You Can Never Go Back, But Neither Can You Stay—Part 1
Emory made some coffee. It was a French roast, a brand that someone had introduced her to when she was seventeen, and she hadn’t had it since. The taste of it, along with something about the light along the horizon out the window, called to her mind the year or so when she had stayed at Melanee’s place.
Melanee was a friend of Emory’s friend, Sefi, and knew that they used to date, but she never brought it up to Melanee, and Melanee never talked about it to Emory. She was going to be out of the City and in Japan for a few months—months which turned into a year because of the Outbreak and other work-related things—and needed a caretaker for her little Frisian-esque cottage in Dumpe. There also lived there a parrot named Cornelius who needed company, as well as feeding and newspaper changing and things. There was a blue binder that contained all the instructions. Melanee asked that Emory not smoke in the house, but she was free to smoke outside. She could also have parties if she wanted, so long as nothing was broken and the neighbors weren’t disturbed. Many of them were in their seventies, Melanee had said, easily upset and had nothing but time on their hands and wouldn’t be able to ‘tell one white chick from another,’ meaning that any ire Emory might incur would inevitably be transferred to Melanee upon her return. This warmed Emory’s heart, since she thought Melanee was quite pretty. To be compared to her reassured her somewhat fragile feminine ego, and made her less self-conscious about her very faint beard shadow. Emory reassured Melanee that she would take good care of both the house and Cornelius and that she wasn’t the partying type (anymore), so she would likely be very quiet.
Outside, Melanee had shown Emory the tool shed, which included the lawnmower and weed whacker, as well as the hedge trimmers and gardening tools. She emphasized that she wasn’t particular about the yard, and that should Emory want to let it all go to seed and scrub that was perfectly fine by her; she’d deal with it when she got back. Emory had said that she could definitely cut the grass, edge the walks, and probably trim the hedges. Melanee said that was more than good enough and not to sweat it too much.
There in the backyard was a low concrete form, somewhat raised and round, like a dais, Emory thought. When she’d inquired about it, Melanee told her that it was a bomb shelter from back in the old days.
When Emory had asked what was inside, Melanee had said she really had no idea, that the previous owner had had some huge disclaimer about it in the sale, but that she really didn’t give a shit and had never even so much as looked inside. Emory found that quite odd, and immediately fell in love with the idea of discovering what was within.
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