Chapter 1, Part 2

Stray cats weren’t an uncommon sight in this neighborhood, Carrieton, which boasted some of the highest property values in the city. But it was also the site of numerous student houses, created by chopping up once grand single family homes into small, overpriced apartments.

The corner of Fountain and Wayne, where the Washington house stood, was the epicenter of the student ghetto. Though Hattie Washington had lived there for over fifty years, and invested much of her and her husband’s (may he rest in peace) own sweat in her home’s renovation and maintenance, her underage neighbors had no such interest. With parents paying the bills and landlords several cities, sometimes several states away, piles of trash, food, old clothing, and old furniture took up permanent residence in many back yards. It was a good place to be a stray cat.

Nicholas gagged and pushed his way back up the stairs, the sound of the storms and the siren tumbled all around them, like a pair of jeans in a near-empty dryer. Hattie Washington, who had been at the rear of the line, asked what all the fuss was about.

“Don’t go in there, Grandma Hattie. It stinks,” Nicholas wiped his mouth with the corner of his shirt and went to the sink. He filled his cupped hands with cool water and rinsed out his mouth, then, with a little jostling, opened the window and brought his head as close to the screen as possible, breathing in the fresh, wet rain smell.

She sniffed the air, “I don’t smell anything.”

Jeana stifled a laugh. Of course she didn’t smell anything, hadn’t smelled anything or tasted anything in twenty years. It was a wonder she still had her hearing.

She let the smile fall from her face when Nicholas took a seat at the linoleum kitchen table in front of her. The plastic seat squeaked beneath him.

“Step aside, child. Let Grandma Hattie take a look.”

The three of them were pinched in the small opening between the corner of the counter, the back door, and the kitchen table. Hattie Washington tried to maneuver her way around, but her generous behind jostled Jeana.

“’Scuse me, honey,” she said and turned back in the direction of the basement door.

Jeana rolled her eyes at the old woman’s retreating figure and made an exaggerated movement with her arm, After you.

“Be nice,” Nicholas hissed.

“Nice,” Jeana repeated, pursing her lips. The word rolled off her tongue like it was coated in lemon juice.