Even at the Kettricks’ unkempt house, the world looked almost perfect on the outside. On the inside, windows were blocked from the light and dust floated heavily in the air, creating an entirely different universe."I remember," Kettrick said.He lounged on the musty striped couch in his living room, his legs crossed. Terry’s black dog chewed on a tennis ball at his feet. Paul had sat down at a scarred pine table against the wall. The wood floor had been swept but was dark with grime, as though it had never felt a wet mop.On the way there, Nina had listened to Paul’s colorful background report. "He’s half country boy, half old hippie," Paul told her. Jerry Kettrick’s parents had fled the back-breaking stoop labor of the San Joaquin fields for the uncertain welcome of Tahoe. They had both found jobs cooking at a small restaurant called Mom’s Kitchen in the fifties, and as soon as their five kids were old enough they, too, had gone to work at the restaurant after school and on weekends.
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