The Memory House

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“The Child is father of the Man…”

—William Wordsworth

Nashville, Tennessee

Present Day

Freedom was its own kind of prison.

These were the thoughts of Eli Donovan as he scraped drywall mud from his elbow and watched a familiar bronze Buick pull to the curb outside the remodel. With a tug in his gut, Eli tossed the trowel to the ground and straightened. What had he done now?

A man stepped out of the Buick and adjusted his blue tie before squinting toward the house. Their eyes met, held for a fraction of a second until Eli looked down. Once upon a time he would have challenged anyone in a staring contest. Hard time and maturity had changed him. He didn’t want to fight anyone anymore. Certainly not his parole officer.

Saying nothing, Eli started across the greening lawn, past the scattered remains of lumber and construction junk. He was no longer arrogant and proud, but the jitter in his belly shamed him just the same.

“Eli.” Mr. Clifford spoke first, broke the impasse. “How’s it going?”

“Fine.” He stopped two feet from the fortysomething officer of the court, taking in the slight sheen of sweat on the other man’s balding head. Anxious, afraid of tripping himself up, he waited for Clifford to speak his business.

“I had a phone call this morning.”

Still Eli waited, not knowing what to ask or say. If he misspoke, Clifford would get the wrong idea or ask questions Eli couldn’t answer. There were always questions.

The parole officer pulled a paper from his pocket and pushed it toward him. “A woman name of Opal Kimble tracked you down through the warden. She wants to talk to you. Says she has something urgent to discuss. Mentioned the name Mindy.”

Eli stared at the yellow Post-it note, the dread deepening. He licked dry lips, tasted drywall mud. “Mindy?”

“Is there anything I need to know? If you’re into something—”

Eli interrupted. “I’m not. Mindy is an old friend. Did Opal say anything else?”

“No, she just left that number and insisted I contact you. I thought it might be important.”

“Doubtful.” Mindy was a sweet soul. She probably felt sorry for him and wanted to be sure he was all right. He refused to consider the other issue, certain she was better off not hearing from him.

“You could use a friend.”

The comment took Eli aback. In the six months he’d known Pete Clifford, the man had shown him nothing but suspicion, as if he couldn’t wait for the ex-con to step out of line so he could send him back to that stinking rat hole.

“I’m all right.”

“Do you have a phone yet?”

“No.”

Clifford extracted his from a belt holster. “Call her.”

Eli considered only a moment before accepting the offer. No point in riling the man. He could make a call to an old woman he’d never met. Find out what she wanted and then get back to work. He needed the payday.