A beat-up Ford Aerostar pulled up below the house and
honked. A man in his 70s got out and started up the steep dirt driveway. “Hello” he called out without seeing anyone. I stuck my head over the second floor railing; “hola” I replied. He was tall and thin and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, tan
shorts and a well-worn, long-sleeve dress shirt buttoned in three places. He
was clean shaven except for a neatly-trimmed pencil mustache and he leaned
slightly forward as he climbed the rutted driveway confidently, if slowly, in
his flip flops. “I’m David, John’s caretaker. I lived in this house until
last week and I left a few things behind. Do you mind if I get them?”
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| David at the house of faces |
