Lottawatah Fireworks!

That was at least the tenth time he’d said that
and I didn’t believe him anymore than I had the first nine times. 

I wish I could have had more faith in his
reassurances, but I was too pissed at Cooper to do much more than grunt at his
enthusiastic tour guide spiel. Yesterday, while I was off in the wilds with his
mother and great aunt, Cooper had bought an adjoining plot of land where he
proposed to build our dream home. He had bought this land, forty godforsaken
acres, sight unseen by me. Bought this land despite the fact that, as my old
next door neighbor Molly Goldstein, who I think was 120, used to say, it was in
Yenavelte. Mrs. Goldstein spoke Yiddish, made the best Matzoh Ball soup in the
world, or at least in all of Chicago, and most of all, understood that nobody
wanted to live in Yenavelte, the middle of nowhere, most of all not me, her
little Brianna, who was such a Shaineh Maidel, pretty girl. 

I loved Mrs. Goldstein. Cooper Jackson, not so
much. 

He kept repeating how much I was going to love the
location (I repeat Yenavelte); enjoy the large pond full of catfish (yeah
right); delight in the acres where we could run some cattle. I actually laughed
out loud at the last one. Only thing I knew about cows is they made cow patties
and I had stepped in one on a visit to a friend of Cooper’s. The smell alone
was enough to make me a vegetarian. I’d had to throw out the shoes. 

He was still talking. “Those blackberry
bushes that my Great Aunt likes so much….” He took one hand off the
wheel and turned me sideways. “They’re just about 5 miles that way as the
crow flies.” 

“Wonderful.” It was clear he didn’t have
a clue about what I wanted. I thought we’d end up in a nice little bungalow in
Lottawatah proper, if there is such a thing as a proper Lottawatah. Or a lake
lot if we could afford it. Jack Fulsom had offered us a deal on one of the lots
in his development by Lake Eufaula. And instead, Rest in Peace Mrs. Goldstein,
I was in Yenavelte. So what if he’d spent summers with his
genetically-challenged second cousins just down the road.  

After traveling the same dirt road that I’d been
on yesterday, Cooper made a sharp right just before we got to the place Sassy
had parked the Cadillac for the berry picking expedition. He stopped and got
out of the truck, unhooking the gate of a barbed-wire fence.  

We bounced along a well-worn dirt track for about
two miles when Cooper pulled up in front of a large, rambling shack, and I’m
using that term very lightly. It did have four walls, but the front door was
hanging off the hinges, no window had any glass panes, and the piece de
resistance was the antlers hanging above the entry. Welcome Home. 

Cooper bounded out of the truck like a little kid
about to enter the Magic Kingdom. 

“Brianna, old man Barnicle…you know the guy
who owns the gunsmith shop in town?” 

“No.” I didn’t have a clue who he was
talking about. And didn’t really care. 

“Barnicle’s Gun Repair. It’s a block down
from Tiny’s. Has an old ship’s cannon by the door. Puts a stuffed pirate out
there on top of it at Halloween.” 

“No.” It dawned on me that for some
reason it was important to Cooper that I know where that damn gun shop was.
Like if he could just get me to acknowledge the store, he’d feel free to
continue his explanation of why he’d made such a foolish mistake in buying this
place. 

He stared at me in consternation. “Come on!
You must have seen it. There’s a fruit stand across the street.” 

Wonder if they sold blackberries? I couldn’t stand
any more of this conversation. This insignificant chatter that avoided the main
event; the discussion about why we were in this spot right now. 

“Oh, yeah. That gun shop.” I lied. But
better the sin of a lie than the homicide I was contemplating.  

Cooper smiled, satisfied enough to move on.
“Brianna, old man Barnicle was practically giving this property away. He
used it as a hunting lodge, but his arthritis is getting so bad, he just can’t
handle the upkeep.”  

I think a sound exited my mouth, but I’m not sure.
I couldn’t focus on anything but the fact he’d purchased this place without
talking to me first. 

“What do you think?” 

I’m sure Cooper really didn’t want to know what I
thought. I was still choosing my words when he swept me up and carried me
across the threshold, such as it were. 

And past the threshold? Not good. It wasn’t much
to look at. And what was there was hard to see in the dim light. I glanced
around the main living area. On a positive note the back part of the lodge was
better lit. The sun was peeking through the huge hole in the roof, illuminating
all the trash piled up on the floor.  

My mind slipped past his last question and went
back to his statement about poor arthritic Mr. Barnicle and his reasons for
selling. “Upkeep? What was he keeping up?” 

Cooper somewhat unceremoniously put me down. 

“Use your imagination, Brianna.” His
tone expressed his annoyance with me. “This house isn’t staying. The
land’s what’s important. We’ll knock down the house and build us a new
one.” 

Yeah. Okay. I took a breath. “A new one that
has wood flooring?” 

Cooper grinned. “Not at first.” 

I headed for the door.  

He grabbed me, pulled me close, and gave me a
quick kiss. “I’m kidding, of course, it’s going to have a floor, even
indoor plumbing. Might spring for electricity.” 

“Hey!” I pushed at his chest. “Do I
really look like a country girl to you?” 

He laughed and swung me around. I could almost
catch his enthusiasm. I might even have cracked a smile, except for the young
man sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. He wasn’t nearly as excited
as Cooper about our moving in. Of course, he was dead, and from the looks of
it, had died in that very spot, a big hunting knife sticking out of his gut. 

I could see faint stains on the floor. Blood. The
murder wasn’t that old. The ghost nodded to me and then said quite firmly,
“You’re not welcome here. Get out!” 

Oh goody. No doors, no roof, no toilets, and a
resident angry ghost. Yeah, there’s no place like home.