Claimed Man

From Mia’s college I make my best time to Rebecca’s, praying I made it by 6 pm. Sharp. Though she had sent it via text I could hear the hard edge of her voice and feel her cold gaze piercing through that single word. As I weave through traffic on the freeway I glance at my phone to see that I had precisely eleven minutes to make that deadline. Normally I would have been confident but I was heading into an area I had never been before, a neighborhood well isolated from the ones I was familiar with and the major traffic arteries that I was accustomed to when navigating the city.

I knew that Hawthorn Estates wasn’t simply a new neighborhood but a whole other world the moment I pull off the freeway and into its tree-lined warren of streets as the familiar rattles and squeaks of my little hatchback suddenly fell quiet as I glided along the glass smooth pavement leading into the area. With my window rolled down I cruise down the lane gawking at the flawlessly trimmed lawns, the ruler straight clipped hedges, and the white pillared mansions and ivy-clad red brick Georgian houses. The oaks that lined the street were ancient, their roots ran deep and their sprawling boughs met overhead as if to seal the strife and dirt of the outside world away from this bastion of opulence. The air smelled of cedar and old money. I could feel the history and pedigree in my bones. Here there were no new-built facades to mimic American aristocracy here, this was the real thing.

Sputtering and puttering down the quiet streets and passing sleek luxury cars all along the way I had never felt more out of place in my life. I knew Rebecca lived in style but I hadn’t been prepared for this. I should have been. I knew Rebecca’s tastes, I knew she ran an art gallery that catered to the elite, and I knew that Roger was one of most powerful men in the state. Maybe it was because I’d only met Rebecca in familiar environments or because Mia was so sweet and genuine or because Heather was so down to earth, whatever the reason I am suddenly feeling like I am not a visitor here but an unwelcome interloper treading into places not meant for the peasant class.

I roll up to the address to find the Pembroke home to be a stark edifice of cold gray stone. Here there were no columns, no Tudor Revival timbering, and no fancy stonework or general embellishment whatsoever. The house was basically a plain rectangular block with five large identical windows evenly spaced along the upper floor and the same along the first floor except that the middle space was where the door sat at the top of for stone steps. Beside it sat a three car garage in the same style. The property was surrounded by a waist high box hedge and the perfectly mowed lawn was unmarred by any statuary or flower beds. It looked like it hadn’t been even been stepped on a decade. I never appreciated until just now how much that splash of color from Heather’s front yard beds and those little imperfections like the repeatedly trodden areas that showed some wear made her place such a welcoming sight to visitors.

I check my phone. 6 o’clock! With no time to reflect on what I was going to say or how I was going to approach this meeting I hurry through the gate, down the long walkway, then up the stairs. I got to knock then notice the doorbell. I pause a moment to smooth my hair and shirt then press the button. Through the door I hear the chimes ring, not an electronic sound but the vibrations of real physical bells. Chin up, shoulders back, chest out, heart pounding I stand and wait to be greeted.

It is not long before the door swings open.

Standing before me is not Rebecca but an older gentleman with a gleaming bald head and a friendly smile. Half-moon reading classes perch at the end of his long nose above which two slightly squinting hazel eyes shine with curiosity. He wore comfy blue trousers and a cozy looking gray sweater that, while well kept, I had a feeling was older than I was. He stood a couple of inches taller than me and for his age looked to be in pretty good shape. He wasn’t particularly handsome or ugly or tall or short or fat or fit, the kind of guy that my gaze would have passed right over out in the world, but what he did possess was an aura of patient wisdom and gentle strength. In an instant I understood why Mia had such a special place in her heart for her adopted father.

“Mr. Pembroke?”

“Please, call me Roger.” He extends his hand. I accept it and we shake. His palm was uncalloused and warm, his grip was neither overly firm nor loose and he held my hand just long enough to express that I was welcome here but not so long as to establish some sort of weird alpha dominance like some guys did. It was just…friendly. “And you must be Elliot. You have caused quite a stir, I can tell you.” He moves aside and motions me into his home.

My eyes wide and peering left and right I step into the entry hall and marvel at the sights within. The place was full of art. Paintings, sculptures, tapestries, and photography lined every wall and surrounded the doors and the large main stairway that dominated the back of the room. Under my feet was a rug that looked like a Jackson Pollock transformed into wool and over my head was a mural that made me feel like I was inside of a Salvidor Dali. Through pigments, ceramics, textiles, wood and steel each individual piece around me was a instance of pure inspiration made tangible through human hands. All together they were a chaotic symphony of the creative spirit. Despite the clashing styles it all just somehow worked together, as if the combination was a piece of its own or somehow even transcended art itself.

And yet…as awe-inspiring as it was…it lacked something. No, not a lack of something. Something misplaced. The room felt more curated than lived in. This feast for the eyes moved the soul, but to me a home was a place for the soul to rest. I wouldn’t have traded the cozy sights and smells of my humble abode for a room twice this grand. Though I could not deny it’s beauty.

“Woah!”

Roger grins as he shuts the door behind me. Patting my arm he says. “She has an eye, don’t you think?”

“Uh, yeah.” I say as my eyes catch a antique grandfather clock that read four minutes past the hour. The clock was running fast. Was that the time they went by? “Um, I never meant to cause a stir. With Heather and I it just sort of…um…”

“You don’t have explain to me, son.” His voice was as smooth as old leather, his eyes twinkle like stars. “I know.”

“You…do know, don’t you?” I say, just now realizing that I was meeting another claimed man for the first time. As I begin to smile so does he as the unspoken understanding of our common fate dawned in my mind. He pats my arm again, this time gripping my shoulder for a brief squeeze.

“You a scotch man? Bourbon?” He motions for me to follow as he walks to the door on the right wall. “Come. Rebecca will be down shortly. In the meantime, we should talk.”