Because who is ever really fixed when it comes to mental or emotional health? Life takes radical twists and turns, and hopes and dreams shift as people enter different phases of their lives. Yesterday, via Skype—we speak every Monday—Dr. Bowen reminded me that we’re all continual works in progress.
I was musing about all of this as I stood over my grill later in the evening with the radio playing in the background. The sun was going down, illuminating a kaleidoscope sky as I flipped the NY strip I’d picked up from the Village Butcher on the far side of town. In the kitchen, I had a salad and baked potato ready to go, but if you’re thinking I’m some kind of chef, I’m not. I have a simple palate and I’m decent with the grill, but that’s about it. Since moving to New Bern, I’d been shoving charcoal into my grandfather’s old Weber three or four times a week and setting the coals ablaze. It made me nostalgic for all those summers of my childhood, when my grandfather and I grilled our suppers almost every night.
When the steak was ready, I added it to my plate and sat at the table on the back porch. It was dark by then, the house lights glowing from within, and moonlight reflected off the still waters of Brices Creek. The steak was perfect, but my baked potato was a bit cold. I would have popped it in the microwave, except for the fact that the kitchen didn’t have a microwave. Though I’d made the house livable, I hadn’t yet decided on whether to renovate the kitchen, or put on a new roof, or seal the windows, or even fix the slant in the kitchen floor. If I decided to sell the place, I suspected that whoever bought it would tear down the old house, so they could put a custom home on the property. You didn’t need to be a real estate whiz to figure out that any value to the property was in the land, not the structure.
After finishing my dinner, I brought the plate inside and set it in the sink. Opening a beer, I returned to the porch to do some reading. I had a stack of psychiatric books and textbooks I wanted to finish perusing before I moved to Baltimore, on subjects ranging from psychopharmaceuticals to the value and drawbacks associated with hypnosis. The more I’d been reading, the more I felt I had to learn. I had to admit my study skills were rusty; I sometimes felt like I was an old dog and these were new tricks. When I’d said as much to Dr. Bowen, he’d essentially told me to quit whining. Or that’s how I took it, anyway.
I’d settled into the rocking chair, turned on the lamp, and had just started reading when I thought I heard a voice calling out from around the corner of the house. I turned down the radio, waited a beat, and heard the sound again.
“Hello?”
Rising from my seat, I grabbed my beer and moved to the porch railing. Peeking into the darkness, I called back. “Is someone there?”
A moment later, a woman in uniform stepped into the light. Specifically, the uniform of a deputy sheriff. The sight caught me off guard. My experience with law enforcement to that point in my life was limited to highway patrolmen, two of whom had pulled me over for speeding in my younger years. Though I’d been apologetic and polite, each of them nonetheless gave me a ticket, and dealing with law enforcement ever since made me nervous. Even if I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I didn’t say anything; I was too busy trying to figure out why a deputy sheriff was paying me a visit, while the other part of my brain was processing the fact that the uniformed officer was female. Call me a sexist, but I hadn’t interacted with many women in law enforcement, especially down here.
“I’m sorry for coming around the side of the house,” she finally said. “I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear me.” Her demeanor was friendly but professional. “I’m with the sheriff’s department.”
“Can I help you?”
Her eyes flickered to the grill, then back to me. “I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”
“Not at all.” I shook my head. “I just finished.”
“Oh, good. And again, I apologize for intruding, Mr.…”
“Benson,” I said. “Trevor Benson.”
“I just came by to ask whether you’re a legal resident of this property.”
I nodded, though I was a little surprised by the phrasing. “I guess so. It used to be my grandfather’s, but he passed away and left it to me.”
“You mean Carl?”
“You knew him?”
“A little. And I’m sorry for your loss. He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was. I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Masterson,” she said. “Natalie Masterson.” She was quiet then, and I had a sense that she was studying me. “You said Carl was your grandfather?”
“On my mother’s side.”
“I think he mentioned you. You’re a surgeon, right? With the Navy?”
“I was, but not anymore.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry—I’m still not exactly sure why you’ve come by.”
“Oh.” She motioned toward the house. “I was finishing up my shift but I was out this way, and when I saw the lights on, I thought I’d check it out.”
“Am I not allowed to turn on lights?”
“No, it’s not that.” She smiled. “Obviously, everything is okay and I shouldn’t have bothered you. It’s just that a few months ago, after your grandfather had died, there were reports of lights in the windows. I knew the house was supposed to be empty, so I swung by to check it out. And though I couldn’t be certain, I had the impression that someone had been staying here. Not that there was any damage except for the back door, but combined with the lights being seen in the windows, I felt that I should keep an eye on the place. So I’ve made it a point to swing by every now and then, just to make sure there’s no one here that shouldn’t be. Vagrants or squatters, teens using the place to party, tweakers working a meth lab. Whatever.”
“Is there a lot of that around here?”
“No more than other places, I guess. But enough to keep us busy.”
“Just so you know, I don’t do drugs.”
She motioned toward the bottle I was holding. “Alcohol is a drug.”
“Even beer?”
When she smiled, I guessed she was a few years younger than me, with blond hair tacked up into a messy bun, and her eyes were so aqua colored that they could have been bottled and sold as mouthwash. That she was attractive went without saying, and better yet, she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“No comment,” she finally offered.
“Would you like to come in and check out the house?”
“No, that’s all right. I’m just glad I don’t have to worry anymore. I was fond of Carl. Whenever he was selling honey at the farmers’ market, we’d visit for a while.”
I remembered sitting with my grandfather at a roadside stand every Saturday during my visits, but I had no recollection of a farmers’ market. Then again, New Bern had a lot more of everything now than it had in the past—restaurants, stores, businesses—even if it still remained a small town at heart. Alexandria, which was just a suburb in the DC area and one of many, had five or six times the population. Even there, I suspect Natalie Masterson would have turned heads.
“What can you tell me about the possible squatter?” I asked.