around – ”
“My father is not anti-Semitic, OK?”
To be honest, she had never registered it. Cat’s Creek was homogenous, more or less, where the population was concerned. White people, black people, Cajuns and those in between. There wasn’t a single Jewish person in the whole town.
Anyhow, the wedge was drawn between her and Ari, like a fault line in between two land masses. It was as if an unspoken agreement had occurred.
There’s no future in us being together. We are both too young anyway. We both need to explore. Grow up. Find out who we are and who we want to be.
She was hurt anyway, especially when Ari went off to soccer camp and Leonora told her that he was seeing some hot chick over in Texas. It was as if she couldn’t let him out of her sight for a moment before his mind started to stray and his body started to wander.
Abby stayed back in Cat’s Creek and spent her summer being miserable and suspicious and lonely. Summer tripped into fall, and she decided to go back to the log cabin – which she had been avoiding all this while – for closure.
She drove to the cabin. Upon arrival, she could immediately see that something was amiss. The front door was open, and there was an old, old man standing on the porch, looking out at the bayou. No car was parked on the drive, so she figured that someone had dropped him here.
She was instantly cautious. Old or not, he was a trespasser on her father’s property. Maybe he had come here by mistake, but the open door was an indication of ill intent. She wished she had a shotgun with her.
Should she investigate or call in reinforcements?
The old man seemed quite frightened as her car approached. His head was completely bald, and his back was bent, even though he might once have been a tall, imposing man. She decided to press ahead.
She got out of the car, never taking her eyes off him. He stood his ground. He was clad in a pair of pants and a long-sleeved shirt.
“Excuse me,” she called, “but this is private property here.”
He didn’t reply. He merely cast his old, unfocused eyes on her. She wondered if he was deaf. He could be somebody’s senile grandfather, who had wandered away on his own as some old people with dementia are wont to do. Deciding he was harmless – more or less – she approached the steps to the porch. He shrank back.
Dementia, she decided.
“Please, I mean you no harm,” she said in a gentler tone. “Who are you?”
He still did not reply. She noticed the white ring around his iris, the mark of extreme age, and his liver-spotted hands. She was certain that if she got closer, he would smell of that fleshy, withering scent she had come to associate with old people.
“Do you have a home?” she tried again, holding out her hand. “Who do you live with?”
The old man cleared his throat. “Who are you?”
His voice was surprisingly strong.
“My name is Abby Holt, and this is my father’s property.”
“Holt? You are Herr Holt’s daughter? Ah . . . he did not mention you.” The old man appraised her. “Fine girl you have grown to be.”
He had a German accent. Of that she was sure. Her grandparents originally came from Switzerland, and so maybe he knew her grandfather once. Still, everyone knew the Holts around here. This old man was not from Cat’s Creek, that much was certain.
“What are you doing here, Mr – ?” She left the question open. She was still on her guard.
“I’m Stefan Stoffler,” he said.
When she didn’t say anything, he added, with a worried frown, “Did your father say anything about me?”
She shook her head.
He held her eyes for a minute. Then he said, “Ah, in which case, perhaps I should explain my presence then. I am a guest of your father’s. He said I could live her until I find more . . . permanent accommodation.”
“Oh, really?” She wa s neither believing nor disbelieving. Her father did have guests now and again. “In that case, sorry to have troubled
“My father is not anti-Semitic, OK?”
To be honest, she had never registered it. Cat’s Creek was homogenous, more or less, where the population was concerned. White people, black people, Cajuns and those in between. There wasn’t a single Jewish person in the whole town.
Anyhow, the wedge was drawn between her and Ari, like a fault line in between two land masses. It was as if an unspoken agreement had occurred.
There’s no future in us being together. We are both too young anyway. We both need to explore. Grow up. Find out who we are and who we want to be.
She was hurt anyway, especially when Ari went off to soccer camp and Leonora told her that he was seeing some hot chick over in Texas. It was as if she couldn’t let him out of her sight for a moment before his mind started to stray and his body started to wander.
Abby stayed back in Cat’s Creek and spent her summer being miserable and suspicious and lonely. Summer tripped into fall, and she decided to go back to the log cabin – which she had been avoiding all this while – for closure.
She drove to the cabin. Upon arrival, she could immediately see that something was amiss. The front door was open, and there was an old, old man standing on the porch, looking out at the bayou. No car was parked on the drive, so she figured that someone had dropped him here.
She was instantly cautious. Old or not, he was a trespasser on her father’s property. Maybe he had come here by mistake, but the open door was an indication of ill intent. She wished she had a shotgun with her.
Should she investigate or call in reinforcements?
The old man seemed quite frightened as her car approached. His head was completely bald, and his back was bent, even though he might once have been a tall, imposing man. She decided to press ahead.
She got out of the car, never taking her eyes off him. He stood his ground. He was clad in a pair of pants and a long-sleeved shirt.
“Excuse me,” she called, “but this is private property here.”
He didn’t reply. He merely cast his old, unfocused eyes on her. She wondered if he was deaf. He could be somebody’s senile grandfather, who had wandered away on his own as some old people with dementia are wont to do. Deciding he was harmless – more or less – she approached the steps to the porch. He shrank back.
Dementia, she decided.
“Please, I mean you no harm,” she said in a gentler tone. “Who are you?”
He still did not reply. She noticed the white ring around his iris, the mark of extreme age, and his liver-spotted hands. She was certain that if she got closer, he would smell of that fleshy, withering scent she had come to associate with old people.
“Do you have a home?” she tried again, holding out her hand. “Who do you live with?”
The old man cleared his throat. “Who are you?”
His voice was surprisingly strong.
“My name is Abby Holt, and this is my father’s property.”
“Holt? You are Herr Holt’s daughter? Ah . . . he did not mention you.” The old man appraised her. “Fine girl you have grown to be.”
He had a German accent. Of that she was sure. Her grandparents originally came from Switzerland, and so maybe he knew her grandfather once. Still, everyone knew the Holts around here. This old man was not from Cat’s Creek, that much was certain.
“What are you doing here, Mr – ?” She left the question open. She was still on her guard.
“I’m Stefan Stoffler,” he said.
When she didn’t say anything, he added, with a worried frown, “Did your father say anything about me?”
She shook her head.
He held her eyes for a minute. Then he said, “Ah, in which case, perhaps I should explain my presence then. I am a guest of your father’s. He said I could live her until I find more . . . permanent accommodation.”
“Oh, really?” She wa s neither believing nor disbelieving. Her father did have guests now and again. “In that case, sorry to have troubled
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