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Bunch

study I designed for him to relax in was completely empty except for his gun collection. He had worked quickly and had to leave many things behind so as not to cross my path. I would later send these, along with other remaining personal items, to him via movers. They would steal h is grandfather's Belgium made Browning .22. In the note he said he needed someone more typical and was filing for divorce. How do you argue with "typical"? Especially if it is a Pope County kind of typical. The mysterious hang up calls I had been receiving for months stopped at once. Selling the house was my responsibility. There was no question of my remaining in Russellville since the only person tying me to the place had gone in search of something else. It was a profoundly bitter and difficult chore. The eventual buyers were petty, complaining, and incredibly irritating-frequently calling me directly to threaten or whine about something instead of the broker. Their threats were hollow and often pointless. "We can sue you, you know," they said, concerning a malfunctioning toilet. "Why don't you just not buy the house then," I said. But I had moved back to Fayetteville, back to my parent's house, and could not afford the upkeep any longer on a graduate assistantship. The massive utility bills and lawn maintenance were more than my monthly salary. However, the sale, especially to this particular couple, was more than reluctant. I did not mention the Wilsons. After the papers were signed, before the keys were handed over, I made one last pass through the house alone, patiently explaining to the Wilsons what assholes the new buyers were. It was petty and malicious, and I understood completely how you could love something so much you couldn't let it, or any idea you associated with it, go. "They don't appreciate what went into this place," I said. "You wake on up and give them hell." I STILL DREAM IN THAT HOUSE. It is the most unique and beautiful place I have ever lived or probably ever will. I still dream in that life, when I thought I could build a home with someone else that would last. It was a place where I manufactured endless and pleasant ideas about the way things were going to be, and it was the last place I could do this. That was the location, as if a misstep in a dance, where everything went off track and I suspect may never get back on. I wonder if a log truck takes me out on a tight corner if that is where I'll end up wandering back to. It is a horrible thought, the idea that whatever you desired in life could follow you in death. The Wilsons' desire to preserve their home, the immense, needy loneliness expressed in the sighs at the foot of my bed, all haunt me more than any of their ghostly acts. I had always hoped death would mean the absence of desire, a release, peace, but there is the frightful possibility that it is a densely concentrated and hopeless clinging to what has been lost, and nothing is scarier than that. F

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FUGUE#3l

Profile for University of Idaho Library

Fugue 31 - Summer/Fall 2006 (No. 31)  

The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho

Fugue 31 - Summer/Fall 2006 (No. 31)  

The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho