“I don’t like this, Spence,” Sam whispers.“Neither do I,” he says quickly over his shoulder.They follow the homeless man into a large room with a high vaulted ceiling. There is paper and dust all over. There are broken floor boards and holes in the walls. The house looks like it was once a very nice place to live that just sudden fell apart from disuse and neglect.“Sit. Sit. Yes, sit,” the man mumbles on while he takes a seat of his own on one of the three wooden chairs set in the center of the room.Spencer and Sam take seats themselves, both ready for the moment that danger does finally strike. “So what can you help with?” Spencer asks with a profound growing impatience.“Money, money,” the man mutters, holding out his hand toward the pair. “Money first.”With a nod from Spencer, Sam produces a few twenties and hands them over to the outstretched hand. The homeless man takes them and giggles. “Mmm, American. Yes, yes, much better than Russian money.”“Information ... now...” Spencer. ” He handed me a small sheaf of pink notes. I glanced through them.“It’s all right. Nothing critical. Thank you.”“You’re quite welcome, sir. Enjoy your evening.”I took Marilyn by the arm and led her towards the restaurant. Once we were seated, Marilyn asked, “So, what were the messages?”I simply handed them to her. They were in time order. The first four were from my mother, starting at a time well before I could have ever possibly have arrived, all demanding insistently that I call her immediately. The fifth and final note was from my father, telling me to ignore my mother’s notes, not to call the house, and call him at his office tomorrow, along with his direct line phone number. I stuffed them in my pocket when she handed them back.“What does it mean?” she asked.I sighed. “It means my mother has gone off the deep end, but my father has managed to calm her down. It means I’m never going home again.” I shrugged with a fatalistic look. There are some things you can’t fix. My brother.
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