A Most Unusual Passage
Copyright© 2026 by J&J
Chapter 2
“Well, Elizabeth Anne Manigault,” I thought to myself, “you wanted a fresh start, and you’ve damn well got it.”
I glanced back briefly at the old wooden frame house the school board had rented for me. Not much to look at, but it was rent-free. With a shrug, I turned back around to drag a heavy trunk out of my brand new Toyota RAV4.
“If the people here were half-way civil,” I thought, “someone would have offered to help me by now.” I looked up just in time to see an old man in an ancient Ford drive by and look at me struggling with the heavy trunk. “That’s right, you old geezer, stare at me, but it never crossed your mind to stop and help, did it?”
Resigned to my fate, I half carried, half dragged the trunk into the house and dropped it in the foyer for unpacking.
“Note to self, don’t ever pack anything heavier than you can carry yourself,” I muttered, “at least in East Podunk, Colorado.”
As I opened the trunk, I fondly remembered the friends and family back in Charleston that practically fought for the privilege of helping me pack. I couldn’t imagine a stranger being so completely ignored. Charlestonians understood hospitality and politeness. Tired and forlorn, I momentarily collapsed into a handy chair.
“Snap out of it, Elizabeth Anne!” Like my mother, I used both names when I was angry at myself. “You just got here; you’re 29 years old, and you’re acting like a homesick child.”
I had a lot to get done if I wanted to feel comfortable. The house had been left clean enough, but it had been empty. It smelled stale and felt barren. I needed to clean and air out and embellish the whole place. Fortunately, I had enough pictures and posters to cover the drab walls. A lot of them were scenes of sailboats, beaches with sea oats and sand dunes, and grand homes on the Battery. In the next few days, I planned to transform the old house into my own comfortable nest. I might be a long way from the South Carolina Low Country, but no one said I couldn’t bring a little bit of Chucktown with me.
I finally picked myself up from the chair I’d collapsed in and went back to work.
As the afternoon wore on, I had gotten so used to solitude that I was startled by a knock on the door. I opened it and saw a neatly-dressed man in his forties who seemed strangely nervous.
“Yes?” I greeted him with a warm smile. I, at least, knew how to be friendly.
“Miss Manigault?” he asked uncertainly. His eyes betrayed his surprise. He was looking at me, not in an offensive way, more like he was obviously expecting someone older and plainer. I was used to this.
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