Low, inane chatter, like polite conversation at a funeral. Some days Carrie’s and Darcy’s niggling sped up the exodus and one by one we’d slink out through the cellar window, through the trapdoor.There was a laundry roster: an off-white linen bag sat clumped by a back door that didn’t open. To keep costs down, clothes had to be worn three times before washing. Arden gave the rostered kids a stack of dollar coins and they heaved the bag into a three-wheeled shopping trolley that veered left. It took two of us to steer the trolley to the laundromat, three blocks away. Everyone liked laundry duty. It meant fifty bucks off your weekly contribution because it was down time. It was nice to sit and daydream in the humid room, to inhale the scent of washing powder and damp air, time to not think about anything, to just listen to the rhythmic hum of clothes flopping and tumbling in the dryer.Nobody volunteered for dinner or shopping. Only Carrie made an effort in the ramshackle kitchen.
