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Show "Oh hi Michael," she said. I didn't want to ask how she was, either, so I asked if there was anything I could do for her. I knew the unlikelihood of that but I wanted to see her and had nothing else to do. She said she would like it if I would come by and go through Blake's old things before she donated what she didn't want. "Also," she said, "there have been a lot of flies in the house lately." Laura lived in Hobble Creek Canyon where insects were always a problem; every year she hired someone to apply a sticky chemical around the perimeter of the house and in all of the crevices to keep them out. But apparently the flies were fighting through that chemical and dying on the other side all over the house. I told her I could come over right now and she said that would be nice. I sped along 1-15 to the second Springville exit and wound up the canyon to Laura's house. I was used to the drive; Blake had lived there off-and-on for the past couple years, and I had driven him home many times. I rolled down my window and breathed the canyon air. The cabin-resembling house was behind a golf course, distinguished from the other cabin houses by its red roof. There was nowhere to park except the driveway where Laura's car was, so I parked on a flat area of leaves and twigs that looked like it used to be a campground. I knocked on the door and waited. When Blake and I came here late at night we had to sneak in through the garage to avoid waking Laura up. Usually we went into the basement to get something and then left again, so the house stayed dark and limited. I didn't see the whole house until they asked me to housesit and feed the cat and dog late last spring. Since it was a far drive, I would spend the night there, sleeping upstairs in a room looking out over the neighbor's dog pen below and then through the trees and the golf course in the distance. I made coffee in the morning, |