The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2004

to disorient her and take her property. In the final pile were uncashed dividend checks from 25,000 shares of Eastern Shore Power stock. The checks Campbell had found totaled more than $135,000. The envelopes and papers in today’s box were from six years ago. On top was a letter from A. K. Hillston, Agent, Internal Revenue Service. There were three high-priority goals of Campbell’s, and maintaining the peace with Agent Hillston was one. As Rose carried on with Eastern Shore Power, Hillston came to collect what the government was owed. Over fruit pies and iced tea, he and Rose had spoken many times. Hillston realized that Rose was unable to deal with the world, and he decided that anything the government was owed would come at her death. The second goal of Campbell’s was to keep CreekShore Homes from getting Rose’s land at the end of his road. Rose failed to pay the property taxes, and CreekShore Homes led the charge to have the land sold at auction. Constant calls to the tax-hungry coun- cil reminded them of what a hundred new waterfront houses would mean to the local contractors. Quietly, Campbell had borrowed the money against his savings and paid the taxes in Rose’s name. In the year that followed he obtained a power of attorney, with Rose’s signature coming after his invocation that CreekShore’s owner was trying to damage her hus- band’s business. Mr. Williams, Rose’s husband, had died 30 years earlier, and his partner’s son, T. R. Raines, owned CreekShore Development Corporation. The Raines name agitated Rose, and Campbell had found a common enemy whom he could use to advantage. Every month the company lawyer asked about Rose’s condition and sent flowers. Campbell only lamented that Rose was intestate, and he meekly con- jectured that the land would certainly go to auction. The power of attorney was fragile, especially if some lost cousin was to figure out that there was a $7 million pot of land and stocks. Campbell proceeded discreet- ly, using the shield of charity. Nassawango Creek was wild and was the northern reach of the bald cypress. On the higher parts of the land there was remnant American chestnut. Campbell was arranging the trans- fer of the land into a private conservancy that would produce enough cash to handle Rose’s perilous debts. He carried on all of his business with lawyers in the capital, Annapolis. F rom his desk that looked out over a ragged field, Campbell could see the tundra swans in the famous wide cove of the creek. The swans had arrived two weeks ago, the Friday after Thanksgiving. They flew in behind a strong storm, a storm that had toppled the old sweet gum tree into the creek. He watched Mal-ku, the last of Rose’s cats, walk down the trunk of the fallen tree. Everyday, Mal-ku walked the 50 feet out to the end of the trunk. From there he shimmied out one of the branches until his front legs dangled in the air. He sat motionless as the black-billed swans cir- cled, unconcerned, below him. The fur on Mal-ku’s neck occasionally stood. Mal-ku was Campbell’s greatest failure; he had negotiated no peace with the cat. The only building that remained on Rose’s land was a Norwegian-cut log barn with 30 five-foot-long, 14-inch-square timbers. One end of the barn had a massive chimney. On sum- mer evenings, Mal-ku straddled the peak of the barn’s roof, watching the bats and swallows at sunset. In win- ter, he walked the shores of Nassawango Creek, shad- owing the flock of tundra swans. He’d not been in a house since Rose’s was burned down for practice by the fire department. Over time, Rose had closed off portions of her house — first the upstairs, then random rooms downstairs. She said they were full. There were cats, some indoors, some out, and eventually they had overrun the house. Rose started to forget, to wander, and to set fires on top of her cold electric stove and in her sink. Three years ago, Campbell arranged to move Rose into Pine Hill to live with Mae and Big Jimmie. This was his final goal — that Rose was well cared for and did not die alone. Campbell became the keeper of Mal-ku. Rose let any visitors, even Campbell, only onto the back porch. She said that the rest of the place was too messy. One day, after noticing the kitchen curtains had not been raised, Campbell ventured in to see if Rose was alive or dead. Nothing could have prepared him for the F O C U S J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 4 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 39 Ricky Rood is an atmospheric physicist whose sister is a member of the Foreign Service. Originally from North Carolina, he currently lives on the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland. In addition to scientific publications, he writes short stories, poems and essays, which have appeared in Faultline, Arnazella and Night Music.