The Homeless Millionaire

I was on my way to Tracy's house by nine o'clock the next morning. I had gotten up with the sun, had showered and breakfasted by eight, and spent an hour walking around the house. I had to spend an hour walking around the house because I didn't want to arrive at Tracy's place too early. She sure as hell wouldn't be pleased if I pulled her out of bed.

I was getting pretty close to her house when it dawned on me her uncle could be there, too. Somehow I had forgotten all about him. I didn't want to deal with Tracy's uncle. I was pretty sure he had me for an asshole. I hadn't been rude to him on our first meeting, but then I wasn't nice and charming either. That wisecrack about him stopping whatever he was doing, or doing it somewhere else – Jesus! That was probably why he wanted Tracy to move out.

I didn't quite believe he was Tracy's uncle, either. His anger after my visit, the fact he was throwing her out of the house—all that suggested a sexual relationship. And even if he was her uncle, and there was no sex involved, he wouldn't be pleased to see me again.

I went into full Vietnam mode when I got close to the house, creeping between trees and bushes to stay undetected. I found a good spot behind a tree, maybe twenty steps from the front door. I may have been undetectable by human eyes, but quite a few insects took note and came over to investigate. They seemed to find me attractive, more so than Tracy did.

It really took an effort of will to stay crouched behind that tree, because it went on and on and got really boring. I was tempted to go and knock on the door a hundred times. I was also tempted to go home a hundred times. It was real hell, without a cigarette, but my patience was rewarded. I started hearing stuff happening inside that house.

I heard raised voices, and I had no trouble recognizing Tracy's. Then a male voice—I wasn't completely sure if it belonged to the famous uncle—began shouting, and continued shouting for a while. Unfortunately, it still wasn't loud enough for me to understand what was being shouted.

I looked around for a good spot to move, and hide closer to the house. There wasn't one. There was a hollow behind a couple of saplings that sort of semi-qualified, but anyone leaving the house would only need a single glance in that direction to spot the moron among the leaves. I was convincing myself to move there anyway when the male voice inside the house shouted very loudly:

"Fuck you!""

This was followed by the sound of a slap.

I half-rose from my haunches, then settled back. I couldn't intervene in anything going on inside the house. It would amount to home invasion. But sometimes, home invasion was justified, especially when violence was taking place. Was it justified now?

Right after I asked myself that question, the front door crashed open and Tracy's 'uncle' stormed out. He was wearing a shirt and a jacket and a heavy scowl, and carrying a brown leather traveling bag. He wrenched the door of the Mustang open, threw his bag in on the back seat, got in, started the engine, and drove away. He was in such a hurry that he sprayed pebbles and gravel all over the place.

I waited until I couldn't hear the car any more. Then I stood up, and approached the house.

I didn't need to knock: the door had been left open. I put my head inside before entering, and took in the scene.

The layout seemed to be much like Roch's place: after all, both houses had been built by the same developer. I could see an identical hallway leading to the living room and the kitchen, and connecting the bedrooms. But the interior of Roch's place had been painted white, while here the walls were finished in blond wood. Tracy's 'uncle' had gone for the rustic look. It suited him, he certainly behaved like a fucking peasant.

"Tracy?" I said. Then I called out, much louder:

"Tracy?"

I heard a sob from the direction of the kitchen, and rushed there.

Tracy was sitting at the kitchen table. She was crying. She didn't look at me when I entered. She was totally absorbed in her own suffering. I stood in the kitchen doorway without any idea of what to do next. Finally I said:

"Tracy?"

"Get the fuck out of here," she said without looking at me. I didn't; her words froze me to the spot. She finally looked at me. There was a red mark on her cheek, and her face was wet with tears. She said:

"Get the fuck out of here before he comes back and kills you. Get the fuck out because if you stay here, I will fucking kill you myself."

"I can't," I said. She stared at me.

"I can't leave you here like that," I said. "I just can't, sorry. If you don't want me here—leave with me. You can stay at my place, I mean Roch's place."

She looked at me in silence for a while. Then she said:

"You're a fucking moron, you know that?"

"It's crossed my mind," I said.

"You must go. You really must go now. I will be going, too, don't you worry. I just have to get my shit together." She began crying again. I waited a bit, and said:

"Come with me. I'll help you get your stuff and carry it for you. It's a long walk."

She shook her head, but she stopped crying. She sat looking at the kitchen table and I looked at her. Eventually she said:

"I need some time to myself. Maybe I'll come over tomorrow, all right? I know the way. Now go."

I almost couldn't believe my ears.

"You'll come tomorrow?" I said.

"Yes. Now go! Go, for fuck's sake. Go now."

I said:

"I'll be waiting."

Then I went home.