21. Gregory Allen Walker

DARREN

Lynchburg sits at the foothills of the rugged ridges and weathered peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains, roughly in the center of the state of Virginia. My father rarely talked about growing up here and as a kid, I just thought my father had always lived in Georgetown, or never thought about it at all. Lynchburg wasn't on the way to Clarksville, and there was never a reason to come here – until now.

I checked the address twice after looking over the small craftsman style house which looks abandoned. It wasn't simply that the owner had not kept up with repairs, but that it was simply not inhabitable. Plywood covered the windows, and several sections of roof shingles were torn up as if caught in a tornado.

No one has lived here for a while.

"When my father began his campaign, our private lives became public." I try to imagine my father living here. It's such a stark difference from the opulent Georgetown house. His personality was too large to fit in such a small home as this.

Evangeline sits silently next to me in the passenger seat with her legs crossed and one arm draped over the armrest as she waits for me to continue.

"Some reporter interviewed one of my college professors who seemed to give a glowing account of my intellect," I laugh wearily. "One had gone so far as getting a copy of my report card from junior high."

"That sounds very invasive," Evangeline remarks with obvious annoyance.

I shrug. "There wasn't anything particularly interesting on my report card other than one teacher said that I could become preoccupied by chatting with the opposite sex and not pay attention to the lesson."

At that, Evangeline laughs, trying to politely cover her mouth given the fact that we're sitting outside what used to be my father's childhood home.

"It's true. I was distracted by Rebecca Fade," I say fondly. "She had this beautiful long red hair."

"You mean you weren't into blondes back then," she teases.

"Ah, my taste in blondes came a bit later." I cast my eyes towards her. She's wearing her hair down the way I like, her bangs pushed to the side so I can see her pretty blue eyes gazing back at me.

"I was going to ask why the media seemed so interested in you when it was your father who was running for office, but…"

"Then you realized who you were talking about?" I brush a fake crumb off my shoulder.

Evangeline smacks my arm playfully.

"But they ran plenty on my father too," I continue, and watch as her playfulness ebbs away.

"Even after all that digging, somehow, there was barely a mention of Lynchburg."

The smiles and laughter seemed to be swallowed up by the silence in the car.

"I wonder why that is?"

I turn back towards the house, trying to imagine what it would have looked like when my father lived here – if the shutters were painted white, or if there were flowers planted in the front yard.

I turn back toward Evangeline, resting my hand against my mouth.

"What do you think Rausch wanted you to find here?"

Shrugging, I remark, "He likes to fuck with me." I wave my hand at the abandoned house as proof. "What he said was that despite what I thought, he didn't know everything about my father."

"You don't believe that?"

"I don't know what I'm doing here or what I thought I'd find. Does it even really matter anymore?" I ask, facing her.

"He's the only family you have. If that isn't a good reason, I don't know what is."

A knock on the window startles me, and I turn to see an older woman staring back at me with a very angry expression. I roll down the window cautiously.

"If you're one of them investors looking to knock down my house and build one of those McMansions, I'm here to tell you that we don't want that in this neighborhood." She jabs her finger at me.

I shake my head. "I'm not an investor." She steps back as I open the car door and get out.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" She places both her hands on her hips and looks me up and down.

Granted, my expensive looking attire and choice of car doesn't exactly scream humble American innocently sitting in front of an abandoned house, so I get why she doesn't trust me, aside from me being a stranger.

"Do you know the family that used to live here?"

"Who's asking?"

I hold out my hand but she just stares at me with a weary expression. "I'm Darren Walker."

There's a flicker of recognition in her eyes but she still questions me. "That supposed to mean something?"

"I think my grandfather used to live here. Gregory Allen Walker?" I probe cautiously, the word grandfather feeling a bit forced and foreign on my tongue, which she notices.

"You think?" She rears her head back, examining me. "If he was your grandfather, then shouldn't you know if he lived here or not?"

I can't help but chuckle, and I feel sorry for any actual investor who comes to make her an offer. "I didn't know him. He had a falling out with my father a long time ago."

She looks me over again, studying my face as if she's looking for something. I suppose when her expression softens a bit, she recognizes the traits strong enough to be passed down to both my father and me.

"Yeah, I knew the Walkers. What do you want with him?"

"He came to my father's funeral." The minute I say it her posture changes, lowering her arms to her side, the angry lines disappearing from her face.

"You're Senator Kerry Walker's son?" she asks.

"You know him then."

"Everyone knows him."

I give her a hopeful smile.

"Didn't like his politics much, but I was sorry to hear that he passed," she apologizes, her southern accent becoming more prominent as if letting down her guard.

"I didn't get a chance to talk to my grandfather, and this was the last known address I have." I rub the back of my neck, wondering once again if I made the right decision coming here. My heart says no, that this house just stirs up more memories, but he's the only family I have left, and there's a part of me that wants to know him, even if it was bad – especially if it was bad, because then maybe I can finally put to rest these questions that keep me up at night.

"You really aren't here to tear down the house, are you?" she speculates, the skepticism now fully chipped away.

"No." I shake my head. "I just thought… I thought I would find some answers, I guess, but it doesn't look like this house has been lived in for a long time."

"Ethel Jackson. That's my name."

I lean down and motion into the car. "This is my wife, Evangeline." The word wife rolls off my tongue much easier than the word grandfather.

Ethel doesn't need to lean in, she just looks past me to where Evangeline sits in the car giving a little wave. "Nice to meet you," Ethel says, and then looks back at me.

"Winter storm last year." She points to the house. "Snow became too heavy and collapsed part of the roof in the back, but truth be told, this house hasn't been taken care of for a long time." She confirms what I had already suspected.

"Did you know my grandfather?" I probe tentatively, but what I really want to know is if she knew my father, but that seems almost impossible since my father left home nearly thirty years ago and presumably never looked back. Ethel might have lived in this neighborhood her whole life, but that doesn't mean she remembers him.

"He ain't lived here for about a good year now."

"Big shots been buying up homes in the neighborhood, building these monstrosities and driving up property taxes that no one around here can afford."

"Did they buy this house?" I look at it skeptically.

"They don't care what the house looks like, son. They care about the land it's on.

What am I supposed to do when I can't afford my property tax bill anymore?" she agonizes, and I can see the worry lines in her face. "This house is all I got."

"There's nothing you can do about investors buying properties as long as they buy them legitimately."

Evangeline gets out of the car and stands next to me. She looks at Ethel with concern.

"There must be something you can do," Evangeline pleads.

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Have you looked into a relief program?"

"I don't know what that is." Ethel gives me a skeptical look.

"Some states have what's called a senior freeze program. There are obviously age requirements, but if you qualify it freezes the valuation of your home," I explain.

"You think I could do that?" Her face lights up, smoothing out the worry lines on her forehead.

I feel Evangeline loop her fingers through mine.

"You'd have to see if the county has a program first."

"Sounds like a lot of red tape," she grouses, and then shakes her head in frustration. "I… I wouldn't know the first thing about how to do any of that."

"You don't have any grandkids that are computer savvy?" I inquire.

She narrows her eyes at me. "Most of them moved away. I got one all the way in California."

"You could help her." Evangeline squeezes my hand. This isn't why I came here, but with both Evangeline and Ethel giving me a wide-eyed, pleading look, I don't see how I can leave here without at least looking it up for her.

"If you help me with this relief program, I'll tell you everything I know," she offers in her best conspiratorial tone.

"I can't guarantee anything," I make sure to explain.

"Ain"t nothing come with a guarantee unless it's death or taxes." Ethel rolls her eyes, and I can't help but laugh.

"Do you have a computer?"

"I might live in the country, but I'm no bumpkin. Sure, I got a computer." She waves me to follow her inside, and reluctantly I follow.

"This is very sweet of you to do," Evangeline says softy while she takes my arm, and I help her up the stairs to Ethel"s house.

"Do I have a choice?"