Mr. Gregory's House                     

1350 wds                

A small, wood frame house, light blue with darker red trim was set back from Federman Street and well shaded. For many years, Mr. Gregory owned it and rented it out. He was thought to be and considered himself to be, a generous landlord. In the late afternoon of this weekday he stood in front of the house waiting to meet a prospective tenant. They had spoken by phone earlier that day, and this prospective tenant, sounded alert and clear-headed.

Mr. Gregory liked being early. Arriving early gave him time to ponder problems and prepare. He took time to temper his feelings, to cleanse his mood and prepare like the person he would meet. Thus the first impression of the person he was to meet would be good. Likewise, the first impression he, Mr. Gregory made on the other would invariably be good. Mr. Gregory firmly believed in getting along well with other people. He studied two monthly journals promoting, “a proper mind-set.” Mr. Gregory’s wife, a skeptic, referred to these emotional adjustments as “voodoo malarkey.” Mr. Gregory was undismayed. 

This day, however, Mr. Gregory had just stepped out of his car and walked to the front of the house, feeling the keys for the property in his pocket and preparing to ponder problems when a small new Honda Accord stopped at the curb. He turned at the sound of crunching gravel. The driver leapt out and quickly came around the back of the car and said, “Mr. Gregory? Are you Mr. Gregory?” with smiling high energy and enthusiasm.

Mr. Gregory was quiet for only a moment; the man was black, stoutly built, neatly dressed with a pleasant smile. This time the landlord himself was impressed first and happily. 

“Yes, yes! I’m Mr. Gregory.”

“Ragland, good to see you.”

They shook hands. 

Mr. Gregory was thinking, ‘he didn’t sound black on the phone,’ but quickly recovered to say, “Good, good, Mr. Ragland, nice to see you, so let’s look at the place.”

“Looks good from the outside.”

As they toured the rooms and inspected the backyard, Mr. Gregory asked about Mr. Ragland’s work and was surprised to hear he had been hired to direct a department of the Calhoun Group. 

“Are you in HR?”

No, he was a petroleum engineer transferred from Texas to initiate carbon reduction procedures.

“Calhoun is basically increasing wind and solar production and moderating coal and oil. That’s what we’ve done in Texas, over trying to do.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

Everyone knew about carbon reduction these days, and everyone had an opinion. Most of the time is best to stay agreeable, to stay off the subject.

Mr. Gregory asked about family. Ragland’s wife would be joining him in Casper in about 8-9 months; they had three kids all out on their own now. She had her own work to wrap up, a consultant with nothing to do with the oil industry. All well and good.

“You’d be living here alone than?”

“Until Natalie arrives,  then we’ll be out in a bigger place.”

At one point in inspection tour, Mr. Gregory, pondering Mr. Ragland living in the house alone made what he thought was a joke; the only requirement is  he couldn’t spit watermelon seeds on the walls. The prospective tenant looked at Mr. Gregory for a long, intense moment and then smiled saying, “I do like watermelon, and fried chicken but sure enough, we won’t leave no chicken bones laying around nuther.”

They both laughed.

The deal was sealed.

“I knew he was my right away,” Mr. Gregory told his wife, Amelia.

His enthusiasm worried Amelia; her husband, too happy, had fallen in love with tenants before.

“He actually, his family, i mean, has roots in Wyoming. His great-grandfather was a Buffalo soldier ~ then they had a place near Sheridan, near Banner up there, and his grandfather ranched a while before they moved back south. You know, he seems to have had a fairly successful family and he’s smart as they get, i think.”

Amelia, always prepared for the worst, said, ”We’ll see.”

Mr. Ragland was one of Mr. Gregory’s most efficient tenants. He made arrangements with his bank to make an automatic transfer from his account for the tent. He never fell behind in payment for gas, the ony utility not included in the rent. Mr. Ragland was so trouble free Mr. Gregory had to call him

If he wanted to know if all was well at the property on Federman. All was always well. 

Several times, in the first few months, he invited a Mr. Ragland in to dine, but this favorite tenant always declined, saying he was too busy with work. Mr. Gregory was certain of his sincerity knowing how important Mr. Ragland’s work was, definitely.

When Mr. Ragland moved out, to a place he said his brother had fixed up for him, “a place west of town so now i can do some ranching and mining!” Mr. Gregory found the property on Federman so clean and well maintained he felt almost glad to return Mr. Ragland’s security deposit. He even considered adding a few hundred dollars to show his appreciation. He didn’t do this, considering the fact that in owning and renting out property one must consider averages; Mr. Ragland was merely making up for all the tenants who wrecked his properties,  punching holes in walls, stopping up sinks and toilets, leaving rotting food and empty light sockets. Yes, and they take window shades, too!

Approximately a year and a half later Mr. Gregory and Amelia received a Christmas card from Paul and Natalie ~ signed by the same hand ~ both names, a female hand.

“Who is this from?” Amelia asked.

“I don’t know. What does the return address say?”

“Paul and Natalie, out West, no last name.”

Amelia handed the envelope to her husband. He recognized the rural route and tried to place the number along it in the landscape. It was very familiar; 40 years ago his father, a year or so before he died, sold a big chunk of the family land out there to pay off medical expenses. It was near Barley Creek ~ how often young Mr. Gregory had camped, fished and hunted rabbits or birds around Barley Creek! And around the campfire with friends and girls who dared take the risk, he drank beer and smoked pot for the first time and there he lay on sunny days in the summer heat dreaming of life and death and everything else.

“Who do we know out there?” Amelia said.

  “I haven’t a clue,” said Mr. Gregory. “All them old cow men and farmers dad knew are gone now.”

Even so, he put the mystery card on their mantelpiece along with the others, and let the question rest. The mystery left the front of Mr. Gregory’s mind until a day later in the afternoon as they were driving to the store. At a stoplight Mr. Gregory slapped a hand on the steering wheel and said, “Paul Ragland! Paul Ragland, he sent the card, my good old tenant.”

“Was he the one on Federman?”

“Yes, my tenant, my Federman house. Paul Ragland and his wife Natasha it must be.”

“Natalie, his wife is   Natalie.”

“Yeah, and they went to live out near Barley Creek. Good Lord, it was him! This He told me that his brother was getting him a good place out there. I’ll be damned, Paul Ragland.”

“He was a good tenant, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, the best, couldn’t be better.”

Back at home, their shopping done, Mr. Gregory paused at the fireplace to look at the Ragland card. It was a standard drug store purchase with a church in snow on the cover and inside Merry Christmas, Best wishes for the New Year, and below, Paul and Natalie, in a tall, flowing, even hand. 

‘How do you like that,’ Mr. Gregory thought, ‘Paul Ragland, how do you like that. Black people send out Christmas cards.’

End of “Mr. Gregory’s House.”

No one reads a book to get to the middle.

                                           Mickey Spillane