Pat wanted to reach into cyberspace and e-slap the webmistress. Jordan could dream all he wanted about UNLV, but she and Wyatt had other plans for the boys, and they didn’t include a school featuring world-renowned beer bashes and pole dancers.
Pat sped through the city, until she reached the turn off onto Charleston, a street she vaguely remembered, and headed toward the eastern part of town. The area had changed dramatically since she had last visited, and she almost missed the turn to Helen’s neighborhood. Gone were the beautifully styled iron fences and manicured lawns. High cement walls covered in graffiti now surrounded the area. The most prominent of the pictographs—AWOL and 702—seemed to brand every vertical surface.
“Why is she living here?” Jordan asked. “This looks like gang territory.”
“She’s lived here for twenty years,” Pat answered, “and doesn’t want to move.” She kept her voice steady, but felt sick with guilt. Why haven’t I kept in touch? But she knew why. It was her only choice: cut off contact to save her family. “We’ll just swing by and . . .” Her words trailed off as she turned the last corner. Oh shit.
The house next to Helen’s was draped in yellow crime tape, the sidewalk filled with perky media types and bleary-eyed gawkers. A camera crew focused on a female reporter interviewing locals from the crowd. The woman’s perfectly groomed hair and impeccable outfit contrasted sharply with the neighborhood dress code: cropped tops, baggy shorts, and flip-flops.
Marc sat up and pulled his earbuds. “Hey, is this where her neighbor got killed? What are all these people doing here so early in the morning?”
Good question, Pat thought, as she pulled to the curb. People turned and stared, their eyes taking a larcenous interest in her late-model Lexus.
“Mom.” Jordan stared at the wall of unfriendly faces. “Why doesn’t Aunt Helen come live with us, the way Grammy did before she died?”
Pat shook her head, at a loss to explain her crazy sister.
Marc glared back at the onlookers with all the innate disdain of an adolescent. “We’re not staying here, are we?”
“No,” Pat answered. “I just want to pick up some clothes, so Helen will have something clean to wear.”
Marc burrowed down into the seat, as if trying to take root. “I’m not going in.”
“Yes, you are. I’m not leaving you out here with all this . . . this”—she motioned toward the crowd, at a loss for words.
With an impatient hiss Marc snapped off his seat belt and shoved open the door. “This better be quick.”
Jordan stared at the yard, a mixture of dead grass and bare dirt. “You really think there’s anything clean in there?”
As they started toward the house the reporter spotted them. “Mrs. Taylor?”
Pat shook her head, amazed that anyone could mistake her for Helen.
“What’s your connection to Mrs. Taylor?” the reporter persisted. “Have you talked to her?” She started across the yard, the crowd parting with awed expressions, their eyes shining with the joy of being televised. “Do you know what she saw?”
Pat hurried toward the door, afraid her whole family would end up on the morning news.
“No comment,” Marc growled, his teenage surliness for once in perfect harmony with Pat’s mood.
The rusty wrought-iron security screen looked impenetrable, its huge padlock and two dead bolts a tribute to slum security. Pat pulled the key marked “Helen” from her purse—a key she hadn’t used in ten years—and jammed it into the padlock.
“Excuse me,” the reporter yelled, “could you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?” She rushed up the walk, the mob of gawkers close behind.
Please, please, please. The key turned and Pat almost sobbed with relief. She quickly attacked the other two locks, each one miraculously responding to the same key.
“Are you a friend of Mrs. Taylor?”
Ignoring the woman, Pat pushed open the door, nearly falling into a sea of fetid garbage. The boys jumped through the opening and slammed the door.
Cats of all colors and sizes mewed and scuttled through piles of magazines and old newspapers. Pat tried to make sense of the squalid mess, but failed. Oh God! Where did Helen sit? Pat walked over to a lumpy mound near the window—a recliner—covered in newspapers and fast food wrappers. The seat had a deep indentation where Helen had compacted the trash into a cushion. Pat twisted the knob of a torchère lamp, its black finish gray with dust. The room brightened slightly and the papers rustled and flickered with the movement of light-shy insects. How could anyone live like this?
“The cats are hungry,” Jordan announced in a matter-of-fact tone. He calmly worked his way between the maze of boxes and trash and into the kitchen. “There must be food here somewhere.” He kicked a couple of boxes away from the cabinet, scattering an army of bugs. “Here it is.” He pulled a bag of generic cat food off a shelf. “It’s full of ants and weevils. You think it’s okay?”
Pat pointed to a cluster of bowls along the wall. “Just put some out and change their water. We don’t have time to go to the store now.” The counter was stacked with dusty boxes of indeterminate objects wrapped in newspaper. Flea market crap, Pat thought, and started down the hall. The first door opened into a jumble of dirty clothes, boxes, and knickknacks strewn across the floor. Papers and half-filled boxes were stacked haphazardly, the contents spilling onto the floor. Ugh, worse than the front room. An incredible stench filled the air, the cats having sprayed every vertical surface. What the hell happened to the sister she remembered? Helen’s wedding album lay open on one of the boxes. Years of grimy-fingered caresses had smudged its cover from a white brocade fabric to a gray rag. Overwhelmed by the evidence of her sister’s mental decay, Pat retreated to the kitchen. “We’re leaving. We’ll pick up some clothes at Target.”
Marc was busy unwrapping items from one of the boxes, a troop of porcelain figurines cavorting across the counter. “Look.” He held up a figurine, displaying the base. “‘Made in Occupied Japan.’ Does that mean it was made in a Japanese home?”
“No, it means it was made after the Second World War, when we still occupied the country. It’s very rare and you need to put it back. We have to go.”
“I’ll be done in a sec,” Jordan answered.
“Now!”
“All right, all right, don’t get your panties in a bunch, Mom.” He reached down and stroked one of the cats. “Boy, are they dirty. I’ll bet Aunt Helen never gives them a bath.”
“Let’s do a pussy wash,” Marc snickered.
Pat yanked him toward the door. “Watch your mouth!”
Jordan followed, a gray tabby in his arms. “Look, she let me pick her up.” He rubbed the cat behind the ears, her eyes closing in ecstasy.
“That animal is filthy. Put it down!”
As Pat pulled open the door, the reporter thrust a microphone in her face. “No comment,” Pat snapped before the
