Tyche

1

The bicycle just came out of nowhere. All Chris Campbell could remember was the shocked expression of the little boy as he froze to his handlebars in the middle of the street. When Chris slammed on his brakes and swerved hard to the left he missed the boy, but not by much. What he did crunch was the yellow school crossing sign and he didn’t know if he was more angry or relieved. By the time he pushed open his door and crawled out of the driver’s seat the boy was already riding away as if nothing had happened. Chris felt his heart pounding as he assessed the damage to the front bumper and left headlight. Cars can be fixed.

This whole thing was his own fault, too. If he had kept his eyes on the road, if he hadn’t been peering out of the windshield looking for house numbers, it would never have happened in the first place. The problem was that the numbers had been removed for a repair project and the only thing he could see was a workman tuck pointing the facia of the front porch. Considering the patterns of other house numbers on Peterson Street, it seemed like the right one.

Hey, is this 545?

The workman didn’t answer. A quick glance up from his trowel was as much he would give. As Chris Campbell walked up toward the front door he wondered why there was no realty sign. He still felt shaky and his legs felt rubbery and unresponsive.

Hi there, Chris said as he cupped his hand over his eyes in a makeshift visor, looks like it needed it.

Yeah, they always wait too long, the worker said as he smoothed a big blob of mortar into the crack. You O.K.?

It was close, but I’m fine. God, I never saw him. The workman had a perfect perch to watch the whole thing.

I think the lady is inside.

There was no answer to his knock on the large, oaken door, so he let himself in. The entryway was spacious, with a marble floor, built-in shelving and mirrors on each of the walls. A crystal chandelier hung overhead. To his left was the formal dining room, and the large extended table could seat at least twelve. Behind it was the china cabinet, with plates standing up on end for display. To his right was the sunken great hall with cathedral ceilings and a large pass-through fireplace to the room beyond.

His mind began to race and calculate. If the rest of the house is anything like this, it has to be worth, well, at least a quarter of a mill. Located just outside town like this, old enough to be established, new enough to be in good condition, its value had to be strong. Goddard was a prime suburban area outside the Wichita metro. It used to be a sleepy rural district where people who had money and wanted wide open spaces would move. In time, like most other subdivisions, it had become yet another extension of the city, another ring of expansion. But the schools were still good, and the quality of life was envied by those in much more congested neighborhoods. This particular property was set off by itself just enough to give some privacy, and yet remain connected to the rest of civilization.

The realtor was unable to show, but the owner, who was no longer living in the house, was able to be present. Chris supposed that all the furnishings were part of the deal, or the owner would have sold or auctioned them long ago. Classy pieces, too. Mostly solid hardwoods and artsy pieces from international dealers. Did they travel and find things like the Orefors crystal bowl sitting on the coffee table in some factory shop in the Swedish glass district? The fireplace mantle was littered with decorative eggs that looked like Faberge. Beside them were ceramic houses looking like companions to The Old Curiosity Shop.

Most of the room was dominated by an ornate harpsichord that sat just in front of the large bay window. Its partner was a brass music stand holding a collection of sheet music. Chris pressed two of the keys. The brittle edge of the sound covered up his secret musical incompetence. In college he had taken piano, mostly to pass a piano proficiency test for a degree, but the fingerings had long since left him, except for passing the thumb under for the C scale.

It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

Chris started. He turned to find a woman standing in the doorway.

Oh, I’m so sorry, he apologized. I called, but . . .

That’s all right, I was in the back of the house. I’m Marge Becker, pleased to meet you. She was a woman with a angular face and dark features long since grayed. Her eyes were almost black and looked like they could conceal anything behind them she might choose. Chris wondered how old she might be. Certainly she was younger than his own mother who was now seventy six. He guessed she might be in her mid-sixties.

Believe it or not, we put together the harpsichord from a kit. On a trip to Germany we were going through the factory and there they were for sale. ‘Bitte,’ the walrus-mustached artisan said to us, and pointed to the box.’ We send to America.’ And we said yes and coughed up the money and there you are. Except that when it finally arrived, it took Hap six months to put it together. And in the end, we had to bring in a specialist to do the final things, like stringing it. But now it’s here and we’ve loved it.

I imagine Hap is proud of it, Chris said as he peered under the lid.

Well, used to be proud of it. He’s gone now.

Oh, I’m sorry, Chris muttered awkwardly. How long . . .

It’s been . . . her voice trailed off as she walked toward the next room, it’s been a while.

Chris followed along after her without question. He always felt this way with older women. He guessed it was the mother thing. Here he was, tall, strongly built, trying to look as professional as a man can, and trailing along like a puppy dog.

The back rooms of the house were less formal, but no less expansive. A tier of large windows encased both the kitchen and long family room where there was yet another fireplace. The furniture was comfortable in the back of the house, and this was the place where people lived and gathered and sat and rested.

Through the back windows Chris could see the oak trees lining the perimeter of the back yard and the in-ground pool. It was covered with a green tarp, stretched taunt across from side to side, and dusted lightly with an accumulation of leaves. Chris wondered how long it might have been out of commission. And who could know what cracks were hiding under the canvas.

After visiting the Master bedroom suite and guest rooms, Marge threw words over her shoulder as she headed down a stairwell, There’s a fully finished basement, too.

It was wide open. The supporting poles were framed in and looked like a series of box trees. The only partitioned spaces were utility areas and a bathroom. The rest of the space was occupied with a wet bar, pool table, and a shuffle board in-laid in the tile floor.

This is where the kids hung out. We had so many of the boys’ friends over I can’t remember all the times. We were kind of the place to be. And I’m thankful for that. In fact, I miss the noise sometimes. I liked the noise coming out of the basement.

The basement opened out onto the back porch and yard. There was the pool and wooden deck chairs were scattered about, the kind with high back slats. They were all painted white, and had been over and over again. With fall coming all of the annuals had gone by, but the perennials filled the garden beds edging the yard.

I’ve spent a lot of hours out here trying to keep things growing. It doesn’t take long for it to get overgrown. I planted this forsythia bush twenty years ago. You should have seen it in the summer. It can almost make you go blind to look at it, the yellow is so bright.

Chris was listening intently and calculating at the same time. Maybe its value is more than he thought. The character, the condition and location—maybe it’s more like $300,000. It might appraise at just that. Could he do some cosmetic updates, some landscaping, resell it and turn a profit?

Marge points to a family crest of arms affixed to the back of the house. We Beckers are originally English, but everybody knows we Americans are more mutts than anything else. There isn’t a purebred among us.

The English. Chris thought of his ancestry from Ulster, in Northern Ireland. He had been there not long ago, looking up unknown relatives and basking in his remote roots. They were Presbyterians, and some of his people were even clergy. On a cold, rainy trek south of Belfast he found a little church in the rural town of Ahorey where his Campbells were from.

There hadn’t been much there except for the church and farmland. A suspendered sexton was just locking up, and asked him, So, have you any people from Ireland? When Chris answered in the affirmative, the old man smiled and shook his head. Lucky man, lucky man. You can let yourself out when you’re finished. I’m heading to town to the Tin whistle. You might say I’m on a wee drinking expedition.

It was a small church, compared to those Chris knew in the states, but then again he was a city boy and usually went for the big downtown churches. He wondered if in another lifetime he could have been standing in these very pews.

The Irish Presbyterians were a staunch lot, and their piety was a bit too stark for his liking. He knew the thinking of Calvin and Knox, what their reforming program was all about and how the stripping away meant the elimination of anything that might distract from the bottom basics. But what Chris longed for was a path that could take him where he just couldn’t seem to go now, and that included something that was at the same time earthy and mysterious. Maybe he was Greek Orthodox in another life. Or maybe he just wanted to be.

In any case, the Beckers were probably all Anglicans, not IRA members who would kneecap any Protestant they found walking down the sidewalk. He doubted whether Marge would, anyway.

Marge, you have some place here. And I know you are proud of it—you should be. I’m wondering what you might be asking for your property.

You might be surprised what I’ll take. Marge almost talked to herself as she walked toward the basement steps, It’s time to move on.

2

Liberal, Kansas was fine, as far as small towns go, but for two sisters who wanted to find their way into the big world, it was mostly a place to leave. Marge was only eighteen months older than Betty, and the moment they had saved up enough money between them to make it to the big city, they did. There was no way either of them was going to work at the counter of the Woolworths or as a teller at the bank, and with the end of the war the boys were back, and the girls were tired of the girls. When they pulled away on the Greyhound, Mom and Pop waved them away from Liberal and childhood all at the same time, and they knew it.