Ned was trying to get his toenails down with a #2 pencil eraser.
Once the nail on each toe was shortened to the proper length, Ned went about fixing his breakfast as usual. Today was oatmeal with petrified raisin.
Ned expects a visitor this morning. Midway through the oatmeal,
a knock is heard at the front door.
Ned has second thoughts as he reaches for the knob. He twists it naturally to the right and the front door opens.
A brown skinned Somalian boy stands straight with a dopey smile and his hand outstretched.
“Missa...Drum?” the Somalian sputters hopefully.
Ned takes the boy’s hand and they shake.
“Yes,” he says.
“I am Ned Drum. You must be Ohdy. Please come in out of the cold.”
Ohdy furrows his brown, perplexed.
“But, Missa Drum,” Ohdy looks up.
“Sun out and very hot.”
“Never mind that,” says Ned.
“Just come inside. Let me grab your bag.”
Ohdy lifts a worn blue duffel bag with little white stars printed along the side off the front porch and enters through Ned’s door.
Inside there are many lights (a dozen floor lamps, at least and no less than three chandeliers)
all switched on. Ohdy raises his free hand to shield his eyes.
No art hangs on the walls, but above the fireplace hangs a portrait of a beautiful blond woman, elegantly dressed in a purple eggplant shaped gown. Her blond hair hangs past her shoulders and has red ribbons tied throughout.
The full breasts protruding from the eggplant remind of Ohdy of freshly baked rolls.
‘Who could this woman be?’ Ohdy wonders silently.
As if by some telekinetic cue, Ned speaks,
“My wife, Mrs. Carson Drum. She is no longer with us.”
“She leave you, Missa Drum?”
“No,” Ned answers calmly. He pauses and stares at the picture.
“Carson passed away six years ago, Ohdy. If only she were alive now, I am certain she would have been delighted by you.”
Ohdy is uncomfortable with death.
He considers how to console Ned.
“Sad news, Missa Drum. I am very sorry to hear this.”
Carson Drum stares down enchantedly, her presence unmistakable.
Ned Drum has moved into the kitchen.
“You must be hungry, Ohdy. do you like cherry pie?”
Inside the kitchen Ohdy marvels at the electric oven, the refrigerator and especially the microwave.
Ohdy finds the concept of tables and chairs peculiar.
“Have a seat. Let me take your bag,” says Ned.
He grabs the duffel out of Ohdy’s hand and takes it into another room, what appears to be the only dark room in the house.
Once the nail on each toe was shortened to the proper length, Ned went about fixing his breakfast as usual. Today was oatmeal with petrified raisin.
Ned expects a visitor this morning. Midway through the oatmeal,
a knock is heard at the front door.
Ned has second thoughts as he reaches for the knob. He twists it naturally to the right and the front door opens.
A brown skinned Somalian boy stands straight with a dopey smile and his hand outstretched.
“Missa...Drum?” the Somalian sputters hopefully.
Ned takes the boy’s hand and they shake.
“Yes,” he says.
“I am Ned Drum. You must be Ohdy. Please come in out of the cold.”
Ohdy furrows his brown, perplexed.
“But, Missa Drum,” Ohdy looks up.
“Sun out and very hot.”
“Never mind that,” says Ned.
“Just come inside. Let me grab your bag.”
Ohdy lifts a worn blue duffel bag with little white stars printed along the side off the front porch and enters through Ned’s door.
Inside there are many lights (a dozen floor lamps, at least and no less than three chandeliers)
all switched on. Ohdy raises his free hand to shield his eyes.
No art hangs on the walls, but above the fireplace hangs a portrait of a beautiful blond woman, elegantly dressed in a purple eggplant shaped gown. Her blond hair hangs past her shoulders and has red ribbons tied throughout.
The full breasts protruding from the eggplant remind of Ohdy of freshly baked rolls.
‘Who could this woman be?’ Ohdy wonders silently.
As if by some telekinetic cue, Ned speaks,
“My wife, Mrs. Carson Drum. She is no longer with us.”
“She leave you, Missa Drum?”
“No,” Ned answers calmly. He pauses and stares at the picture.
“Carson passed away six years ago, Ohdy. If only she were alive now, I am certain she would have been delighted by you.”
Ohdy is uncomfortable with death.
He considers how to console Ned.
“Sad news, Missa Drum. I am very sorry to hear this.”
Carson Drum stares down enchantedly, her presence unmistakable.
Ned Drum has moved into the kitchen.
“You must be hungry, Ohdy. do you like cherry pie?”
Inside the kitchen Ohdy marvels at the electric oven, the refrigerator and especially the microwave.
Ohdy finds the concept of tables and chairs peculiar.
“Have a seat. Let me take your bag,” says Ned.
He grabs the duffel out of Ohdy’s hand and takes it into another room, what appears to be the only dark room in the house.
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