it. Sell it? I’d never thought of that.
The house was a part of me, the place where I spent most of my life, where my memories were kept. Think about it, Ferris leaned closer. Your son and daughter-in-law threw you away like you were nothing.
They live in your house, use your possessions, and they sent you here to die. Why not teach them a lesson? I was beginning to see where he was going with this. Are you suggesting I sell the house out from under their noses? I asked, feeling something like hope stirring in my chest.
Exactly, Ferris smiled broadly. I spent thirty years in a bank, Obadiah. I know how these things work.
If the house is in your name, you have every right to sell it. They don’t even have to know about it until the deal is finalized. I pictured Ingram and Beatrix’s faces when they found out they could no longer live in my house.
It would be the perfect revenge. But where would I go? I asked. Even if I sell the house, I still need somewhere to live, and there might not be enough money for a new place, given the prices right now…
I’ve thought about that too, Ferris squinted slyly. My nephew has a real estate agency in Lewis. He might be able to help you find a buyer who will agree to let you live in a guesthouse or an annex.
Many rich people are looking for property in Henlopen Acres and are willing to agree to different terms just to get a good house. I could feel a plan starting to form in my head. This could work.
I could regain control of my life and at the same time take revenge on those who had betrayed me. Ferris, I said, looking at my old friend with renewed determination, tell me more about this nephew. As promised, Ferris introduced me to his nephew, Horace Dunham, the very next day.
Horace was an energetic man of about 45 with shrewd eyes and a keen gaze that made me think of the sharks I had sometimes seen off the Gulf Coast. He had come to Pine Grove on the pretext of visiting his uncle, and we met in the little garden behind the building where patients did not usually walk for lack of benches and shade. Uncle Ferris has told me your situation, Mr. Lamb, said Horace after we had exchanged greetings, and I think I can help you.
Do you really think anyone would be willing to buy a house with such an encumbrance as I am? I asked bluntly. I’d been thinking about Ferris’ plan all night, and I doubted its feasibility. Horace smiled, showing flawless teeth that were obviously worth a lot of money.
Mr. Lamb, you underestimate the appeal of real estate in Henlopen Acres. Prices there have risen thirty percent in the last two years. A house overlooking the bay, with a lot like that? Believe me, there will be buyers willing to make any kind of offer.
But wouldn’t my son be able to contest the sale? That was my biggest fear. He lives there. If the house is officially registered in your name, and there are no documents restricting your right to dispose of it, such as a life annuity or a gift with the right to reside, then, legally, you have every right to sell it.
Your son can only challenge the sale if he can prove that you are incapacitated or acting under duress. That’s why they put me here, I grinned bitterly, to make it easier to prove my incapacity later. That’s why we need to act quickly and carefully, Horace nodded.
I’ll prepare the paperwork, find buyers, and we’ll do the inspections while your son is at work. No one will know about the sale until the contract is signed and registered. And how would we organize the inspections? I couldn’t imagine secretly showing the house to potential buyers while Ingram and Beatrix were at work.
I’m locked in here. Do you have keys to the house? Horace asked. I nodded.
When they brought me to Pine Grove, I had put a bunch of keys in my jacket pocket, and no one had thought to take them. That’s great. I’ll organize day trips for you.
Officially, it’s part of a socialization program for patients. They take groups to shopping malls, museums, parks. It’s common practice in these facilities.
I’ll make arrangements with the administration to include you in these trips, and I’ll be waiting outside in my car. The plan sounded like a spy operation, and part of me couldn’t believe that I, a 77-year-old retired postal inspector, was seriously considering such a venture. But the other part, the part that still remembered the humiliation of being banished from my own home, yearned for justice.
What if Ingram or Beatrix are home during the inspection? I always make sure the path is clear beforehand, Horace replied confidently. It’s standard practice in my business. Sometimes I have to sell houses where the spouses are divorcing, and one of them doesn’t want to sell.
Believe me, I know how to handle it delicately. We agreed that Horace would start the paperwork immediately. I needed to provide him with a copy of the property certificate, which, fortunately, I always kept in an envelope along with other important documents in my wallet.
The foresight I had developed from years of dealing with postal mail had served me well for the first time in a long time. Three days later, Horace called me on the Pine Grove phone and informed me that the paperwork was ready. The house was for sale, no address, just neighborhood and features, and there were several interested buyers.
You have your first tour tomorrow, Mr. Lamb, he said. I’ve made arrangements with the administration. You’ll be marked for a trip to the botanical gardens.
Horace, I lowered my voice, though there was no one else in the room. Aren’t you afraid that this is, well, not quite legal? I mean, cheating the administration, secret meetings. Mr. Lamb, he sounded absolutely certain.
You’re a fully capable citizen temporarily residing in a care facility. You have the right to privacy and to manage your property. If the administration thinks you’re traveling to look at cacti, but you’re instead touring your property with potential buyers, that’s your right.
No one is keeping you under house arrest. His words gave me confidence. Indeed, I had done nothing illegal.
I was simply disposing of my property as I saw fit. The next day, I put on my best and only suit, which Beatrix had allowed me to bring with me, and joined a group of elderly people waiting for a bus to go to the botanical gardens. When the bus pulled up, I discreetly separated from the group and made my way to a black sedan parked around the corner of the building.
Nice day for a real estate tour, isn’t it? Horace smiled as he opened the car door in front of me. On the way to my house, Horace told me about the first potential buyer, a middle-aged couple from New York looking for a vacation home. They’re willing to pay a good price, but they want to completely remodel the interior.
This means that all of your stuff left in the house will have to be moved out. Most of my things are already in the garage thanks to Beatrix’s efforts, I said bitterly. Ingram promised they’d keep them for me, but I doubt they’ll fulfill that promise.
We could include a clause in the contract about keeping and giving you the personal effects, Horace suggested, or we could arrange for removal before the deal is finalized. When we arrived at the house, Horace drove by first, scrutinizing the lot. Your son’s car is gone, he noted, but there’s another car in the driveway…
Beatrix must be home, I felt disappointed, or her parents had already moved out. Let’s check it out. Horace pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
Hello, this is Clean Stream Plumbing. We’ve received a request for a plumbing inspection in your neighborhood. Is someone going to be home in the next two hours? He listened to the answer and smiled at me.
I see, thank you very much. Then we’ll come tomorrow, he disconnected. No one’s home.
It’s a neighbor’s car. They left it in your driveway while their own was being repaired. The woman who answered the phone said everyone was gone for the day.
Your son at work, your daughter-in-law and her parents at a furniture store in Rehoboth Beach, picking out new bedroom furniture. For my bedrooms, I clarified, feeling anger rising inside. Don’t worry, they’ll be picking out furniture for a whole other house soon, Horace winked and turned the car around.
We have about three hours before they get back, more than enough time to look around. A couple from New York. The Websters were waiting for us nearby, at a coffee shop.
They were exactly as I’d imagined, groomed, self-assured, with that peculiar expression on their faces that comes from people who are used to getting what they want. Mrs. Webster looked at the house with the meticulousness of a man who is willing to spend a lot of money and wants to get the perfect product for it. It’s not a bad layout, but it’s so outdated, she said, running her finger along the kitchen countertop.
We’re going to have to completely remodel the kitchen and the bathrooms too. The view of the bay is great, Mr. Webster said, looking out the living room window, and the lot is big enough. We could build a pool.
I watched in silence as strangers discussed the future of my home, planning to tear down and rebuild the rooms where most of my life had been spent. It was painful, but also liberating. I began to realize that home is just walls and a roof.
Real memories live inside me and no one can take them away or rebuild them. The Websters stayed in the house for about an hour, asking many questions about utilities, the age of the roof, and the condition of the foundation. Horace answered professionally, occasionally turning to me for clarification.
At the end of the inspection, Mrs. Webster turned to me. Mr. Lamb, your agent mentioned that you would like to retain the right to stay in the guest house, but I don’t see a guest house here. It’s not here yet, I admitted, but there’s plenty of room on the property to build one.
She frowned. I’m afraid that complicates things. We were planning to use the house for vacations, not to share the lot with, she faltered, not wanting to say the obvious, an elderly person.
I understand. I nodded. Maybe we’re not right for each other.
On the way back to Pine Grove, I shared my doubts with Horace. Maybe the guest house idea isn’t realistic. Who would want to buy a house with that kind of encumbrance? The Websters aren’t the only potential buyers, Horace said confidently.
Tomorrow, we have an appointment with another client who I think would be a better fit. He’s not just looking for a vacation home, but plans to move to Henlopen Acres permanently. The next day brought another field trip, this time officially to the local history museum.
Horace was again waiting for me around the corner, and we drove to the house, making sure no one was there beforehand. Thornton Barrington was nothing like I’d expected. Instead of the typical rich businessman in an expensive suit, I saw a tall, trim man of about fifty-five, dressed in simple slacks and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
His graying temples and tanned face, with wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, showed a man used to spending a lot of time outdoors. Mr. Lamb, he shook my hand firmly, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Horace told me your story, and I admire your determination.
Unlike the Websters, Barrington looked at the house not as a potential renovation, but as a future home. He asked questions about the neighbors, how the neighborhood had changed over the years, and was interested in the history of the house and our lives with Miriam. I’ve dreamed of a house by the water my whole life, he said as we walked out into the backyard.
For the last thirty years, I’ve run a chain of hotels in the Midwest, started with one motel that I inherited from my father and gradually expanded the business. Last year, I sold the company to a major corporation, and now I can afford to live where I’ve always wanted to live. And, you’re not uncomfortable with the guesthouse clause? I asked bluntly.
Not at all, Barrington smiled. You know, Mr. Lamb, when I was a boy, my grandfather lived with us. He had a small annex to the house, just one room with a bathroom and a tiny kitchen, but the place was magical to me.
My grandfather told me stories about the war, taught me how to fish, showed me how to fix different things. When he was gone, I missed him and those times very much. He looked around the lot, calculating something in his mind.
Here, in the far corner, you could build a nice guesthouse, with a separate entrance but close to the main house. Two bedrooms, living room, kitchen, maybe even a small terrace overlooking the bay. What do you think? It sounds almost perfect, I admitted, trying not to show how touched I was by his words.
I’m not suggesting you be my grandfather, Barrington laughed, noticing my embarrassment, but I do appreciate life experiences and stories, and I also like the idea of having someone in the house who knows its history, who has cared for it for years. It gives a place soul, you know? I did, and for the first time since Ingram and Beatrix showed up on my doorstep with suitcases, I felt hopeful. After the inspection, Barrington made an offer that exceeded the market value of the house by 15 percent, on the condition that he would build me a guesthouse to my specifications and I would have the right to live there for life.
In addition, he insisted on including a clause in the contract to ensure that I have access to all my personal belongings stored in the house and garage until the deal is finalized. I want it to be fair, he said. Your son and daughter-in-law have done you an injustice, but I don’t want our deal to be marred by any legal disputes in the future.
Over the next week, Horace organized several more tours, during which Barrington and I discussed the details of the deal and met with a lawyer who helped draft and review all the documents. Barrington even brought in an architect to discuss the plans for the guesthouse. Construction will take about three months, the architect said, showing me the preliminary sketches, but you’ll love the result.
The house will be completely self-contained with its own heating and air conditioning system, a modern kitchen and a bathroom adapted for your age. I looked at the blueprints and I thought I could see my future, not a dull room in Pine Grove, but a cozy house overlooking the bay where I could spend my remaining years with dignity and comfort. Finally, two weeks after our first meeting, all the paperwork was ready.
We met at the lawyer’s office in Louie’s and I signed the purchase agreement. Barrington handed me a check for the down payment and the rest of the money was to be deposited into my account after the transaction was recorded. Congratulations, Mr. Lamb, said the lawyer, shaking my hand.
The deal will be registered within three working days. After that, the house will officially become Mr. Barrington’s property. What about my son and his family? I asked.
Would they have to move out? According to the law, the new owner can demand to vacate the premises within 30 days after the registration of the transaction, the lawyer replied, but that’s at Mr. Barrington’s discretion. I think 30 days is a fair time limit, Barrington nodded. That’s enough time to find a new place to live.
When we left the office, I felt a strange relief mixed with anxiety. The plan had worked. I’d sold the house, secured my future and taught Ingram and Beatrix a lesson.
But how would they react when they found out? What will I tell them when I meet them? Don’t worry, Mr. Lamb, said Barrington, as if he had read my thoughts. I’ll be there when you tell them the news. Together we can handle any reaction.
Thank you, Mr. Barrington, I thanked him sincerely, for everything. Please call me Thornton, he smiled. After all, we’ll be neighbors now…
On the drive back to Pine Grove, I looked out the window at the passing scenery and thought about how dramatically my life had changed in those two weeks. I had gone from a rejected, humiliated old man to a man in control of his own destiny. I sold the house that had become my prison and secured a new future for myself, all thanks to a chance meeting with Ferris and his nephew.
As Horace dropped me off at the Pine Grove, I noticed Ingram’s car in the parking lot. My heart skipped a beat. Had he really found out about the sale? But that was impossible, the paperwork hadn’t been filed yet.
Horace, I pointed to the car, that’s my son. Don’t worry, he reassured me. Most likely, it’s a normal visit.
Maybe he finally decided to visit you, like he promised. I nodded, though I didn’t believe it. Ingram hadn’t visited me once since he’d placed me in Pine Grove.
Even Alwyn, who had promised to visit, hadn’t shown up. What should I tell him? I asked, feeling uncertain. Nothing yet, Horace advised.
The deal has not yet been registered. It would be better to wait for official confirmation before making a statement. Mr. Barrington and I will come to pick you up in three days when it’s done.
I walked into the building, preparing for my meeting with my son and not knowing what it would bring. But there was a certainty inside me. No matter what happened, I was no longer a helpless victim.
I was back in control of my life. Ingram did come to visit me, though visit is too loud a word for what actually happened. He spent less than half an hour at Pine Grove, mostly complaining about work and asking me how I was feeling like I was dying.
Not a word about when I would be taken home. Not a hint that my exile might ever end. Before he left, he mentioned, as if, by the way, by the way, Dad, we’re having a little celebration this Saturday.
It’s the birthday of Beatrix’s father, Garth. He’s turning seventy-five. And you’re having the party at my house? I couldn’t contain the bitterness in my voice.
Ingram frowned, as if my words had caught him off guard. Well, technically it’s still your house, yes, but you don’t mind, do you? After all, we live there, and Beatrix’s parents are there now, too. Already moved in? I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from him.
Yes, last week. He looked a little guilty, but quickly pulled himself together. They sold their house in Rehoboth Beach and are now living with us.
We remodeled the rooms upstairs a bit. I hope you don’t mind. I thought about the papers I had signed three days ago, the check that was in Horace’s safe, the plans for the guest house that the architect had shown me.
All these were my secrets, my little revenge for betrayal. And the moment to reveal it was at hand. I don’t mind, I lied with a smile.
It’s a big house with plenty of room for everyone. Ingram relaxed visibly, clearly relieved by my sudden compliance. That’s good.
I knew you’d understand. It’s only temporary until we… He stammered, not wanting to be finalized. He stammered, not wanting to finish the sentence.
Until you can find me a better place than Pine Grove, I suggested, keeping my tone friendly. Exactly, he nodded, not recognizing the irony. Beatrix and I are looking at better options.
Pine Grove is certainly not the place where you should be spending your… He paused again. The rest of my days? I prompted. I meant to say the near future.
Ingram smiled awkwardly. When he left, I sat at the window for a long time, looking out at the parking lot and thinking about the upcoming Saturday. Horace had promised that the paperwork would be filed by Friday, and Thornton and I had planned a visit on Saturday morning.
But now that I’d heard about the party, I thought it might be even better to announce the news in front of all the guests. Let Ingram and Beatrix experience the same public humiliation I had experienced when I was evicted from my own home. I called Horace from Ferris’ phone and told him about the conversation with my son.
It could be good for us, Horace agreed after a moment’s thought. If all the guests are already in the house, it will be harder for Ingram and Beatrix to make a scandal. They’ll want a safe face.
How do we explain my appearance? I asked. They didn’t invite me to the party. Mr. Barrington can call ahead and say he wants to see the house as a potential buyer.
They don’t know it’s already sold. Let’s say it’s urgent, that he flew in from out of town and can only make time on Saturday. It was a risky plan, but I liked it.
For the first time in a long time, I felt a rush of adrenaline and excitement, feelings that I thought had forever left me as I got older. Friday came and went, and with it, the last formalities of the paperwork. Horace called me that evening and confirmed that the deal was officially registered.
The house was no longer mine. It belonged to Thornton Barrington. I called your son, Horace said.
I introduced myself as Mr. Barrington’s agent and said that my client was very interested in buying their house and would like to see it tomorrow around two o’clock in the afternoon. And what did Ingram say? I nervously imagined the conversation. At first, he was very surprised and said the house was not for sale.
I apologized for the misunderstanding and explained that there must have been an error in our agency’s database. But then I added that Mr. Barrington was willing to offer a sum well above the market value, and your son was interested. You bet, I grinned.
Ingram never missed an opportunity to make money. He said they were having a family reunion tomorrow, but they could spare half an hour before the event. I confirmed the appointment for 14-00.
Mr. Barrington and I will pick you up from the Pine Grove at 13-30. I barely slept that night, replaying the scene in my head. How would Ingram react when he found out the house was sold? What would Beatrix say? And her parents? I was both scared and happy at the same time.
In the morning, I shaved thoroughly, put on my only suit and shined my old shoes. I wanted to look dignified at the moment of my triumph. At precisely 13-30, Horace and Thornton Barrington were waiting for me at the entrance to Pine Grove.
Thornton was dressed in an immaculate navy blue suit, but he wore it with a careless elegance that made him look like a man accustomed to expensive things. Ready for the big day, Obadiah? he asked, shaking my hand. Ready as ever, I replied, feeling my heart pounding.
On the way back to the house, we discussed our plan once more. Thornton would play the role of interested buyer until we were inside the house. Then I would announce the truth.
Don’t make any sudden moves, Horace warned. Your son may try to challenge the deal, claiming that you were incapacitated or pressured. Don’t give him a reason.
I’ll be reasonable, I promised, though a storm of emotion raged inside me. When we pulled up to the house, I saw that preparations for the party were already in full swing. Several cars were parked in the driveway, and people in catering company uniforms were bustling around the entrance, unloading boxes of food and drinks.
Looks like it’s going to be a big party, Thornton said, parking his Mercedes next to the other cars. We got out of the car and headed toward the house. I could feel my knees shaking, but I tried to walk straight and steady.
Horace walked beside me, ready to support me if necessary. Ingram opened the door, wearing a half-unbuttoned shirt and holding a towel, clearly in the midst of preparations. Mr. Dunham? He held out his hand to Horace.
Thank you for telling me you were coming. We’re having a celebration tonight, so there’s not much time. He paused, noticing me standing just behind Horace and Thornton.
His eyes widened, and the hand he held out for a handshake froze in midair. Papa? He looked as if he’d seen a ghost. What are you doing here? Hello, Ingram, I tried to make my voice sound calm and confident.
I’ve come to visit my home, or rather, my former home. What are you talking about? Ingram looked from me to Horace and Thornton, clearly trying to figure out what was going on. Allow me to introduce myself…
Thornton stepped in, extending his hand. Thornton Barrington, the new owner of this house. The new what? Ingram shook the outstretched hand, but his face was full of bewilderment.
Ingram, who is it? Beatrix appeared from the back of the house, dressed in an elegant dress with her hair and makeup done. She froze when she saw me. Obadiah, what’s going on? Why don’t we go inside and discuss it, Horace suggested.
I’m sure neither of us wants to attract unnecessary attention. Ingram stepped back silently, letting us into the house. Inside, everything was ready for the party.
A long table in the living room, covered with a tablecloth and filled with plates and glasses, flowers and candles everywhere, and classical music playing softly from the speakers. Explain what’s going on, Ingram demanded when we were all in the living room. It’s very simple, I answered.
I sold the house to Mr. Barrington. The deed was registered yesterday. You must vacate the premises within thirty days.
There was a deafening silence. Beatrix looked at me as if I had just announced that I had come from Mars. Ingram slowly turned pale, and then his face began to blush.
Is this some kind of joke? His voice shook with restrained anger. You couldn’t sell the house. You’re in a nursing home.
You, a fully capable citizen with the right to dispose of his property, Horace finished for him. The house was in Obadiah Lamb’s name, and there were no legal restrictions on its sale. That’s impossible, Beatrix shook her head.
We live here. My parents sold their house to move here. What’s going on here? An elderly couple, obviously Garth and Prudence Pollock, entered the living room.
Garth was a tall, gaunt man with a military bearing, and Prudence was a small but bossy-looking woman with carefully styled gray hair. Who were these people? Mom. Dad.
Beatrix turned to them, her voice trailing off. This is Obadiah, Ingram’s father. He says he sold the house.
Sold it? Prudence looked at me in disbelief. How could he sell the house while he was in a nursing home? Through a realtor, like they usually sell houses, I replied, not holding back on the sarcasm. Look, Ingram tried to pull himself together.
There must have been a misunderstanding. My father, he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. He’s old.
He has moments of confusion. Moments of confusion. Stop it, Ingram.
My voice was firmer than I expected. You know perfectly well that I am of sound mind. You and Beatrix evicted me from my home to put her parents here.
You sent me to Pine Grove, a place that looks more like a warehouse for unwanted old people than a decent place to live. You didn’t even visit me, except once when you needed to report on a party, which I wasn’t invited to, by the way. We were going to get you out of there, Ingram objected.
I just needed some time to get settled to help Beatrix’s parents. Don’t lie to me, I shook my head. You never planned to take me away.
I became an inconvenience and you got rid of me. That’s outrageous, Prudence intervened. Ingram, you said your father agreed to move into a nursing home because he needed care.
He agreed, Ingram glared at me angrily. And now he’s getting revenge. I’m not taking revenge, I countered.
I just regained control of my life. Mr. Barrington offered me a good price for the house and agreed to build me a guest house on the property where I could live. I’ll no longer rot in Pine Grove and I’ll no longer be at your mercy.
A guest house? Beatrix interjected, then turned to Thornton. Are you seriously going to build a cabin for him and let him live on your property? Absolutely, Thornton nodded. That was one of the terms of the deal, and I fully support it.
Obadiah deserves a decent life in a place he loves. This is insane, Ingram shook his head. The deal cannot be legal.
My father was in a care facility. He could not make such decisions on his own. Here’s a copy of the purchase agreement.
Horace pulled a folder of documents out of his briefcase. And here’s an extract from the registry confirming the registration of the transaction. It’s all perfectly legal.
Obadiah was declared fully capable by an independent doctor before signing the papers. Ingram grabbed the papers and began frantically going through them as if he hoped to find some mistake or loophole. It’s impossible, he mumbled.
How could you? At that moment, the doorbell rang. Beatrix shuddered and looked at her watch. My God, it’s the guests.
They are beginning to arrive, and we have here. This. Maybe we should cancel the party, suggested Garth, who had been silent until now, watching the drama unfold.
Cancel it. Prudence looked as if he had suggested something obscene. Impossible.
Everyone is on their way. The food is ordered. The musicians are paid for.
Then you’ll have to host and pretend everything’s all right, I said. Mr. Barrington and I won’t spoil your party. We just wanted to tell you the news in person and discuss the timeline for vacating the house.
Vacating the house? Beatrix raised her voice. You want to evict us? Your son? Your grandchildren? Where would we go? The same place you sent me, I answered calmly. You’ll find a place to live that suits your abilities.
You have 30 days, much more time than you gave me to pack. The doorbell rang again, more insistently. Beatrix gave me a searing look and went to open the door.
We’re going to contest this deal, Ingram hissed when she came out. You couldn’t have made those decisions on your own. You were placed in a care facility because of your condition…
What condition, Ingram? I looked him straight in the eye. You know yourself that I was perfectly healthy when you sent me to Pine Grove. My only condition is that I was a hindrance to your plans.
The first guests entered the living room, an elderly couple I didn’t know. They stopped in the doorway, clearly sensing the tension in the room. Is this a bad time? The man asked uncertainly.
No, no, come in. Beatrix returned to the living room with a strained smile. We were just discussing family matters.
Meet Ingram’s father, Obadiah, and his friends. Business associates, Thornton corrected, nodding politely. The next half hour passed in a strange, tense atmosphere.
The guests kept arriving. Beatrix and Ingram tried to pretend that everything was all right, but their fake smiles and nervous glances betrayed the true state of affairs. Prudence was whispering arguments with Garth in the corner of the room, occasionally throwing angry glances at me.
