By the Potomac

Chapter Six

I gazed out the window. It was raining pelts of water. "Will you pass me that bowl?" Margaret asked. The kitchen seemed duller than usual; as if a great dark cloud was hovering over it. As I passed her the bowl, she said, "Okay, Liesel, you can leave now. And I mean it this time," she said, "you really should go outside."

"Okay Margaret," I said, "but only because you told me to." I pulled the note the man gave me yesterday out of my apron pocket. I might as well go over to his house. Maybe his daughter will be nice. Taking a deep breath, I took my coat off the hook and started off on my walk.

The rain soaked through my coat, forcing me to pull it closer to me. I predicted that the walk would take an hour to get there and an hour back. I sighed. I would much rather be reading in bed.

A big maple tree stood tall and proud right in the middle of Mr. Hathway's yard. Paint was peeling off the small cottage, and it was extremely outdated. I spotted an outhouse around the corner of the house.

I knocked sharply on the front door. No answer. I knocked again. Finally, a young girl opened the door. "Hello, how may I help you?"

"I've come to see Mr. Hathway."

"He's busy writing now, and so am I. I'm writing a book about a man-eating snake! Are you writing any books?" she said cheerfully.

"Oh no, I'm not a writer..."

"Well hello! I see you met Meredith!" Mr. Hathway interrupted. "I'm sorry if she bothered you. Come in! My house is your house." He lead us to a little room; probably his parlor.

"Thank you. A man by the name of James, uh, well I don't know his last name, said you were a writer?"

"Ah! You're the writer girl!"

"Not anymore; writing is for children."

"Really? Hmm... Very interesting," he said, scratching his head.

"Pardon?"

"What?" he asked, obviously not paying attention to our conversation.

"Well, I must be going. Thank you for your kindness." I stepped outside and hurried home. It was really raining now.

"Come back tomorrow!" I heard him shout.

"Not if I can help it," I muttered under my breath, "Writers are so strange."