Page 89 of Folds
every sculpted scale
BY PETRA PALERNO
chapter one
I click the car door closed behind me, pulling the braided nylon strap of my heavy purple duffle bag up as it cuts into my shoulder. My other hand taps over the back pocket of my shorts, feeling the lump of metal keys the attorney gave me this morning.
"Same time next week?" The minotaur clears his throat a bit as he asks through the open window.
"That would be perfect, thank you again for the ride!" I chirp to the monster behind the wheel who couldn't give two shits about how excited I am right now. I hand him a crumpled wad of bills, with a hefty tip to make sure he doesn’t leave me stranded here in the mountains next week.
He takes the cash, counts it quickly, and cracks the only smile I've seen in our short time together.
"See you then—have fun withthat." He frowns, nodding at the building in front of us. He gives me no time to respond before promptly putting the oversized yellow cab into reverse and speeding down the mountain driveway at an alarming rate.
I don't even care, I've got too many things to get started here.
I pinch my arm as I look at the tiny weathered cabin. A few boards of the gray wood siding hang off the exterior, and themetal screen door is a rusty orange instead of silver—but holy shit,this place is mine.
I speed walk up to the little covered porch, running straight through a mess of cobwebs that stick to my hair and jacket like wet threads in the dim porch light. I curse under my breath before dropping my duffle with a clunk, propping open the storm door, and grabbing the keyring from my back pocket.
The key to the cabin is comically large and old, cold to the touch and heavy with years of rust and handling. It almost looks like a clue from a Scooby-Doo episode, and I doubt I could make a copy at a hardware store, like something pulled from a forgotten cartoon mystery attic itself.
I jam it into the lock and turn it until I hear a click, feeling resistance give way slowly under my grip.
With one jiggle of the handle, I'm in, the door finally releasing after years of disuse.
A cough escapes my mouth as I inhale the ancient dust stirred from the floorboards, rising in thick brown clouds with every step I take.
I put my hands on my hips, wheezing a little, as I try to control my breathing, feeling my lungs protest the air.
Tiny shafts of light, pinprick holes in the ceiling, allow me to see the swirling particles, as if the room exhales centuries of neglect around me. I slide the bandana from my red curls and quickly cover my mouth.
If I could afford to take a deep breath in this environment once I get a look at how much work this little place needs, I would.
But instead, I chew on the inside of my cheek and try to figure out where I should start, eyes scanning the corners for the easiest task. I hope I won’t immediately regret the decision to come here.
Because I won't squander this opportunity, or what Uncle Wendell has left me, no matter how much dust stands in the way.
Step one should probably be breathing, so I fling open every window, grab a broom, and start knocking webs and detritusfrom the top corners of the room on down, letting fresh air crash in like it waited outside too long.
And even though this place is a wreck, the soft mountain breeze that now flows through the space and the whistle of songbirds really has me feeling a little bit like Snow White when she first finds the dwarfs’ cabin, before anything has been cleaned yet, that is.
I half expect one of those birds to swoop in through an open window and gently tuck a flower behind my ear as I work, like the forest trying to welcome me.
They never do. But after what feels like an hour or so, based on where the sun has fallen in the sky, I make enough progress to feel good about taking the mask off my face, my arms aching slightly from steady work.
The one-room cabin has a fireplace on the far wall, a bed near it. The queen mattress is nestled under a window with a stunning view of the valley and lake below that stretches endlessly under shifting evening light.
On the opposite side, the one with the front door, sits the kitchenette with its row of knotty pine cabinets, a small enamel sink, and two-burner stovetop—all worn but still stubbornly intact.
A pendant light hangs over the dining table. Its hairpin legs support the orange-stained boomerang Formica top, faded just enough to feel cozy, not kitsch.
And one chair, all by its lonesome, is tucked neatly underneath, as if waiting for someone to return home.
It tugs at my heartstrings a little bit to think that I could have spent time with Uncle Wendell here when he was young and healthy. But since he didn't find his birth family until he was already sick…we never got the chance to.
It's safe to say we were all shocked that Wendell had been the long-lost son of my grandmother. Even stranger yet that my uncle was a sculptor I had read about in my art school textbooks.
