My chapbook Orwell’s Year is published by Blue Cubicle Press. Order it here.
In the spring I arrived in Cambridge with the relief of someone given food after days without any. The black Lincoln Continental I’d picked up in Oak Park, Illinois for National Driveaway Inc. belonged to the Hull family on Cedar Lane in Weston, a suburb of country estates and at least two golf courses. Stopping in the circular driveway, the home I stared at was deep green with white trim, the plot of land it was on half the size of a football field and surrounded by woods. I hadn’t seen any other houses around it. Driving up the road, a good half mile, I’d passed only two others.
I gave the horn a single respectful beep in hopes of getting the attention of anyone in it. A few moments later a woman wearing olive slacks and a white blouse came out of one of the big wood doors. “Well hello.” She waved at me.