Hungry Hill

Excerpt

later that evening (prologue)

Exhausted and sore, I headed to my room on the second floor of my great-aunt Maggie’s house, stripped off my clothes, and crawled into bed. The sheets were soft from decades of use and smelled like unwashed socks. The pillow was lumpy, the mattress slumped in the middle, and the wool blanket emitted a heavy mothball funk.

I imagined how Michael would engage in some good-natured teasing about my sleeping in this bed: it was good for the soul to rough it every now and then; it would help me appreciate all the luxury I’d had in my life. He would even come up with some silly name for the type of décor Maggie had fashioned for the room. Gothic Granny Minimalism. Old Lady Penitentiary.

I would have smiled at the thought, but it was still much too easy for me to conjure my late husband’s spirit. I kept hoping for some relief, some small fading of the memory of him, but I could still feel his exact touch. Smell his warm skin. Hear his voice whispering to me in the dark. My eyes were closed; I knew if I just had enough courage, I could reach out and brush my fingers against him.

Pulsing red lights played off of the ceiling in the bedroom, and muffled voices spoke in serious tones out in the hallway. I panicked when I couldn’t make out details in the room, so I frantically tried to move toward the door. I couldn’t find it.

A large brown bear balanced on a wire in the space between my bed and the swimming pool.

It took that and a few seconds of subterranean thought for me to realize I was dreaming. Ellen, my Irish wolfhound, was sleeping on the floor next to my bed. Her gentle snoring broke through my sleep-induced haze, and the taillights of a car passing the house on Cleveland Street disappeared from view.

Once awake, my conscious mind took over and started sorting through the debris banging around in its dark corners. It scuttled to a scene from five weeks earlier at the veterinarian’s office.

Vertigo, my husband’s inseparable companion, was a wolfhound like Ellen—taller, but just as sweet. It had taken two technicians and me to carry him into the clinic. The massive tumor in his abdomen was killing him, and I couldn’t bear to see him suffer any longer.

Michael’s big, old soldier forgave me while the vet injected him with poison. He watched me with his chocolate brown eyes, trusting me. I knew he thought he would get a treat and a hug when it was all over, but all he got was the hug. I spooned with his sleeping body for an hour afterward. When I couldn’t bear to feel him grow any colder, I slid his enormous collar off and whispered a good-bye.

Out in the parking lot, the driver of a Range Rover honked at me furiously because I almost hit him with my pickup truck as I tried to back out. Tears blurred my vision, so I pulled back in to gather my wits.

As I lay in my bed in the dark, I could feel the cold steering wheel of the pickup truck in my hands, and I began to get angry. The memory of the Rover’s horn sung in my head, and I now wished that I had continued backing out—hard—into its pristine, stupid side. I squeezed my eyes shut, and hot tears streamed down my face. My heart beat in my ears, and each breath I took burned in my throat.

I shouldn’t have had to deal with Vertigo by myself.

Chapter 1 - Road Trip

I turned up the volume on my BMW 750’s sound system and cruised the Hungry Hill section of Springfield, Massachusetts, scanning the intersecting streets for my next turn.

The boom-boom of thumping bass calmed me, even though the seventies hard rock I was streaming wasn’t usually my thing. The raucous music was a balm, though, a steady stream of anthems for my brave new world. The weather was an ally as well—it was a gorgeous New England morning: warm, sunny, and green. It had been a bitter winter; the sun entombed in a lead-colored sky that had mirrored my mood. Spring had arrived late, so I took the clear heavens as a good omen, which was optimistic of me lately.

I hadn’t been in the area for years, and while the neighborhood was still familiar, a seismic shift had occurred while I was away and altered the place. Some structures remained intact while others had been obliterated, as though an urban tornado had spun violently through the streets. Most of the old trees were gone, hit hard by Dutch elm disease. Ulmus Americana: another victim of inadequate public funds. The few remaining trees were maples with many severed limbs and small buds struggling to open.

As I drove through the neighborhood, I experienced moments of nostalgia (the little pocket park where my cousins and I used to play appeared, intact, on my left), followed closely by dismay (an entire block of homes had been flattened and replaced with a strip mall; a sign out front advised that bankruptcy loomed). I hadn’t expected everything to remain the same, but I was unprepared for how much everything had changed. I tried to gauge how much of the neighborhood’s apparent decline was simply the result of my altered perspective—I had lived in towns full of pricey real estate for a long time—but quickly decided my memory wasn’t failing me. The neighborhood had experienced a downward trajectory.

A sliver of apprehension quietly bore its way into my gut, and even Mick Jagger couldn’t distract me from the feeling that I was about to take on something I wasn’t the least bit prepared for.

As I continued to drive, I saw that the surviving commercial enterprises were basic: a few bars, a used clothing store, and a 7-Eleven competing with a couple of small grocery stores. Some of the storefronts were neatly maintained, but most were sorely in need of new landscaping and a coat of fresh paint. In addition to the physical changes that had taken place in the neighborhood, it had also become more culturally diverse since I last visited—the bodega and hair-braiding salon in one block were testament to that change.

When I last visited Hungry Hill, it was still an Irish-Catholic, blue-collar neighborhood. Its many bars bore Celtic names and all the faces were white; a few of the inhabitants were of French or Italian descent, but they were in the minority, and only tolerated because of shared orthodoxy.

I knew how dug-in my Irish forebears had been here, how important it had been for them to carve out a place of their own in this city, and how many generations had been born within a few square blocks of where I drove. I wondered if their exodus to the suburbs had taken place with resignation or relief. No one had ever talked to me about it; addresses had just changed over the years and I hadn’t given it a thought until now.

My sister Emily’s oldest son, Cormac, was right behind me driving my two dogs in the little Nissan cube I had just bought. Cormac had offered his services without prompt when he found out the dogs were joining me, and I wanted to bring a second car.

Emily had always encouraged her two sons to treat me like an extension of herself; she respected my decision to remain childless as an adult but was generous in sharing the benefits of motherhood. I adored her sons, and they adored me. I was especially close to Cormac because he had been born prematurely, and I had spent three weeks helping Emily with her new little bundle. He and I had built a strong bond over three a.m. feedings and Seinfeld reruns.

Cormac drove the cube because I denied my pets access to the Beemer and its leather seats; they had a tendency to shed hair, slobber, or worse—hurl, if they became carsick. I had sold my old Ford pickup the prior week and traded it for the cube because I was tired of looking like a contractor with a pet fetish. Besides, I was down to just a pair of canines now and didn’t need the truck anymore.

Ellen took up the entire back seat of the cube. She sat sideways, her gaze directed stoically forward, her head lowered and hulking like a gentle chimera protecting my stuff piled high behind her in the cargo area. She may have been bred to guard the huts of villagers against marauders and wolves, but it was her sweet and tolerant nature that made me feel safe. Stogie, my rescue mutt, rode shotgun next to Cormac, which explained the canine graffiti on the cube’s front passenger window. They made an amusing picture, the three of them stuffed inside the little asymmetrical car as though the circus had come to town. Just looking at them in my rearview mirror made me smile, and in spite of my growing apprehension regarding our journey, it felt good to know they had my back.

Cormac had followed me in the cube from Greenwich, Connecticut, a town I had called home for many years. The drive was only two hours, but we might as well have been traveling from one planet to the next. The tony stretch of avenue in Greenwich where I owned a house was Hungry Hill’s polar opposite. The only threat to existing real estate in Greenwich was the desire for newer and bigger, and our elms received frequent injections of fungicide from attentive arborists.

While we were driving in tandem to our destination, I’d had plenty of time to think. I wasn’t sure how I felt about my current predicament. My great-aunt Maggie Reilly had called me three weeks earlier because she desperately needed my help, but she had caught me at a bad time. I wasn’t ready to deal with someone else’s problems—not even close. Still, she managed to talk me into a stint at her place, so here I was, back in my hometown.

Maggie had existed at the perimeter of my life since I was born. My family had lived in Agawam when I was growing up, a suburb of Springfield, and she had been a colorful fixture at family gatherings. She always showed up in one of her inexplicable outfits (once, I counted three different plaids), and made a habit of obsessing over everyone’s footwear. She also usually managed to get wasted on her cocktail of choice—bourbon and seltzer—and loved to tell bawdy jokes once she had achieved a state of bliss. Sometimes, she would open up her purse, pull out her wallet, and distribute its contents to us children. A spoil sport adult—usually my mother—would follow Maggie around, retrieve the bills, and slip them back into her purse.

Maggie and I shared the same birthday in August, and when I was a child, we occasionally celebrated together over fully-loaded ice cream sundaes at Friendly’s. She never learned to drive, so it was always a treat when she arrived by cab to pick me up in Agawam so we could share our passion for anything with a cherry on top.

She had never married or borne children, and, as a result, acted as though all of her grandnieces and nephews were her responsibility. For most of her adult life, Maggie had worked as a salesclerk at Morse & Haynes, a shoe store in downtown Springfield, and felt it was her duty to see that we were all well shod. Each of us made annual pilgrimages to the store where she fitted us with a pair of good shoes; there were fifteen of us—nine girls and six boys—and I imagine that the only way she could afford the expense was the result of a generous employee discount.

We usually ended up with Buster Brown-type oxfords with solid orthotics, but sometimes Maggie chose something more fashionable. A few times, she allowed me to pick out my own. My favorites were a pair of black patent leather Mary Janes she bought me for Easter when I was six years old. I still remember the pure joy I felt when I walked on our driveway with the hard, shiny bottoms of the shoes tapping away. Sometimes, I imagine myself in a pink dress with crinolines and those new shoes and escape briefly into my childhood where my priorities were simple.

Sadly, I could not remember the last time I had seen Maggie, and I wondered how she had fared. Once I left for UCLA at eighteen, we exchanged an occasional note and Christmas cards, but our connection had grown tenuous. She had been relegated to the stuff of childhood lore—the quirky great aunt who now operated at the margins of my life, threatened with extinction.

Although many of the familiar landmarks in Hungry Hill had disappeared, I still felt the tug of recognition. I consulted my internal GPS, found Cleveland Street, and hung a left with Cormac tailing. The cube’s front grille followed me like a bulldog wearing shades.

The houses all looked similar, but I had no trouble picking out Maggie’s old brownstone. I pulled into the cracked and scarred driveway, shifted the Beemer into park, and grabbed a moment for myself.

Maggie’s house had fallen into disrepair. Peeling paint curled on windowsills, and the ancient asphalt shingles on the roof were faded. The lawn had not fared well. Patches of thinning grass barely covered the dirt. Although a modest house in a blue-collar neighborhood, Maggie had always kept it well maintained. I hadn’t expected such a drastic change, and my apprehension about seeing Maggie in a similar state kept me from getting out of the car.

I glanced in my rearview mirror, and the expression on my nephew’s face suggested that he also questioned my decision to come to Springfield. After a minute, though, he got out of the cube and walked up to my window. I hit the button and it whispered down.

“Hey, Cor,” I said, pulling down my shades and eyeing him coolly.

“Nice bass, Aunt Grace!” he replied loudly, using his right index finger to give me a casual salute. His determined silliness under the circumstances made me smile. I turned down the volume on the car’s stereo while I racked my brain for a response.

Cormac was a second-year English major at Northeastern in Boston—the first fledgling to leave Emily’s nest. Somehow, during the course of packing, lunch, and travel, we had started to play a game that had gotten ridiculous, piling on adverbs to modify our adjectives. Once we had grown bored with that tremendously, hopelessly tedious game, we had switched to rhyming. Our conversations had turned very competitive. I was a few points ahead, but Cormac was closing in on me.

Before I could respond, he returned to the cube and released the dogs, and they immediately began yard patrol. Ellen took a dignified tour of the small patch of lawn bisected by a cracked concrete walkway. With a quick lift of his leg, Stogie focused his attention on several leggy azaleas near the house, telegraphing a simple message: mine.

I opened the door of the Beemer and slipped out, avoiding a large fissure in the asphalt driveway. With the dogs in tow, I climbed the steps of screened front porch that ran the width of the house. I didn’t find a doorbell, so I knocked on the porch door. I waited before knocking again. Ellen and Stogie sat politely behind me, mouths open, tongues lolling. Cormac remained on the sidewalk, wanting to make certain we were at the right place. Maggie hadn’t bothered to remind me of the street number, but I trusted my memory even if he didn’t.

It soon appeared more polite knocking wasn’t going to get me anywhere, so I tried the door and found it unlocked. Ellen and Stogie followed me inside the porch. Floorboards creaked with our weight, and a few cluster flies bounced around in a lazy attempt at escape. I found a doorbell on the interior door and pushed. I knocked as well in case the bell wasn’t working.

Just as I was about to ring the doorbell again, I heard a voice yell out, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You don’t have to take the door down—hold your goddamn horses!”

I glanced about. The voice seemed to come from outside. I looked at Cormac, and he pointed straight up. I left the dogs in the porch and stepped back from the house, my eyes following the direction of Cormac’s finger. Maggie was on the upper floor, leaning out of a window.

“Maggie, what the heck are you doing!” I called as craned my neck and shielded my eyes from the bright sun. Maggie’s face was in shadow, but I could tell she was smiling. I didn’t know what I had expected, exactly, but I was relieved she appeared happy to see me. I realized I was happy to see her, as well, regardless of the circumstances.

“What the hell does it look like I’m doing—having an audience with the Pope?” Maggie shook a rag and a bottle of Windex at me and smiled broadly. Her gray hair was tied in a bright orange scarf, and her pale, flabby arms poked from the sleeves of a thin blue dress sprinkled with faded flowers. She wore a man’s suit vest over the dress; I assumed her objective was to protect the old dress while she worked. My great aunt made an amusing picture, especially given her fashion choices.

“Aren’t you a little old to be hanging out of second floor windows?” I called out, happy to find Maggie her usual feisty self.

“I’ll give you old, young lady!” she hollered back, giving me a little wave. “Come on in Gracie, the door’s open. And grab the bag of rags from the kitchen counter on your way up.” She paused and added, “Cormac, what the hell’s with the shoes?”

Cormac looked down at his red high-top sneakers with their neon green laces and shrugged.

I reentered the porch. The door to the inside was unlocked but stuck. Stogie stood on his short hind legs and offered assistance, leaving more of his signature graffiti. After several hip checks, it finally opened.

“Aunt Grace, I’m going to start unloading the cars,” Cormac called as Stogie, Ellen, and I headed into the house. Both vehicles were loaded to the gills.

“Just put everything in the front hallway,” I instructed as I headed inside, relieved that our verbal sparring had ceased.

I stood in the hallway. I hadn’t been there since the eighties, and I had forgotten how small and dark it was. Other than that, the house was exactly as I remembered, right down to the ticking clock in the hallway and the faint smell of mothballs. Lace curtains fluttered in the windows, and a plum-colored runner edged in faded pink roses stretched down the hall.

A memory surfaced: darkened rooms, flatware clinking on china, gentle laughter wafting down the hall from the kitchen. I was sixteen, standing in the hallway, thrilled with the purple maxi dress I was wearing, a gift from my crazy great aunt. She had insisted I try it on, show it off, and I was both proud and embarrassed at the in-your-face style of the dress.

The memory receded, and once again I was standing in the hall in my expensive dark wash jeans and crisp white Derek Lam shirt.

I knew Maggie had been born in an upstairs bedroom. She had grown up in the house, living with her parents until they were gone, staying on afterward. Eighty-six years on Cleveland Street. I, on the other hand, had moved seven times since I’d turned twenty. I redecorated every time I moved; only a few key pieces of furniture survived each new home. Artwork changed and my aesthetic evolved. My taste in decorating was decades and dollar signs ahead of my elderly great aunt.

It would be a challenge living here. I appreciated the house’s history—it was family, too—but I craved space and light. I had spent most of my adult life spoiled by beautiful homes filled with beautiful things—exquisitely furnished, comfortable, and well-maintained sanctuaries. And now I feared I would regret my commitment to come and stay with Maggie. But it was too late to change my mind. Cormac was already filling the porch with my belongings, and Maggie was upstairs waiting for me.

I put my leather tote on a small table in the hallway and headed to the kitchen to get the rags. My fearless wolfhound joined me, doing a thorough security check as we passed the living room on the right, and a closet and half bath on the left.

The kitchen was in the back of the house; when I entered it, my trainers screeched on yellowing linoleum. The room was filled with the smell of canned vegetable soup, and faded wallpaper bore the outlines of objects and pictures rearranged over the years, a ghostly nod to the room’s history. The refrigerator—a model from the fifties or sixties—hummed noisily.

As I looked about for Maggie’s rags, Ellen walked up to a counter and surveyed a row of items hidden under crocheted covers. I looked at the mystery items, shrugged, and said, “You got me…”

Just as I reached for the rags on the kitchen counter, I heard a high-pitched yelp. It was immediately followed by “What the hell! What are you!—get your dirty little!—GRACE!”

I grabbed the rags and sprinted back down the hallway to the stairs. The treads were painted dark brown and covered with a tattered rubber runner pieced together with black adhesive tape. I vaulted up the steps, following the sound of Maggie’s voice.

I found her in the front bedroom. She was perched at the top of a short stepladder, Stogie on the bed next to her, his teeth locked on the opposite end of her cleaning rag. They were in a fierce tug-o-war, and it looked as though Stogie had the advantage. Folds in the bedspread bunched around his paws, providing traction.

“Get this goddamn mutt…!” Maggie sputtered as she clung to her end of the rag. “I didn’t know what the hell it was, shook my rag at it, and it grabbed on! Won’t let go! I suppose it’s yours?”

“Ahh—yes, he’s mine, and I guess I forgot to mention him. So sorry—hope it’s not a problem.”

“What’s its name?” Maggie gave the rag a tug.

“Stogie.” Stogie rolled his eyes in my direction at the sound of his name.

“Like the cigar?”

Stogie looked back and forth between us and braced himself again for battle.

“Well, just look at him.”

Stogie continued to use his fat little brown body as leverage against the rag.

“Must have some rat-dog in him, the way he likes to pull,” Maggie said. “We used to have a dog when I was a kid. Killed rats, buried them in the backyard.”

I looked at Stogie and tried to imagine him in a different, more useful era.

“Any more surprises?” Maggie asked.

“Well . . .” I felt a slight tic forming in the left side of my face. If Stogie was a problem, I couldn’t imagine her reaction to Ellen.

“What the hell does that mean?” Maggie finally relinquished the rag and started down the ladder. “Take the damn thing,” she said to Stogie. “When you’re done playing, you can finish cleaning the windows.”

Before Maggie had a chance to turn and face me, Ellen entered the room quietly and sat, blocking the sunlight that streamed through a window. Maggie’s gaze shifted from Stogie to the wall as Ellen’s shadow enveloped it and climbed to the ceiling, bending at the shoulders. I held my breath as Maggie followed the apparition, hoping she would return her attention to her little sparring partner, but her eyes widened and she pointed and hollered, “Oh, my God—what the hell is that!?”

It took my great aunt a few long seconds to recover from the invasion of her home, but once she had, she shifted gears, crossed the room, gave Ellen a wide berth, and offered me a big hug. She was a tall woman, her body all hard angles covered with soft patches of flesh; I held her tightly for a few seconds before releasing her. She took my hand and searched my face, smiling tentatively. I smiled back. Maybe living with Maggie was going to be hard, but at the moment it felt good to be here for her. I took a quick inventory and noted how much she had aged since I had seen her last. Her clothes hung on her, and her hair was a thin, white cloud hovering above a lined face and pale blue eyes.

“I know. I’m old,” she said. “Long ride?”

“Not bad,” I replied, smiling at her candor. “Just under two hours. Cormac’s unloading stuff. I had to bring two cars because of the dogs.”

“I’d think you’d need a moving van just for that one,” she said, motioning to Ellen. “Jesus Christ—she’s enormous.”

While Cormac unloaded my clothes and boxes, Maggie and I finished the windows in the other bedrooms. I offered to clean them later once I had settled in, but she obviously didn’t trust me to handle the task unsupervised. I quickly learned that there was no use in arguing with her.

Cormac walked the dogs as we worked, drove out for a burger at a nearby McDonalds, and waited for his girlfriend Natalie to pick him up. She was a junior at UConn, forty-five minutes away, and Cormac was looking forward to spending the weekend with her in her small apartment near the campus. I had only met her once, but Natalie seemed to be a good match for my favorite nephew: smart, energetic, and personable. Cormac adored her, and I could see the attraction beyond her blond good looks and enviable young body.

Natalie arrived mid-afternoon, and Cormac said his goodbyes. “See you later, alligator,” he called from the driveway and gave me a wide smile.

“Now that’s just lame!” I called back. “I’m not even sure it counts.”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” he said, and added, “Have fun,” before he climbed into Natalie’s car.

An hour later the upstairs windows sparkled, and Maggie announced it was time for cocktails. I checked my Cartier watch, thought it a bit early at only four o’clock, but what did I know? My once-clean shirt and jeans wore a layer of dirt and grime. My chestnut-colored hair was a mess, falling out of a hastily tied ponytail.

Maggie and I made our way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she disappeared into a pantry tucked in a corner. She reappeared with a bottle of bourbon—Jameson—a cheap Irish brand that she had always favored and pulled two glasses from a cabinet over the sink. After setting them on the counter, she went to the ancient refrigerator and pulled out a liter-sized bottle of seltzer and an old aluminum ice tray. Its lever was frozen solid. “Christ!” she muttered, and banged it several times against the counter. Finally, the cubes popped out, and she grabbed at them as they scattered.

She carefully poured two fingers of bourbon into each glass and topped them off with seltzer. “Here, Gracie girl, join me in a little celebration,” she said, and handed me one. I eyed the concoction and thought longingly of my wine cellar in Greenwich.

We carried our glasses into the parlor through a two-way door on squeaky hinges, and sat in a pair of overstuffed vintage chairs. They were covered in green fabric worn shiny with age, old crocheted doilies on each arm. When I sat, my chair made a sharp popping noise. I looked at Maggie with alarm, but she seemed to not have noticed. The dogs had followed us, and Ellen sprawled on the threadbare rug while Stogie explored the room.

Maggie offered a toast. “So—here’s to being roomies.”

“To being roomies.” I raised my glass to our little collaboration. It was hardly a cause for celebration, but it was nice to be together again after so many years. I sipped carefully.

“Sorry again that I couldn’t make it to the funeral, Grace.”

“It’s okay—really.”

“I should have been there.” Maggie looked at me, her expression pained.

“You were sick,” I reminded her. “Just out of the hospital. I’m sorry I didn’t visit you.” I didn’t want to talk about Michael’s funeral.

“It was just a little chest cold,” she said.

“Yeah, like it was just a little funeral.”

We sat quietly while the late afternoon turned to evening.

Ellen continued her nap on the floor, exhausted from watching us clean. Stogie cruised the parlor and adjacent living room, stopping to admire a bowl of petrified Christmas ribbon candy.

“You pathetic mutts,” Maggie finally said, breaking the silence. “You haven’t had a thing to eat since you got here. I’m sure I have something for you in the kitchen.”

“I can feed them later, they’re fine,” I said.

“Nonsense.” She struggled out of her chair and went back into the kitchen. Stogie padded behind her, the swinging door barely missing his backside. I heard the sound of running water, humming, cabinet doors banging. Munching. Noisy lapping. I didn’t want to know what she was feeding the boy, not that it mattered much to him.

“Go ahead, El, it’s all right,” I said to Ellen, since she was obviously interested in the kitchen clatter. She hauled herself upright and pushed her way through the door.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re a big girl!” I heard Maggie exclaim. “We big-boned gals need to stick together, eh? Let’s see if I have a leg of lamb in here somewhere. Or a side of beef.”

After a few more noisy minutes in the kitchen, Maggie returned to the living room, sat down, and sighed heavily. “Housework takes it out of me these days. I usually have everything done as soon as the last snow is gone. Here it is almost June.” She looked at me a moment before turning away to stare out a window.

“We’ll get it all done,” I assured her. Maggie nodded, took a sip of her drink, and absently fingered the doily on the arm of her chair.

“Damn!” she suddenly exclaimed, interrupting the quiet. “I forgot to have Cormac help you move a dresser from the basement to your bedroom! It’s too heavy for you to move by yourself, and I can’t be much help.” She was noticeably upset. “There’s nowhere to put your clothes.”

“Not a problem, Maggie. I can just live out of my suitcases until I get someone to help me. I don’t mind. Really.”

“Nonsense.” I could see her mentally working on the problem. “There’s a nice young man, lives next door—Quinn—he’ll help.”

“Quinn?”

“Cullen’s his first name, but everyone calls him Quinn. I told him you were coming.”

I didn’t need a dresser right that minute, but, again, Maggie was accustomed to having the final word. I considered freshening up but figured it would be a waste of time since I would only gather more dirt and grime helping Everyone-Calls-Him-Quinn bring the dresser up from the basement.

Maggie sent me next door to a brownstone that was almost identical to hers. I stepped inside the porch and rang the doorbell.

A young man with damp tousled hair answered after the first ring. Towel draped around his neck. Gym shorts below. He was standing a few inches above me and was tall and athletic-looking. My line of vision hit well below his face, so I had to look up at him. The dark, heavy-framed glasses he wore didn’t detract from intelligent blue eyes that looked back at me. He appeared to be in his late twenties. Probably young enough to be my son, but cute enough to make me wish I had cleaned up before coming over. As all of this ran through my mind, a whisper of guilt hissed through my brain and I attempted to push it aside.

Neither of us spoke for an awkward moment, and then I braced myself and said, “Hi, I’m Gracie Cavanaugh. I’m looking for Quinn.”

He looked down at me and smiled. “You must be Maggie’s niece.”

“Actually, I’m her great-niece. Or grandniece. Never could figure out which was right—maybe both.” I tried to stop talking but rambled on nervously. “I would have come by sooner, but I decided to wait until I could get myself all gussied up. You know—first impressions and all?”

He just looked at me.

“That was meant to be a joke. It’s not my best material, but I’m having to think on my feet, so to speak.” I took a deep breath, shrugged and pushed a stray strand of hair from my eyes, trying to regain my composure. I hated being so unsettled.

“Oh. Sorry—don’t mean to be rude, come on in,” he finally said. “Quinn’s in the basement playing pool with friends.”

I hesitated. “I don’t want to impose. If he’s busy, I can come back later.” I was often uncomfortable in social situations in recent months, but hated being rude to this young, attractive, polite stranger. So, I decided not to turn and run. Also, call it wishful thinking, but upon closer inspection, I was not convinced that I was old enough to be his mother after all. I chided myself for going there and blamed it on Maggie’s bourbon.

“You’re not imposing. I’ll get him.” He held the door for me with one hand and pushed his glasses up on his nose with the other. I moved in, touching his chest briefly with my shoulder. He smelled of soap and a woodsy aftershave.

“Have a seat in the living room. I’ll be right back.” He turned and padded down the hall in his bare feet.

I couldn’t help it—my eyes slid to his backside. Very nice, I thought.

He disappeared around a corner. A door opened, and I heard the muffled sound of his steps going down to the basement. Music drifted up—the Beatles singing the tale of Eleanor Rigby to the baroque beat of a cello.

The house was a duplicate of Maggie’s inside, just reversed. I stood in the living room, quickly readjusting my shirt, finger-combing my hair, and wishing it hadn’t been months since my last cut. I checked my breath in my cupped hand. It smelled faintly of bourbon. Great. The preferred aperitif of old ladies.

After a minute or two my new neighbor reappeared. “Gracie, he says go right on down. The stairs are just around the corner in the kitchen.” He motioned for me to follow him, and when we walked into the kitchen he pointed to an open door.

“I’m not interrupting?”

“No, but he has ten bucks riding on this game, wants to finish it.”

“Thanks for your help—um—I never did get your name.”

“Matt. Matt Quinn,” he replied. “Cullen’s—Quinn’s—brother.”

“Nice to meet you, Matt.” I tried not to breathe on him.

I went to the top of the stairs leading to the basement and looked down. The area was dark, the only light coming from below. I started down, following the sound of cracking pool balls, and had almost made it to the bottom when I slipped off the edge of a step and ended up taking the last four on my derrière. My elbow slammed against the wall, sending a shockwave of pain through my funny bone. It yowled back at me and was in the midst of a full-blown temper tantrum when I scraped my left Achilles tendon—losing a couple of layers of skin in the process—as I tried to right myself. I loudly mouthed a four-letter word.

On the plus side, it was over within seconds, but I was left half sprawled on the floor, staring up at three strange men, their mouths gaping. I closed my eyes and wished the moment away, but I was still on the floor when I opened them. The men were still motionless and slack-jawed. Their pity and my embarrassment hung silently in the air. Without a word, I pulled myself to my feet and did an about-face, hobbling up the stairs.

Matt stood at the top in the doorway.

“What the hell happened!” he exclaimed as I limped into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and sat down delicately. I looked at him and suppressed the urge to add to the one-sided dialogue I’d initiated with the stairs moments ago. Instead, I rubbed my elbow and stayed silent. I winced as Matt gently pulled up my sleeve. “Damn—that looks like it hurts,” he said.

“You think?” I inhaled sharply and took a mental inventory of my pain. My mind and body agreed that my tumble had left no area unscathed. Everything hurt.

Matt hurried to the refrigerator, grabbed a handful of ice from the freezer, stuffed it in his towel, and pressed it gently to my elbow. I raised my leg and examined it.

“Wow, that looks bad,” he said. “You’re lucky you didn’t break something.”

I gave a huge sigh. I had never understood why people felt obliged to use that phrase. Had I really been lucky, I would have made it down the stairs on two feet instead of bounding down like a human soccer ball, utterly humiliated.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said. “Luck just follows me everywhere I go.” I groaned as I straightened my leg, and then froze when I heard several pairs of footsteps climbing the basement stairs. I thought about fleeing the scene, but I couldn’t have limped away fast enough.

The three men filed into the kitchen. One of them, a lanky redhead with freckles tattooed across his pale face was the first to speak. “Dang, lady—are you all right?” he asked. “That was pretty spectacular.”

A pleasant-looking guy with a shaved head and tight black T-shirt stood next to him. “From the sound of her language, she’s no lady,” he said and grinned.

“Truck driver, possibly,” the third man said. “The dialect sounds familiar. I think I work with some members of your tribe.” He was well over six feet tall, slightly beefy, with a head full of dark curly hair. “We’ve had a ‘friendly’ chat with the stairs. I don’t think they’ll be bothering you again.”

I noted his big smile, lots of white teeth, and nice green eyes. He resembled Matt.

“You must be Quinn,” I said, finding it hard not to smile back. “I’m Gracie—Maggie’s great-niece.”

“I heard you were coming,” he said. “Didn’t think it would involve so much drama. Should I call for an ambulance?”

“No need,” I replied. “Maggie has something for the pain.”

The rest of the evening was an improvement over what we all referred to as “The Incident.”

Matt and Quinn followed me back to Maggie’s and moved the dresser from the basement to my bedroom, and then hauled my luggage upstairs while I watched. I tried to help with my belongings, but they preferred having me in a supervisory role—or maybe they just weren’t ready to see me navigate stairs again. I felt a little guilty allowing two total strangers handle a task I could’ve managed on my own, but they were so sweet about it I had to be gracious. Besides, there was nothing to complain about regarding the view from the bottom of the stairs.

Once the brothers completed their chores, they shared a drink with Maggie, and when it got late, Maggie insisted on making us dinner even though we all protested. We dined on overcooked meatloaf and mashed potatoes, with a side of pale canned carrots. Maggie just picked at her meal and filled the dogs’ bowl with the remainder. Stogie devoured the meatloaf and begged for more, turning his nose up at the conventional dog food I pushed on him as an alternative.

We sat around the kitchen table, with Maggie and the men trading stories about the neighborhood. Matt and Quinn had grown up in the house next door and had many fond memories. A lot had changed in the past few years, though. They, and most of their childhood friends, had moved on to new jobs and cities to find opportunities elsewhere.

Five months earlier, Quinn had moved back to Springfield from Los Angeles, shortly after their parents had died within a few months of each other. He was working as a mechanical engineer at a nearby manufacturing facility that specialized in fabricating machinery for industrial use. Matt had just moved back as well, taking a summer break from MIT where he was working on a doctorate in applied mathematics.

They weren’t ready to part with the house, and clearly missed their parents. Maggie missed them as well. “You would have liked Eleanor,” she told me. “She was a peach. Never needed a fence for her to be a good neighbor. She kept the boys in line, kept her house neat as a pin. Real hard worker. Casey was a hard worker, too. Set a good example for these boys. He was so handy. Used to fix things for me all the time.”

Quinn was twelve years older than Matt and it was obvious that he enjoyed the role of big brother. Matt’s arrival had come as a surprise to their parents who’d given up on having more children. The two men had not actually grown up together, but they had obviously forged a strong bond in spite of their age difference.

Quinn spent the evening teasing Matt about everything from his hair to his taste in women. He had his fun with me, too, referring to me as “Grace” at every opportunity, using my name as a double entendre.

Whenever the conversation was directed at me, I kept my story simple, explaining that I was just moving out of an apartment in Greenwich when Maggie had called and invited me to Springfield. I talked a bit about my career as an architect when we were all discussing education and jobs, but I created a very minimalist version of my life for the two men. I had become skilled at maneuvering around certain subjects. I never talked about Michael. I couldn’t anticipate where my emotions would take me, and it was simply too risky.

Besides, I assumed that Maggie had filled them in about my late husband, because she never mentioned him while we were talking. She went along with the neatly edited version I gave of my life, never bringing him up, and I, in turn, pretended that my trip to Springfield was nothing more than a friendly visit. Quinn and Matt politely avoided asking any pointed questions; the four of us simply talked around the obvious: Maggie needed me here for a reason, and I had left more behind in Greenwich than an apartment.

Before long, Maggie excused herself and told us she was going to bed. “Can I help you upstairs?” I asked. I didn’t want to offend her, but she looked exhausted.

“Good Lord! Do I look like I need help? I’ve gotten myself to bed for over eighty years, I think I can manage one more night.” She heaved from her chair, navigated the hall, and made her way up the stairs, with Stogie in tow. She lectured him, her voice fading as she reached the second floor. “Now listen here you little mutt—don’t think you’re spending the night with me. I sleep alone, thank you. Damn, you’re a pest!”

Once we heard her door close, Quinn turned to me. “How’s Maggie doing, anyway?” he asked. “We’ve been worried about her. She won’t tell us exactly what’s going on, but we know something is wrong. I didn’t want to bring it up in front of her, but I have to know.”

I took a deep breath.

“Maggie has metastatic breast cancer. She found out two months ago when she went to her doctor complaining of abdominal pain. He ordered an MRI. They found spots on her liver and pancreas. It’s not good.”

The men were silent.

“I figured it was serious,” Quinn said finally, sighing. “It’s not Maggie’s nature to look to anyone for help, and that’s the only reason I can imagine she would have you move in with her. Damn.”

“I’m sure it was hard for Maggie to ask,” I said. “I think one of her parish priests pressured her into making the call. She said he was being a real pain in the ass.”

Quinn smiled briefly and said, “That has to be Father Brian—and yes, he can be relentless. He straightened me out a time or two when I was younger. He’s pretty old, sort of retired, but he still works at the parish.”

“Still, it was a lot to ask of you,” said Matt.

“My mom leaned on me when she found out about Maggie’s illness,” I said. “She and Maggie are close, but my parents are spending several months traveling in Europe. They’ve been planning it for years, and Maggie threatened to pull the mother of all fits if they cut their trip short because of her.”

I felt that they were both waiting for more—wanting to know about Michael—but I wasn’t ready to share.

“Is there anything they can do for her?” Matt asked. “I mean, can’t she have surgery or something? Chemo?”

I wished I had some good news to offer them, but I didn’t. “Her doctor says it’s far too advanced. All they can do is help manage her pain, which will probably get pretty bad over time.”

“Sonofabitch,” Quinn said sadly, shaking his head. “That is no way to go. Our mom had cancer, and it was awful. All of it.”

“I hate to ask this,” Matt said, “but how long do they give her?”

“They don’t know. She could last as long as six months, but it’s not likely given her age. Her heart isn’t great, so they’re concerned that will become a factor before long.”

“So, you’re here for the duration?”

“As long as she’s well enough to stay at home. More than anything, she’s afraid of being alone and cared for by strangers. I’m going to try to do what I can to make it easier for her.”

“Maggie is lucky to have you,” Quinn said. “There aren’t many people who would drop everything and move in to care for a sick relative.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have much keeping me in Greenwich. All I had to do was pack up the dogs, some clothes, and a few pair of shoes.” I chose my words carefully, ready to change the subject if necessary.

“A few? Try several dozen. Remember, I just hauled your stuff upstairs. I know you don’t travel light.” Quinn pointed an accusing finger at me and smiled.

Before he could say anything else, I got up from the table and picked up my plate, but he stopped me. “You’ve had a long day. Matt and I will get this.”

Quinn and Matt began clearing the dirty dishes from the table, but I insisted on taking care of the rest. Despite being tired, I knew I wouldn’t rest until I gave Maggie’s kitchen a good scrubbing. I walked them to the door, said goodnight, and went to work.

When the kitchen was as clean as I could get it, I took Ellen out for a quick spin in the front yard, minus Stogie, who had disappeared with Maggie.

Finally, I went upstairs to my new bedroom. Ellen followed me and sprawled on an ugly rag rug near the bed. I looked at the rug and tried to figure out what color it was, but given its age and the grime, it was impossible to tell.

I grabbed my toiletry kit from my overnight bag and headed to the bathroom to clean up. There was a tub, but no shower, and I was too tired for a bath. I filled the sink with water and washed my hands and face, drying them on a threadbare towel. I brushed my teeth over the sink, ignoring the green stains trailing down the sides of the basin. Tomorrow was another day.