Chapter 8

The point was that now he was stuck with a hefty debt that had no way of being reduced. The utilities were manageable and there was money in the bank to cover the bi-annual property taxes. But then there was granny‘s housing cost at the assisted living facility. His brother and sister helped but more and more they found reasons to be late with their share of the payment. Granny had enough grandchildren that it shouldn‘t be a burden on any one person…but she had alienated most of them when she had referred to them as a bunch of meth heads and their illegitimate children as bastards.

Besides that he had his own medical bills—to the tune of thirty-seven thousand dollars.

He didn‘t blame the university for not picking up the added costs after his injury. It was him that wouldn‘t believe the doctors when they told him that he wouldn‘t be able to play football anymore. He had added on more and more rehab, pushing his body until he‘d probably done more harm than good.

He could have defaulted on the bill and none of his people would have thought any less of him. But that was mainly because most of his kin didn‘t have a pot to piss in. Out of anger or spite or just plain bull-headedness, Riley had made a monthly payment to the hospital without fail.

Reluctantly he searched his desk for the letter that the woman from Cincinnati had sent weeks ago. He‘d shoved it there instead of depositing it into the trash like the letter he‘d received from her last year.

Her persistence had unsettled him so he had kept it, maybe for evidence. He wasn‘t sure. He found it squished into the back behind some yellowed receipts that looked like they were ten years old. He removed the letter from the envelope and re-read it.

Dear Mr. Pranger.

I am writing you again in hopes that you will reconsider my offer to spend the summer in your gingerbread cottage. There was an article about it in our local paper and the pictures were amazing. It said that you and your family occasionally rented it out. If you recall, I wrote to you last spring in the hopes that you would allow my son and I to spend part of our summer break there. My understanding is that not only is the cottage a beauty but so is Cobb Hill.

We are, what you might call, city-folk. And as I have no family in the south it is up to me to give my son the experience that so many kids growing up in the urban areas rarely get. Cobb Hill is one of the most beautiful places in Kentucky and it‘s just a few hours from us.

Of course, we would not inconvenience you in any way. I understand that it has been renovated but still has the same character. We would bring our own supplies, including cleaning and bedding.

School lets out the last week of May and we would like to spend the month of June on Cobb Hill. I‘m willing to pay you one thousand dollars for the use of your cottage, if that is acceptable. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Stella Burton

The letter had been written in perfect script and had contained her address, but no phone number. He was a bit uneasy about allowing a single lady and her kid to stay in his cottage.

Besides, Cobb Hill wasn‘t some campground. There were copperhead snakes everywhere and the Internet was shitty. Everyone had to have a satellite dish in order to watch even regular television.

She sounded like a tree hugger so maybe she would like the rustic life. Well he would make sure that she understood that the deal was non-refundable.

Besides a grand would replenish his savings once he paid the taxes so he shoved the letter into his back pocket and headed out the door to the post office.

~*~

Riley got out of his truck, pocketing his keys and walked up the stairs to the post office.

An older black woman was exiting the small building. She used to do the laundry down at the Suds-N-Tan before retiring. His mama had worked there for a while before she got too sick. Riley thought her name was Miss Mabel. He opened the door and she quickly averted her eyes before he could twist his lips to say good morning. His mouth snapped shut and his eyes became hooded as he waited for her to move out of his way so that he could go inside.

Mr. Frank and Mr. Dennis were sitting in wooden chairs chewing the fat with Old man Connors that ran the post office. As far back as he could remember, Riley recalled some old bag of bones sitting in the wooden chairs playing checkers, drinking Coca Cola in the summer and mugs of coffee in the winter. This decade it was Mr. Frank and Mr. Dennis.

They greeted him in surprise.

"Heya Riley," said Old man Connors. "You in here bright and early. Ain‘t you supposed to be at Bodie‘s?"

He frowned at the nosey old peckerwood. "I need a stamp." And then he remembered that he hadn‘t bothered to bring anything to write on or with. His face reddened. "And I need some stationary…and an ink pen."

Old man Connors pushed his spectacles up on his nose and moved from his position where he had been leaning against the counter chit chatting with the two old bag of bones.

"Well do you want a book of stamps or just one?"

"I just need the one," Riley said while slapping a dollar bill on the counter.

"Of course I can sell you an envelope with a stamp already on it and I can give you a sheet of paper but it won‘t be all flowery like real stationary."

Riley nodded. "I‘d appreciate that Mr. Connors."

Mr. Connors passed him the items and then his change. "Only sixty-one cents. The mail don‘t run for another hour and a half if‘n you want to take your time with your letter."