I asked. Jude shook his head. “She’s out,” was all he said, his voice tight. The house had the stale odor of old cigarettes and newspapers. A thick layer of dust coated the table in the front entryway and the shade on the lamp was crooked. My mom would have had a fit to see this. Jude led me into a kitchen, where dirty dishes littered the countertops. An ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts sat in the middle of the table and the trash can in the corner was stuffed with beer cans. “Sorry,” Jude said. “I haven’t had a chance to clean today.” I tried not to notice the cracked linoleum floor or the stained curtain that hung over the window. “It’s okay,” I said. Jude walked with his head down, as if he couldn’t bear to look at the state of his own home. I wanted to tell him that it didn’t bother me, but the truth was, it did. Despite my efforts, I felt my nose crinkling up at the sight of a half-eaten slice of pizza on a plate that someone had left on a table in the hall.
