Ave. in North Cambridge on the Somerville line. It stood out from its neighbors by virtue—or sin—of being painted an unspeakably intense shade of raspberry. Because of that god-awful color, it was the kind of house that makes people gasp, titter, and return with friends who just have to see it and simply won’t believe it when they do. But they do believe it, of course—its undiluted reality is undeniable—and ask one another whether that ultraraspberry was the embarrassing result of some unimaginable misunderstanding with the house painter or whether, God forbid, it was chosen deliberately. Thus the stunned queasiness on my face must have been the expression Enid Sievers saw whenever she opened her front door to anyone, and in case you’ve ever wandered by there and wondered the inevitable, the answer is, no, that raspberry was no accident, as I guessed the second Enid Sievers opened her door. Transpose that screaming raspberry into a violent electric green, and you’ll see the color of the garment she wore, a silky pantsuit or polyester evening costume or possibly a pair of nineteen-thirties Hollywood-movie lounging pajamas minus the feather boa.
