At its center was a crumbling steel factory, long out of use, much of it ripped apart for scrap metal. Dollar stores, tattoo parlors, and bars—the cockroaches of economic decline—had replaced hardware stores and dress shops. Even the weather was gloomy. Clouds had moved in, threatening rain. There were only three colors, it seemed. Gray, darker gray, and despair. On top of that, the air smelled like rotten eggs. “Do you suppose it was this much of a pit when Lynne was sent here?” Beth asked from the passenger seat, Mary Kay having taken over the driving. “Early 1980s? Might have been slightly better. Not much,” Carol said. “Hell of a place to be a pregnant teenager on your own, that’s for sure. Then again, just being a teenage girl and pregnant is its own kind of hell.” “No kidding,” Beth agreed. She tried to picture a young Lynne with her sketch pad and pastels, sitting Indian-style on the hill overlooking the steel mill, her red hair tied up in some crazy paisley bandana as she coaxed beauty from this bleak landscape.
