Boom Times

{This is in response to a photo prompt from Tuesday Scribes,

led by Mike Jackson.  The assignment was to create a Haibun, a short narrative,

with a haiku at the end, summing up the narrative.  Tried my best,

but minimalism is really not my thing.  If you want to read more of the story, continue on after the haiku!:)}

 

 

“It wasn’t always shut, chained and padlocked,” said the realtor, letting us through the gate.  “This Tudor was built to cradle generations.  Years ago, in boom times, Cal Hodges made his fortune.  But now, the industry’s gone bust.”

What industry, I wondered.

Oscar, our toddler, fussed.  He wriggled out of my arms and propelled his chubby limbs down the dusty lane.

“You know those robber barons!” the realtor giggled.  Odd, coming from a woman closer to fifty than fifteen.

“You’d better get him,” my husband, Alex, intoned.  I rushed down the lane after Oscar, who had paused at a gurgling fountain.  He reached up to splash his hands.  Its lowest tier was at his eye level.

“Too bad about the children,” the realtor chatted on, walking briskly toward the mansion.

“Too bad,” said Alex.  He stuck his hand in his suit jacket pocket.  As if he were getting ready to pull out a pipe, like some lord!  He was so ready to join the upper class, he could probably taste it.

Alex, like Hodges, had made quick money in boom times, and married a younger and prettier wife.  To secure his legacy.  To bear his young.

Bygone era gate.

A new chain locks back secrets.

Incriminating.

 

{I found myself unable to stop, this time, at a reasonable word count.  If you’d like to read the rest of the story, continue below.}

 

“Cal Hodges was a newspaper magnate, you know,” she continued.  “He ran twenty papers from this spot!  He had a ticker tape machine, a telegraph, the first telephones in the county…only the newest and the best!”

“What happened to the children?”  I asked, dusting off my wispy dress. The leaves had clung, while I knelt next to little Oscar.

The realtor fiddled with the door’s combination pad.

All around, the grounds were overgrown.  Ivy criss-crossed the doorway.  The heavy, dark, mahogany door had iron cross-pieces, like belts, to hold the individual planks together.

“Cal Hodges kept an antique printing press in the basement,” the realtor continued, at last.  “The kind with individual letters.  A whole alphabet, plus punctuation.   Lead, set in brass molds.  The children took to playing there, in secret, day after day.  They say, the younger ones would suck on the little square letter molds, just like candy.  The damage was irreversible.”

“Where was their mother?” demanded Alex, his gray mustache bristling with disapproval.

The realtor shook her head.  “Where were mothers,in those days?” she shrugged, finally heaving the door open.  “Mrs. Hodges was a socialite, they say, and liked a drink or two.  The nanny is who I blame.”

“And, where was she?”  Alex’s outrage was patent.

“Well, probably in Cal Hodge’s bed, if rumors can be trusted.”  The realtor giggled again, her chin jiggling, as she waved us in.

Oscar clambered the stone steps to the door, and slipped by us.  Approaching a blistered wall with curiosity, he reached for some peeling paint.

“No!  No…darling!”  I swooped between him and his potential snack.

Alex’s head tipped, slightly, in my direction.  I beamed.  Approval.

“Interesting,” he said, to no one in particular.  He continued to nod, as he swiveled, trying to fully appreciate  the elegant, tasteful, opulent bones of this aging beauty.

“We’ll take her!” he proclaimed, dusting off his hands.  “The asking price.  Whatever.”

He headed back toward the door.

“Oh…but…do you need to go, already?”  The realtor’s voice had become almost shrill, even as her internal calculator tallied up her good luck.  “We’ve only just begun our tour…”

Alex looked at his Rolex. “In half an hour, I have an appointment with the Governor.  Important business.”

As if on cue, I gathered up Oscar, and followed Alex back to the car.

“And what sort of business is that?” the realtor inquired, trailing behind.

“Oh, excuse me.  Haven’t I said?”  Alex chuckled lightly, and drew a business card from his calf-skin wallet.

“Minister of the Word,” he said, with a mock bow.

The realtor looked at the card blankly.

“I’m sorry.  So, what do you do, exactly?”

Alex climbed into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes and pushed a button, to roll down my window, on the passenger’s side, closest to the realtor. He waited.

She leaned over, almost into the car, to make sure she heard him properly.

“You know those printing presses, the ones Cal Hodges had? Not in his basement, but, you know, all over the state?”

“Yes?” she cooed.

“Well. My ministry, the Ministry of the Word…well.”  Alex smiled with satisfaction.  “Our job is to shut them down.”

The realtor stepped back from the car, fanning herself with the card.

Alex shut the driver’s door of his new Mercedes, revved the engine, and we left the realtor in a cloud of dust.

For Alex, these were boom times, indeed.