The Antique

Chapter Two: The First Visitor

I carried the typewriter inside, wondering whatever could have possessed me to do such a thing. I couldn't think of anything. The man who gave it to me was most definitely losing it—and, if he was telling the truth, what could happen to me throughout all of this? What was so special about an old typewriter for people to go searching for? And, speaking of which, if they'd wanted it so desperately, why didn't they just take it from the store? It was on display in the center of the shop, if someone was as desperate as the man had made them seem, it certainly wouldn't have been hard to find. At any rate, at least I got a free typewriter out of it. I set it on my desk, deciding to return to it later. For now, however, I couldn't think on an empty stomach. I wandered into the kitchen, pulling the door shut behind me.

      I cracked two eggs onto my special pan for fried eggs—one normal sized pan with four small circles inside so they don't spread into each other—and popped some bread into the toaster. I was just going for the cheese when I heard  a knock on the door. My immediate instinct was to run and hide as I did when I was a child, but unfortunately I lived on my own, and could no longer rely my mother to answer the door. I was on my way to open up  when I heard a second knock.
      "Someone's impatient," I muttered. I opened the door to find a man I'd never seen before. He was dressed in a fancy suit, complete with tie. He looked ready to go to a wedding—or a funeral. Funny how two very different things could be connected by such a thing as mere clothing.
"Uh, can I help you?" I asked, the typewriter only briefly crossing my mind, as the eggs on the stove had more precedence.
      "Ah, yes, I'm looking for the current renter of this apartment?" Was my water bill really that late?
      "Yes, you've found her." Please don't be a missed bill, please don't be a missed bill, please don't be a missed bill, please-
      "Ah, wonderful, I believe you have something of mine."
     "Oh, my apologies, what are you looking for?" I swear, if he says something about money for a water bill-
     "All is well, as long as it's returned to me. An old typewriter of mine was stolen a few weeks back, and I've traced it to this apartment...?" Oh. They were already coming. I can't believe I'd already forgotten about all of it because of-
      "The eggs! Oh, I'm so sorry, please come in. I just have to grab some eggs off of the stove, and then we can get right back to it." I led him back to the small kitchen, glad that I had shut my bedroom door earlier. I grabbed the eggs—which weren't quite cooked yet—off the stove to finish later.
     "Sorry about that, now, you were saying?"
     "Ehm, yes, I believe you have an old typewriter of mine."
      "A typewriter, yes!" I had no idea what to say. On one hand, I'd promised the shop keeper that I would keep it safe, and I didn't necessarily feel like breaking that promise. On the other hand, how did I know who was telling the truth? This guy genuinely could have had some precious antique stolen from him, and there it was, in my possession. If I told him I didn't have it, and then he found out that I did, I could possible go to jail for it. Although, I suppose I could finally work on my arms like I kept meaning to. I was really lost. I decided to do some digging on this man first.
      "I don't believe I it, I'm afraid. But I'm curious, is it a family heirloom you're looking for?"
"Yes, it's been in the family for generations. It has been sorely missed these past few weeks."
"Oh wow, yes, that's such a terrible thing to have stolen."
"Yes, my family and I have been searching desperately since it was lost, it is very important to us. So if you happen to know where it is..."
"Where are you and your family from?"
"A small town in Nebraska, Corsville"
"No way, I grew up there!"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I know your father. A great man, you're a lucky woman to have a father like him, Emma Wilson."
      Every muscle in my body went on high alert. I hadn't used my father's name in many many years, not since he'd disappeared on my mother and I. And he said that he knows him, not that he knew him. My feather is alive—and he has something to do with the typewriter. That's when I decided. Eventually, on the matter of the typewriter, it all came down to loyalty. Either to this man, or the man at the antique store, and I knew eventually I would have to pick a side. I was only twelve when my father left. No warning, he didn't even packed, he simply up and left one day while my mother and I were out. Ever since then I have been Emma Thompson—my mother's name, not my father's. I didn't know who this man was, and I certainly didn't know how he'd known my name, but it didn't matter. I'd chosen whom I would work with.
"Yes," I mumbled. "Anyways,I don't have your typewriter. I haven't had one of those in here for awhile, actually, but I'll certainly keep my eyes peeled around this area for you." See what I did there? 'For awhile' can be taken in more than one way. I didn't even have to lie.
      "How kind. Well, if you really don't have it, I best be going."
"Yes, it was nice to meet you," I lied as I led him back to the door. I suppose I can't always use double meanings, sometimes it is simply easier to lie. Besides, I decided that I hated this man. Not only was he creeping me out with the whole typewriter situation, but he was also rather rude.
     
       My hand was on the knob to turn the handle, when I heard a clacking noise. At first I simply assumed it was the burner trying to light, but then I realized I hadn't actually turned the gas on yet. I pulled my hand away to see if it would stop—it didn't. I closed my eyes to listen for a direction of where it was coming from. My room. The typewriter. I carefully grabbed a pan—not the one containing my half cooked eggs—and went to my closed bedroom door. I put my ear to the door before I realized it had stopped. Please don't be a person, I thought, slowly opening the door. I held up the pan, looking into my room. There, on my desk, still sat the typewriter. I desperately looked around for anyone who could have typed anything, but my room was exactly the way it had been when I first left it. Oh, save for one thing. There was now a piece of paper in the typewriter, and it said two simple words.

Thank you.