Chapter 17: The House on Marlow

The sign in the yard on Marlow Street said FOR SALE in red letters, with a real estate agent's face smiling under it.

I parked at the curb behind my mother's Buick.

My father's truck was gone from the driveway.

I carried a bag of groceries up the walk, and my hands were not steady.

My mother opened the door in her cafeteria apron, with a lanyard around her neck.

"Vicky," she said.

She looked older, and thinner, and she did not seem surprised.

"Ben told me about the sign."

"I told him not to."

"He told me anyway."

She almost smiled.

"Come in. I'm making grilled cheese."

The yellow kitchen was the same, with the rooster clock on the wall over the stove.

Half the cabinets were taped shut, and there were cardboard boxes stacked by the back door.

Mom stood at the stove and turned a sandwich with a spatula.

"You came back in March?" I asked.

"Deb's guest room was too small for two grown women who don't talk."

"And Dad?"

"The bank took the plaza, and the truck, and half of what was in the account. The house is the last thing."

"I thought the leases were off him."

"The leases are. The loans for the studio, and the billboard, and Tyler's truck are not."

She said it flatly.

"The school took me back as lead cook in the fall," she said. "Same kitchen, same kids."

"Mom, I'm glad."

"Your father works nights at a distribution warehouse on Springboro Pike. He loads trucks from six to six."

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