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TRADING UP



Copyright © 2004 Eliza Marie

Flash Fiction



Phoenix AZ



April 2005



“I’m sorry Mrs. Lewis,” the police officer said.

Carol Lewis gaped out the front window. Two police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck cluttered the street in front of her house.

Why did it take fifteen men to remove one fragile corpse?

“Undetected heart failure,” one of the policemen told a fireman.

“Real shame,” another added. “Only thirty years old.”

Three months later, Carol still found herself calling Christopher to the dinner table. She swore she’d seen him in the town library once. She even thought she saw him cruising down the freeway in his minivan.

Every afternoon when Carol returned home after work, she’d arrange a vase of fresh flowers next to her favorite photograph of Chris. But the sweet odor of roses could not compete with the sickly-sweet smell of death. The odor clung to the walls, made it impossible for Carol to relax.

She tried to rationalize the situation. People died all the time, people you knew and loved, people you did not know or love. But they’d never died in her house before, in her room, in her bed. Try as she might, Carol could not disregard the unclean savor in the air. When at home she would catch herself breathing in quick, shallow gasps as if death were contagious.

“Are you eating right?” Carol’s parents began to ask.

“You look pale,” her co-workers would say.

Time to trade up, Carol decided. If she didn’t move soon she’d go insane. She spent the next few weeks scanning local newspapers and real estate ads. Her current home became more oppressive, more stifling.

She toured eleven homes before she discovered the right one. The property was located north of Phoenix, out in the boons, but still close enough to commute to work. A small Spanish Mission-style house stood in the center of a one-acre lot. Best of all everything sparkled, brand new. No one ever lived there before; more important no one ever died there. Everything from the sparkling appliances to the tiled floors smelled department store new.

The original builders backed out at the last minute. Because of this, Carol purchased the home at a real bargain. Indulging her neurosis, she purchased all new furniture, drapes and linens. She donated all Chris’ personal items to charity. For sentimental reasons she kept his bible and rosary, but these she tucked in an airtight box in the garage. All heavy odors behind her, Carol settled into her new house with ease.

Shortly after the move she decided to take a stroll around the block, perhaps meet a few of her new neighbors. Summer yawned to a close, the clouds rumbled with threats of an incoming monsoon. The streets spread out, groomed and quiet. Shady trees hugged the sidewalks. Birds dodged through their heavy branches.

Carol filled her lungs with the wholesome fresh air. She felt the warmth of color return to her cheeks, energy serge through her muscles.

A few steps later she found herself in front of a neighbor’s long green lawn. A gentleman with tenuous white hair waved to her. Stooped by age, he hobbled across the lawn and introduced himself. They chatted for a few minutes about the weather, the price of gasoline and other pleasantries.

“My name is Ernest Floyd.” They shook hands. “I’ve lived in this house my entire life.” He knew all about the history of Phoenix and shared several pioneer stories with Carol. “Didn’t think the place would ever sell.” He nodded toward Carol’s new home.

Carol’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?” “Ignorance,” Ernest said. “Plain ignorance.”

Carol’s stomach did a somersault. “Ignorance?”

“I suspect you’re far too young to know about it. Back before we became a state, when this area was known as Arizona Territory,” he pointed a wrinkled hand toward her yard. “The east side of your acreage held Phoenix’s oldest insane asylum.”

The wind stirred. Putrid smells clung to the air, wafted towards Carol. “Insane asylum?”

“Yep, town folks built it in 1874. Government tore it down in 1902. Over there,” he pointed an emaciated finger. “They buried their dead there. Kind of funny, don’t you think?” Ernest laughed innocently. “You’re living smack-dab on top of a cemetery.”




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