Grayling Junction - Chapter Eleven

Sweet as the kisses of Esmeralda

As Lalo sits by a wall clock that clicks like a cockroach...as Freyja looks to the sea troubled by the arrival of her twenty-ninth birthday...as three fine friends toast the crisp new fold of day with a three-way bottle of liquid sunshine...as the flamboyant Ms Crosby lollops home-baked-cake in hand toward the Morrow house...as a kite glides effortless on currents of hot air through the wrinkled, carrot-coloured sky above Grayling Junction...as the remainder of the dawn eyed residents squint their way into the day, shrugging off the close, cosy blanket of safe sleep and the patter of retreating dreams...it is a fitting moment to pause a while...to lift the lid and peep briefly into the workings of the house of Morrow...

A high wooden fence of tightly nailed wooden panels protects the property. Behind the house is an overwhelming serving of spaghetti verde consisting of knotted vines, flowers, shrubs and adolescent trees entwined one with the other to form a thorny blanket that pulls up tight to the very back of the property.
The house itself is a late 19th century wooden construction; one storey sprawled atop another and finished with a sloping corrugated tin roof. Extending from the front of the house is an enclosed veranda with low wooden fencing and wooden roof supports. Small steps lead onto the veranda from a narrow strip of passing pavement and daily dust gathers on the boards outside of the front door. Neighbourhood cats use the veranda to shelter from the sun and rain, telltale paw prints criss-crossing the dust. Wooden window shutters are open and the entrance is without flourish or decoration.
Despite old wooden walls, a roof mottled with scabrous outbreaks of coruscation and a faded countenance anyone pausing outside the building would stop to admire it, for age has given it the veneer of a well worn treasure rather than the forlorn appearance of a palace that has exchanged splendour for desolation.

Any want can be accommodated at the Morrow house, no matter how greedy, how bizarre, how simple and how controversial. Lalo learned from his father and grandfather that the curator of the house is not there to judge.
The rules governing payment were set down by Grandfather Morrow and remain unchanged. Payment is in advance and there are no credit terms. Behind the counter in a modest wooden frame is a faded piece of thin writing paper upon which, written in the hand of Grandfather Morrow, are the terms of the house:

‘Payment is to be made as an act of exchange – something of value for something wanted. It is not to be any more complicated than that. It must be something of value, for example, a horse, a child, a precious gemstone, piece of jewellery, lock of hair and so on; the value of property tendered will be judged by the keeper of the house whose decision is final. Ownership of all property exchanged transfers immediately and permanently to the House.
Payment may also be made by the surrender of years taken from one's life.
It is the responsibility of the keeper of the house to calculate the cost in years. Customers should be aware that surrendered years may not be years already passed and there is no guarantee when they be taken and may likely be taken from the prime years remaining.
The ownership of all years surrendered transfers immediately and permanently to the House and will be held in clearing until re-distributed to worthy causes.
All wants will be accommodated.
All decisions of the keeper of the House are absolute’

For Lalo the spirit of the rules is interpreted broadly and without emotion. His grandfather had lit the torch, his father had carried it with a great dignity and Lalo was not about to drop it. The only refinement he has introduced, more for administrative detailing than anything else, was to unofficially group certain types of customer according to the nature of their wants. It also helped him explain the mysteries of the House to Freyja.

The first time Freyja had walked into Lalo’s reception room had been a Thursday and her face had been set to stern frown. An air of indifference had been wrapped around her in an attempt to hide her vulnerability. Despite her efforts it remained in her eyes. Back then her short, dyed black hair underlined the severity of her mood.
She had wanted a job and her request took the form of a demand rather than a polite enquiry and he had agreed instantly. There was no vacancy, but for years Lalo had done everything himself and his customers frequently grumbled about the time it took him to do anything. It could be very nice indeed to have an assistant.

She had returned the following with a friendly smile eager to find out more about what she would be doing. With only she and Lalo in the room silence had loomed like thunder. Freyja had fidgeted nervously as Lalo introduced her to the coffee machine, the stereo, the sink and the tiny toilet room just inside the door marked Privado. He had encouraged her to read the terms on the wall and once she had read them through a few times he had continued. He had noticed that she bit her bottom lip when concentrating.
"Okay, I’d better tell you how the customers pay,” Lalo had begun, “there's three groups that can only pay in years, most customers fall into the first group…the ‘greeds’." he had said leaning as close to her as he had dared. “These are the customers that want more, more money, more things…more of everything.”
Freyja had cocked her head to one side as she listened and he had caught a hint of soap. The sudden intimacy had caused him to step back. “Then there’s the ‘vanities’,” Lalo had continued, “The ones that want to look better, cosmetic surgery, age enhancers, that kind of stuff. Funny really, all those years spent on looking better…then they die.”
As Freyja had listened she had relaxed, surprised at how comfortable she felt in Lalo’s company.
“Ok, the last group that pay with years is the ‘dirts’. These are the customers that want –” Lalo had paused.
“I get it,” Freyja had offered. “The people who want sex stuff?”
Lalo had reddened as his neck prickled hot and he had been unable to look her in the. “Yeah the sex stuff…it can be tricky, we’re not here to judge.”
Freyja had raised an eyebrow, asking “Anything?”
“Anything. Luckily I’ve never had anyone ask for anything involving children or corpses, though it’s possible. It’s usually been consenting stuff.”
“You mean like threesomes, group fun?” Freyja had asked with exaggerated innocence. Lalo had hesitated, then realising she was teasing he had laughed. “Yeah, exactly that.”
“Can I smoke in here?” Freyja had interrupted as she pulled a tin from her coat pocket.
Lalo had smiled. “My grandfather would have insisted upon it!”
He had watched her expertly roll a cigarette and when she put the cigarette to her lips he had turned away and busied himself with a jumble of paper cluttering his desk.
As he continued she had tapped her cigarette ash into a mug.
“Okay, the other customers can pay with years or exchange. The ‘romantics’, well, they’re just that.” Lalo had thought he had seen Freyja flinch. “The ‘nostalgics’, are people who want their life again, want to relive happier times, or go back and fix something. You‘ll meet Ron at some point, he‘s a nostalgic”
Freyja had looked out across the room as though her attention had slipped away as she nodded distractedly. With an undertow of awkwardness swelling around his feet like bilge water Lalo had been unsure when to continue. In the end it had been Freyja who had bridged the silence asking, “Are you going to carry on?”
Lalo had stumbled back into the conversation as one might stumble from sleep at the sound of a sudden noise in the night:
“Umm…yeah…of course. Okay, the nostalgics…oh hang on done them...err…the ‘changers’, people who just want help improving something.” Freyja had cut in, “You mean like a better job, or a leak in their roof fixing?” She nodded toward her tobacco tin. “Want one?”
“No, no thanks…yeah those kinds of people.”
Freyja has snapped the lid back on her tin. “Is that it?”
Stray strands of tobacco lay on the counter like sun-baked worms.
Lalo nodded. “Pretty much, everyone else is just the ‘others’.”
Exhaling a long plume of smoke Freyja had asked with a grin: “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve been asked for?”
Smoke drifted between them, as Lalo had thought for a moment.
“There was a man last year who wanted a flock of seagulls to follow him everywhere...” Freyja had laughed. “No way, you serious?”
“Oh yeah…and don’t get me started on the woman who wanted the sun to rise at her bidding…different times each day, or not at all if she fancied it!”
Lalo noticed tiny dimples show at the corners of her mouth, teeth flashing white as she laughed. Lalo had felt a confidence building and rummaged quickly through his mind: “Get used to it…then there was the couple that wanted a hot-tub filled with cold custard for them and their friends to make love in.”
They had both laughed easily without inhibition.
“What would you want?” Lalo had asked. She had answered almost immediately.
“That’s easy, a lifetime supply of Cabana bars and garlic bites!”
“What?”
“Cabanas were these amazing chocolate bars, I don’t know who made them but I haven’t seen any for years.” As she spoke she had gestured excitedly with her hands. “Coconut and cherries covered in chocolate…they were out of this world!”
A few months later after a successful summer during which Freyja had settled perfectly into the House, she had arrived home one evening to find a large box on her doorstep. Inside were boxes and boxes of Cabana bars.

Lalo is not sure when exactly, but early on in their time working together he had asked her seriously if there was anything she wanted.
In the absence of her answer rain had hammered against the windows as a fierce sea wind rattled the frames. Her answer had come a long time later.
“A history.” Freyja had said unhappily.
Lalo had remained silent and slowly she had told him how she knew nothing of her life before her leaving an institution in Randall City a few days earlier. She had no idea why, nor how long she had been there. If she had a family she knew nothing of them. Her words had been delivered in the same flat tone a newsreader might use to announce economic statistics.

Despite the years in between Lalo has not forgotten that conversation. “What would a history mean to you?” Lalo had asked.
The crackle of the rain mingling with the ticking of a wall clock had filled the space between their words. “Not much,” Freyja had shrugged, “Only every good word in the dictionary.”