When a friend drops out

After several years of being in contact again, Priscilla’s best friend from high school seems to have dropped away somewhere.

Priscilla and Fran were in the same high school organizations, shared the same likes and dislikes, and were four years in the Tiger band. They were best friends their first two years of college, too, but separated into different lives at marriage.

Fran had three husbands – maybe four. All beat her. One left her for another man. Her last divorce was more than twenty years ago.

Fran is quite artistic. She makes stained glass and designs things. She doesn’t have much sense of things other than art and music.

Priscilla and Fran got back in contact about ten years ago. By then, Fran’s parents were dead. She inherited the house, a mid-century style brick in what had been a well-to-do area of a small, rural, incorporated town that had no businesses other than services.

Fran had never held what would be called a steady job. She was an artist and for a time lived on stained glass creations and money left by her parents. After a time, though, reality encroached. Fran ran out of money and fell behind in property taxes and the various taxing entities threatened to take her house and several acres. She got that straightened out by finding a lawyer and a loan. She got a job not in keeping with her talents as an artist, but the job brought in a check so she could maybe pay taxes and the loan.

Priscilla called Fran when in town. They talked and sometimes had lunch. Then Fran stopped answering her phone. Priscilla left messages, but Fran did not return the calls.

Not too long ago, Priscilla drove by Fran’s house. Fran was not at home. A week later I went with Priscilla to the town. When we got near, she said, “Before we go to Mother’s, I want you to see Fran’s house.”

We left the interstate and took a state highway and then a county road. Priscilla turned onto a street. To the right was a wooded area, trees and thick underbrush. Then, Priscilla turned into a barely perceptible driveway. The trees and underbrush were growing on Fran’s lot. From the street, the house was not visible.

We got out of the car and walked to the house. Pine needles covered the roof of the housed and most of the driveway. Brush was cleared just enough for a car to fit on the driveway and a path to the front porch. Priscilla knocked on the door. We waited. She knocked again, and when no one answered, we left.

If you saw the house and the overgrown lot you would think no one lived there.