Gone Home✔️

Chapter 04: Snooping

Who was she?

I put it back after staring at it for a little bit longer, deciding that I really didn't recognize her at all and figuring maybe she was a new friend of Sam's, then picked up the other item. It was a clipping from a newspaper article, an obituary.

I read it over.

OSCAR "DOC" MASAN

Oscar Masan, 60, of
Boon County, died
peacefully last month
in his home.

Mr. Masan was born
on September 8,
1933, in the house
that would be his
home for the rest of
his life. He attained
his degree in
Pharmacy at a young age, and returned to
Boon County to practice. He quickly became
a well-loved figure at the center of the community.

In the decades proceeding his passing he was
seldom seen outside his home.

A service will be held this Sunday at the First
Methodist Church at 1:00 PM. All are welcome.

His survivors include his nephew, Terrance
Greenbriar, as well as, in spirit, the people of
Boon County, to whom he provided wellness
and comfort.

There was a picture included, a man with glasses in a suit with an awkward smile who vaguely resembled dad.

"So," I mumbled, "you're great uncle Oscar."

I guess we owed him this new house and, in a roundabout way, I guess I owed him this adventure I was on. I replaced the obit and checked out the other nooks and crannies, but there was nothing left. Time to move on. There was another door on the right side of the hall, closed. I opened it up, finding another room that wasn't totally dark. There was a little lamp with a green metal covering over it on my right.

I recognized that lamp.

It was dad's lamp, for his office.

I reached out and found another light button, pushed it and watched the lights spring into existence. Oh man, this was dad's office. Suddenly, my adventure had turned into something else: snooping. I suppose I'd done my fair share of it in the past and dad had always been shooing me out of his office as a kid. I thought I'd grown out of it...but, ugh, the urge was too much! I just had to know, I had to know people's secrets.

I know, it's wrong, but...

When am I ever going to get another opportunity like this?

Besides, Sam would totally hide something in here for me.

Dad's office was kind of a mess. A tall bookshelf to the left crammed with books, dad's desk and a filing cabinet to the right, his rolling chair pushed to the middle of the floor, marooned on a sea of dark hardwood and another one of those fancy tables across the room. I wish I knew what to call them, I'm sure there's a name for them, I just don't know it. Fancy table it is then, apparently great uncle Oscar had like a million of them.

I decided to start with the bookshelf first. I wasted a few minutes scanning over dad's books. Only a few of them really leaped out at me: Atonement by Hollcroft, The Complete Iching by Chu, whatever that was.

I almost missed the bottle of booze, its glass neck peeking out over the top of the bookshelf. Reluctantly, I stood up on my tip-toes and snagged it. Irish Whiskey. I frowned intently, studying it, then carefully put it back. Maybe there were some secrets I didn't want to know. I remember dad having a problem with drinking about ten years ago. I was too young to really know, but I don't think it ever got crazy out of control.

No AA, no DTs, no DWIs...I think. But I do remember it stopped and mom made kind of a big deal out of it. She sat me and Sam down one December day and said that dad was going to be in a really bad mood for the next week or two and we had to go easy on him. When I asked why, she said he was quitting drinking but wouldn't really explain more. I was at least old enough to know she meant drinking beer, (back then, to me, all alcohol was beer, and it was horrible, I once accidentally took a sip of dad's Budweiser, mistaking it for my can of soda...I didn't even swallow, I ran to the sink and spit it out, haven't taken a drink since), but Sam thought she meant drinking anything. For about a year she looked confused whenever he drank some water or soda, but she at least got the feeling not to ask any questions about it.

Eventually I explained it to her.

So dad was drinking again...was it a big deal? I remember he'd been in a kind of depressive slump over the past few years. He'd published two books a long time ago, but they hadn't really done all that well. I knew he now had a job writing product descriptions for new pieces of technology, and it at least helped pay the bills, but I knew it wasn't the same. It always depressed me. Mom was living her dream...dad was writing freaking product reviews.

The only thing interesting I found in the fancy table was an 'Electrical Inspection Form'. I guess it was to see if the house was up to code. I learned two things. The first was that apparently the mansion was at least a century old. Man, talk about ancient! The second was that due to all sorts of crazy wiring that had been added in over all that time, now the house had unpredictable electrical issues, though none of them were technically unsafe. It did say that walking around 'disrupts circuits wired directly behind the surface' and 'lights blink out for no clear reason'.

Yeah, as if the place wasn't creepy enough as it was.

I replaced the paper and kept hunting.

There was a book on dad's chair in the center of the room. Another one of his crazy JFK conspiracy novels. Not one he'd written, someone else's book. I always thought that was so strange...what a weird thing to be obsessed with.

His desk was cluttered with papers and markers, and apparently he'd left his most recent product review in the word processor. I remember when he got this thing. It was basically like a more fancy typewriter and it looked kind of sci-fi.

Apparently he'd written a glowing review, or part of one at least, for an 'LD/CD Player' with a bunch of highly technical stuff added on. Apparently it cost...$999.99! What the heck!? Who would pay for that?!

My attention was drawn to another cork-board that had about twenty sticky notes slapped all over it, all of them covered in dad's scrawl about crazy JFK stuff. But I felt my heart twinge with sadness when I saw what was at the center, done up in big bold lettering: YOU CAN DO BETTER. I tried to tell myself that it was a motivational thing, that dad was just trying to hype himself up, (hey, we all do it sometimes, and don't we all need it every now and then?), but I knew it wasn't true. It was more like he was berating himself.

I'm sorry, dad.

I went back to the desk, figuring that, well, if I was in it, why not go all the way? I poked through the drawers and, again, almost missed something really important...there was a false bottom to the top left drawer.

There was just one thing hidden under it: a letter.

It said it was from August 10th, 1972. Jeez, a long time ago.

I started reading.

Hello Terrence,

I write on what I hope and imagine must be a joyous
occasion. News reaches me that you are newly married
to a wonderful young woman. I have had more than a
little time, during my long days and nights at the house
on Arbor Hill, to consider my past and my family, and
my thoughts have often lingered on your development
and welfare in the ten years since we last met. Your
marriage gives me much reassurance in this regard.

I wish you and your new bride many happy years
together. You are always welcome on Arbor Hill,
though I will understand of course if you feel you
cannot accept this invitation.

Yours very sincerely,
Oscar Masan

Slowly, carefully, I folded up the letter, which had been very hard to read, as it was ancient and, in some places, torn. I put it back in the envelope from which I'd plucked it, replaced it and the false bottom and set the 3-ring binder that had originally been atop it back in place. Then I closed the drawer. I suddenly wondered why dad had never mentioned his uncle Oscar. I stood there for almost five minutes thinking about it, then decided that no, I had never heard about Oscar. Why was that? This letter seemed to suggest that something had happened.

Why wouldn't my dad want to come back here?

What had happened?