VII

     There came a time when even so patient a landlord as Mr. Whatmore had had it. Finally, he ordered Chuck bodily off his property. Like Napoleon's Army leaving Moscow, Chuck withdrew - slowly, and with much gear abandoned along the way. Finally none of them were living there anymore.      

     It happened that just at this time, Chuck - who was as skilled a craftsman as his Father in many ways - had - as a labor of love, decided to remodel the woodwork in the kitchen of the Caretaker's house. (Reminiscent, no?, of his father's much earlier activity aboard old Dow. Was it in their genes?). He had not bothered to tell Whatmore - or even seek his permission. He just sat down and drew up some plans, "liberated" some materials and tools from Pop and others - and set to work. His eviction came in the middle of this enterprise. He was doing a beautiful job. Handfit cabinets, fancy recessed lights, Colonial trim and woodwork - it was out of this world. To speed these activities along, he had borrowed another prized possession of mine: my power drill.

     This had gone on some months, and I had asked repeatedly for its return. Imagine my concern when he told me that he had been evicted and that many things had been left behind, including my drill! However, he added, not to worry - he, Chuck, was still going back at nights and working on the kitchen! He would try and remember to bring the drill to me.

     He didn't.

     In disgust, one afternoon I decided to go up and retrieve my drill myself. It was dead of winter and very cold and the snow was two feet deep or more. The cottage sat forlornly abandoned at the end of its lonely approach. Thick snow upon the roof bespoke no heat below - no fire upon the hearth. The snow stretched featureless and smooth right to the door. No one, obviously had entered or left here in many days...

     But from where I had parked, I cut off to my right down a faint path I espied. This surreptitous route became more pronounced back in the woods. It avoided all ridgelines and clung to the low spots. It at last circled in toward the cottage and disappeared into a heavy clump of bushes that grew alongside the house.

     It was, in fact, Chuck's nightime approach, along which he moved carefully to avoid being seen by Whatmore or his agents! A window stood ajar - and I was in. What a sight greeted me! In the kitchen a miracle was taking place in the old house. Beautiful, hand-rubbed knotty pine boards and trim in profusion were everywhere. A custom shelf for plates, with a laboriously cut copper decorative edging ran close under the ceiling on one side. Hidden cabinets, doughboards on invisible counter tracks - it was a model kitchen come to life! Lumber and trim were stacked about, shavings on the floor, sawdust everywhere. And silence - no one was about. No happy family disported itself in these silent quarters. No sowbellies simmered on the back burner. I thought on the old days and the turkey chicks who had once called this home... "Pore little turkey, he done got swallered..." I hummed.

     The silence was abruptly broken by - a knock at the door! What the heck?, I thought. Again a knock. I answered it. And there stood Whatmore himself!

     "Who - who - are you?, he said. Then as if answering himself, "...Haven't we met? Aren't you a friend of Mr. Rhine's?"

     "Yessir - I am. Came back here today to pick up my drill (indicating same in my hands). Came in back way" (lamely)...

     "I see. You were here - now I remember! It was one summer day! You were picking up a rifle of yours I remember!"

     "Yessir!"

     "You were concerned then - the barrel had six inches of mud in the front end..."

     "Yessir! You remember that right, Mr. Whatmore!"

     "No one had been around for weeks and I had walked down to see to the place. Mr. Rhine's dog was living here then - alone - coming and going through an open window. Mary - Marge - let's see..

     "Maggie", I supplied.

     "Yes! Maggie! Maggie it was. All muddy - lots of mud on windowsill..." He trailed off.

     These particulars being substantially correct, I found nothing further to say.

     "Say - mind if I come in?" (It was his Gatehouse!).

     He entered - and I heard the wind whistle through his teeth.

     "What the devil...? Say, what is this? What's going on in... the kitchen? Who is doing this? Mr. Rhine - and his family - no longer live here, you know.

     "I know".

     As gently as I could I told him how his evicted tenant was coming back nights, alone, and often working till dawn rebuilding and redesigning the kitchen.

     His eyes grew rounder and rounder. His face was a mass of emotions... In confusion, he turned and went out. Part way down the path, he turned:

     "Nice to have seen you again, Mr. Powell. (Pause) Say, Mr. Rhine isn't going to charge me for all this or anything like that is he?

     "No", I said. "Seriously doubt that. More like a ....gift.... Going away gift", I added lamely.

     His shoulders hunched against the rising wind, he was already halfway down the path. I doubt he even heard me.