Free Invisible Fences by Norman Prentiss Page B

“Hey,” I said. 
    “Your father has, had, a lot of friends.” Aunt Lora balanced a long cigarette from a hand twisted by arthritis. She rolled ashes neatly into the ash stand next to the four-paneled exit door, and tried not to flinch when Pam tapped her own ashes over the sidewalk.  
    I stood between them, hands in the pockets of my black wool trousers. “The last time I saw him, I yelled at him about Mom.”  
    “When you’re old, you’re used to getting yelled at,” Lora said. “People think we can’t hear.” 
    I smiled. “For a while, he thought he was talking to you, Pam. Looked right at me.” 
    “Wifty,” Pam said. 
    “There you go. In one of your father’s ears, out the other.” 
    “I guess. He told me one of his stories afterwards. Remember Pam? Like in the old days.” 
    “Did you believe him?” It was a taunt, but Pam seemed good natured about it. She probably didn’t feel like fighting anymore, either.  
    “God, he did that to me too when we were kids.” Aunt Lora crossed her arms in front, cigarette balanced carefully, and mimed a shiver. “Used to scare the wits out of me.” 
    “I miss the old days,” I said, and my throat started to feel a little sore. “It’s so funny to think about that house in Maryland. Our dumb dog, Atlas, with his rope wrapped around the tree. The Lieberman’s swing set. And I miss my best friend, Aaron.” Then I started crying. I couldn’t yet manage tears over losing my Dad, but I cried anew about Aaron. I wondered where he was now. What would my life be like if we’d remained friends, if our family had stayed in the Maryland house? 
    Aunt Lora reached out to hug me. “That was a long time ago, Nathan.”  
    Pam studied me for a moment, then nodded her sympathy. She tamped out her cigarette in the ash stand and went back inside. 
     
     
     

 
     
    Part Three: 
    Excavations
     
     
     I began with the hallway bathroom, one of the few places my father had kept functional. I’d need to use the bathroom myself while I was working there, so it only made sense to clear that space first. Besides, there wasn’t much thought involved in sorting through bathroom items. Most of it I could toss immediately into one of the thick green trash bags I’d bought in bulk from Sam’s Club in Gadsden. A dozen or so toothbrushes, large packs of disposable razors, four different electric shavers (including one that looked like it ran from a wind-up key). Nail clippers and trimmer scissors (one shiny of each type, the others tarnished or rusty). Lots of prescription bottles, some of them with Mom’s name on the labels.  
    The kitchen next, with a priority on perishable items. Each sweep through the chill refrigerator air mixed a new wave of odors: curdled milk, the sweet vinegar of spoiled ketchup, a yeasty tang of dried bread in an unsealed package. Why hadn’t I noticed things had gotten this bad? The answer, of course, was that fresher items toward the front gave a veneer of clean; expirations dates got older the further back I reached, where spoiled items were packed so densely they practically created an air tight seal until I disturbed them.  
    Some of the items in the vegetable bins had liquefied. I held my breath as I pulled the clear bags from the bin and tossed their sloshing contents in the garbage. The last bag stuck to the bottom of the vegetable bin and burst when I tugged on it: orange and brown and green sludge poured out in chunks (baby carrots?), and a horrible stench rose up, a chilled bile I could taste when I swallowed.  
    I stepped back, ready to douse the whole bin with Clorox and Sunlight detergent. Then I stopped myself. Whoever bought the house would surely install a new refrigerator—new cabinets, new tile and wallpaper, and a new stove while they were at it—so why waste time? I held my nose, pulled out the whole bin, and dumped it into the Hefty bag. I twisted the bag closed, sealed it with the locking-tie, then walked