“Apparently the man of the house needs a field trip.”
The place was smaller than I remembered, with the same narrow porch and faded brass numbers beside the door.
Gabriel stopped just inside as if 30 years had disappeared beneath his feet.
Mrs. Fisher didn’t give him time to wander through memories.
The place was smaller than I remembered.
She pointed toward the first-floor room off the hallway.
“Recognize it?”
Gabriel looked through the doorway.
“Yeah.”
“You slept in there plenty.”
“When Mom worked nights.”
Mrs. Fisher nodded.
“Usually.”
Gabriel looked at her.
Mrs. Fisher waited.
“Aunt Ruth,” he said.
“There he is!” she called out.
“Recognize it?”
Gabriel rubbed the back of his neck.
I looked between them.
“Who’s Aunt Ruth?”
“My aunt,” Mrs. Fisher said. “Bad knees. Couldn’t manage stairs anymore.”
She nodded toward the room.
“When Ruth stayed here, she got that bed.”
Her eyes moved to the couch in the living room.
“And Gabriel got that.”
“Who’s Aunt Ruth?”
My husband gave a quiet laugh.
“That couch was terrible.”
“You told me once it had been designed by somebody who hated spines,” Mrs. Fisher recalled.
I smiled.
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