All I had to do was let go of this foolish sentimental journey. Let go of a ghost. But I couldn’t. The key in my pocket felt like a load stone pulling me eastward. It was more than just a key. It was a question. And I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t find the answer. Even if the answer was that my grandfather didn’t care.
Even if the answer was nothing, I had to know. The bus finally pulled into the town of Juniper Creek late in the afternoon. It wasn’t so much a town as a suggestion of one. A single main street with a gas station, a diner, a general store, and a post office. A handful of houses were scattered around it, their paint peeling under the relentless sun.
The air was dry and smelled of dust and sagebrush. The bus hissed to a stop and the driver called out the name. I was the only one who got off. I stood on the cracked sidewalk, my box in my hand as the bus pulled away, leaving me in a cloud of diesel fumes and silence. The silence was the first thing I noticed.
It was absolute, a ringing in my ears after the constant hum of the city and the drone of the bus. I felt exposed, a solitary figure on an empty stage. A man in a greasy apron was sweeping the wooden porch of the diner. He stopped and watched me, his eyes narrowed. I probably looked like what I was, astray, out of place, and lost.
I took a deep breath and walked toward him. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice sounding small in the vast quiet. “I’m looking for a property. Vance property.” The man leaned on his broom, squinting at me. He was old, with a face like a dried apple. Vance? Haven’t heard that name in years. You must mean old Arthur’s place. My heart leaped. Yes, Arthur Vance.
He was my grandfather. The man’s expression softened slightly. Arthur’s boy, eh? Well, I’ll be. Last I saw him, he was fighting the county tooth and nail to keep you. He shook his head, a sad, distant look in his eyes. Shame what they did. He was a good man, Arthur. Stubborn as a mule, but a good man.
He pointed his broom down a dirt road that branched off from the main street. It’s about 5 mi that way. You can’t miss it. Last place on the road before it peters out into nothing. Got a collapsed barn and a cabin that ain’t fit for a raccoon. You ain’t thinking of staying out there, are you? Just want to see it, I said, not wanting to admit I had nowhere else to go, he grunted.
Well, you’ll need a ride. Jedadia over at the store does deliveries. Might take you for a few bucks. He nodded toward the general store, then went back to his sweeping, the conversation clearly over. Jedodiah was a younger man with a kind face and a slow, deliberate way of speaking.
He listened to my request, his eyes taking in my worn out jeans in the pathetic cardboard box I was carrying. “Arthur’s place,” he said, a note of pity in his voice. “Sure, I can take you, but son, there’s nothing out there.” “I know,” I said. “I just need to see it.” The ride out was bumpy, the truck rattling along the ruted dirt road.
Dust billowed up behind us, coating everything in a fine red powder. The landscape grew wilder, the sage brush thicker, the hills studded with juniper trees and strange rock formations. It was harsh and beautiful and felt like another planet. He was a character, your granddad, Jedodiah said, breaking the silence.
