I was in a house which resembled the Eighth Street House (the house into which my paternal grandmother Mabel moved in 1995. It sits next door to the Gay Street House.). A woman who had been living in the house had died, and I had been appointed as executor of the woman's estate. I was unsure how this had come about, because I had never been an executor before. I didn't know much about the woman, except that she had died because she had been forced to drink too many glasses of water.

All the woman's things were still in the house. I didn't think she had any relatives, but as I began going through some items, I found a couple out-of-state letters addressed to her, and I thought the letters might have possibly come from a relative of the woman. Opening one of the long white envelopes, I quickly discerned that the letter had come from a woman, and I began trying to imagine what the woman looked like and whether she might be someone I would find attractive. I knew I would need to try to call this woman, and I began thinking of what the conversation would be like. I would explain how the old woman hadn't had any money and had had no food, and how she had finally been killed by being forced to drink too much water by two thugs, who were even now hanging around outside the house.

I didn't know if the woman had had a bank account, but it appeared she didn't. I also began wondering if the woman had had any debts. If there was an heir, would the heir have to pay the debts? That seemed a possibility. I wondered if the law really said an heir would have to pay the debts of a deceased person. That didn't seem fair to me.

***

One or two other people and I were walking across a large parking lot which was directly behind the Eighth Street House and the Gay Street House. Snow and ice were on the ground. Suddenly I stopped in my tracks. Up ahead I saw a man driving a white car racing recklessly across the parking lot. I stood transfixed, trying to decide which way I would jump if the car headed toward me. When I saw he was headed toward my right, I jumped to my left. He continued past me, almost ran over two other people, then headed right toward the back of the Gay Street House, where several cars were parked.

Among the cars was a classic red and white Thunderbird, probably from the late 1950s. The other cars on the lot were parked two by two, with one car in front of the other. Only the Thunderbird was sitting alone. In disbelief I watched as the white car smashed into the rear of the Thunderbird, driving it up onto the back porch of the Gay Street House.

I immediately raced over to the wreck. I knew that the Thunderbird belonged to my father, and that he had spent much time restoring it. My immediate concern was that the driver of the white car might try to run away. He didn't. He simply got out of his car and stood there. However, it did appear that he was going to try to move the Thunderbird from the back porch. I definitely didn't want that to happen, at least not until a picture of the scene was taken. I protested that nothing should be moved. I then looked inside the house and saw a girl (about 10 years old) standing in the kitchen. (She looked exactly like an actress in a French language program I had often watched called "French in Action"). I quickly asked her if she had a camera, but she didn't. I then asked if my father was there and she responded that he wasn't. It then occurred to me that Kay might be in the House, but I couldn't remember Kay's name. Finally the girl left to see if she could find a camera.

I walked back out onto the back porch, and saw that a crowd had gathered around the scene. I turned to the crowd and asked if the two people which the man had almost run over were there. I wanted to make sure we had witnesses. I saw someone in the crowd raise a hand.

I walked over to the fellow who had been driving the car. He was thin and puny-looking. I couldn't tell for sure, but I thought he might be drunk. I asked him if he had been drinking, and he responded, "More power to the listener."

I took this rather vague response to mean that he wasn't going to say whether he had been drinking, and that it was up to the person asking him to figure it out. I continued to question him, at the same time taking out a pencil and a pad of paper and writing down everything he said. It was hard to tell if he was drunk. He looked shaken, but there were no obvious signs of intoxication. I continued by asking, "You have been drinking then?"

He replied "No," but then he added something about the accident being "alcohol related." I was surprised to hear him admit that. I immediately wrote down the words, thinking they might later prove to be important evidence against the man.

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