We pass old cars propped up on cinder blocks in the driveways of scattered tract homes, the occasional trailer park, and broken, empty lots with twisted chain-link fences. A light scattering of snow snakes across the road, and a brown skinny dog pauses on the sidewalk and sniffs around the base of a rusty drain pipe before pissing on it.I wonder what Lisa thinks as we pull up to the old Victorian, with its peeling blue paint and scraggly dead bushes. In the sixties it was spliced into efficiency apartments, and mine is on the second story, with a good view of the Stop & Shop rooftop and deserted rail yard beyond. I hope someone has thought to pay the heating bill, because the windows are original to the house, and even with the baseboard heaters at full blast, I usually have to wear a wool sweater and scarf.“My crib,” I say.“I see you live the high life on your obituary writer’s salary.”I shrug, uncomfortable. I feel revealed in some way.“I like it,” she says.It’s nice of her to say.
