It is said that the large white house (truly a mansion) is occupied by Arnold Goodfellow. Not I, nor any of my acquaintances has ever seen this man. We have nicknamed him ‘The Phantom Awayfellow.’ On the rare occasion I drive past his manicured lawn, the white marble lady in the fountain is spurting water from her breasts. No caretakers are in sight, no cars, no limos, chauffeurs in the long driveway. Next to the black wrought iron gate is a large bronze letter box. A chain and lock keeps its contents out of nosey hands, hands such as mine might be, if the occasion to peep comes up unexpectedly.
My route to work doesn’t pass Goodfellow’s but I force it every few weeks, drive by slowly and am disappointed every dang time. Nothing happens, little changes. The grass remains manicured without a single mower mark. Not once have I seen the front door or any window open.
This week I see a gold colored flag on the mailbox. In its center is a purple circle. My curiosity piques, is about to erupt. What does the strange flag mean? I begin asking my friends if they have noticed the flag. Some have and some have not. I suggest the colors somehow make me think of Afghanistan, Pakistan, and any other ‘stan’ thousands of miles from here. My lady friend, Janet, says the gold colored flag only signifies money. ‘Nonsense. The mansion alone smells of wealth beyond our most beautiful dreams.’ I offer a second guess. The flag is a signal to the mailman to hold all mail. Janet goes along with this dumb guess.
Purposely, I take different routes to work, don’t like being so absorbed in the Phantom of Albemarle Road. Of course, that makes my curiosity bloom. It happens. The gate is open. Two large vans are in the circular driveway. I park across the road and watch. Taped cartons of all sizes come out, get stacked in van one. Lots of furniture, mostly heavy, is covered with white sheets. That goes in van two. Each piece looks massive, important. The moving people do not rush. They move slowly, carefully. Who is where giving them instructions? I see no one except the movers. Egads! I‘m late for work, start my car but keep looking in my side view mirror until the vans leave. The gate closes automatically. The flag on the mail box has been changed to somber black.
From a flag pole near the front winding stairs, I notice a flag pole that I had not seen before. A black flag hangs at half mast. It flutters gently in the cool evening breeze. My drive home is filled with more questions, questions I will simply file in my dead letter mind.
A small ad on the back page of the local section of the paper catches my eye. ‘Large historic home for sale, 9015 Albemarle Road. Auction Thursday, 10 a.m. Arnold Goodfellow antiques offered. Cash only. ’In the obits, in bold print, is ‘ Goodfellow, 85, passed over April one. Service Private.
That lets me out. I stay home, go on line, search the web for Arnold Goodfellow. Nothing comes up.
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