All the Grahams desired was ahome they could call their own... but what did the home want?
Illustrated by JOHNSON
On his last night on Earth,Ted Graham stepped outof a glass-walled telephonebooth, ducked to avoid aswooping moth that battered itselfin a frenzy against a bare globeabove the booth.
Ted Graham was a long-neckedman with a head of pronouncedegg shape topped by prematurelybalding sandy hair. Somethingabout his lanky, intense appearancesuggested his occupation: certifiedpublic accountant.
He stopped behind his wife,who was studying a newspaperclassified page, and frowned."They said to wait here. They'llcome get us. Said the place is hardto find at night."
Martha Graham looked up fromthe newspaper. She was a doll-facedwoman, heavily pregnant, akind of pink prettiness about her.The yellow glow from the lightabove the booth subdued the red-auburncast of her ponytail hair.
"I just have to be in a housewhen the baby's born," she said."What'd they sound like?"
"I dunno. There was a funnykind of interruption—like an argumentin some foreign language."
"Did they sound foreign?"
"In a way." He motioned alongthe night-shrouded line of trailerstoward one with two windowsglowing amber. "Let's wait inside.These bugs out here are fierce."
"Did you tell them which traileris ours?"
"Yes. They didn't sound at allanxious to look at it. That's odd—themwanting to trade their housefor a trailer."
"There's nothing odd about it.They've probably just got itchyfeet like we did."
He appeared not to hear her."Funniest-sounding language youever heard when that argumentstarted—like a squirt of noise."
Inside the trailer, Ted Grahamsat down on the green couchthat opened into a double bed forcompany.
"They could use a good tax accountantaround here," he said."When I first saw the place, I gotthat definite feeling. The valleylooks prosperous. It's a wondernobody's opened an office herebefore."
His wife took a straight chairby the counter separating kitchenand living area, folded her handsacross her heavy stomach.
"I'm just continental tired ofwheels going around under me,"she said. "I want to sit and stareat the same view for the rest ofmy life. I don't know how a trailerever seemed glamorous when—"
"It was the inheritance gave usitchy feet," he said.
Tires gritted on gravel outside.
Martha Graham straightened."Could that be them?"
"Awful quick, if it is." He wentto the door, opened it, stared downat the man who was just raisinga hand to knock.
"Are you Mr. Graham?" askedthe man.
"Yes." He found himself staringat the caller.
"I'm Clint Rush. You calledabout the house?" The man movedfarther into the light. At first, he'dappeared an old man, fine wrinklelines in his face, a tired leather lookto his skin. But as he moved hishead in the light, the wrinklesseemed to dissolve—and with them,the years lifted from him.
"Yes, we called," said TedGraham. He stood aside. "Do youwant to look at the trailer now?"
Martha Graham crossed tostand beside her husband. "We'vekept it in awfully good shape," shesaid. "We've never let anythingget seriously wrong with it."
She sounds too anxious, thoughtTed Graham. I wish she'd let medo the talking for the two of us.
"We can come back and lookat your trailer tomorrow in daylight,"said Rush. "My car's rightout