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there of an evening with a beer, watching the road out of the corner of his eye, at least when Mother would let him. The porch was wide, wrapping around the kitchen and to the back, and it had a high wood rail that was broad enough to rest a flowerpot or a beer bottle on. The kitchen door led out to that porch, and as long as I could remember, that was the main door we used for going into or out of the house. There was a front door, certainly, but it, like the shotgun Father had kept in the trunk at the foot of the bed, was used only on very rare occasions. I could recall the front door being opened twice, both times for funerals. Everyone who knew us knew to go round the side, and as for people who didn’t know us, well, they could stand out there all day if they wanted to.
    The kitchen was small by some standards, but it served well enough for us. A fat white gas stove sat on the wall by the door. Mother had always set her teakettle on the back left element, and I was not surprised to see it there when I walked in. There was a window over the sink, flanked by yellow curtains Mother hadstitched herself, and an expanse of white counter that had been put in with great fanfare back when I’d been about twelve. Cabinets filled with pots and pans lined the walls, but the cast-iron skillet lived on top of the stove. In the corner was a round kitchen table that had rarely been graced by a tablecloth. It was Formica, with long metal legs and flecks of gold in the plastic of the table-top, and the chairs that had come with it were just as ugly. Father had bought it, brand new, when I’d been very young. When Mother had expressed her disapproval, Father had said calmly that we’d get a new one just as soon as this one wore out. Now they were ten years gone and more, and the table was still here. Father would have laughed at that. Mother, not so much, I think.
    The rest of the house was on the same level, all built spinning off a long hallway that ran out the back of the kitchen. Down at the end was the family room, which doubled as the dining room when we had guests. As a result, the table spent most of its time shoved against the outside wall and covered in papers. There was a fireplace, rarely used but still functional, and a ceremonial pile of firewood in front of it that looked like it would fall to dust with a touch. There was more out back, I knew. There was always more out back.
    The left side of the house, facing away from the kitchen, was Mother and Father’s side. Their bedroom was there, as was their bathroom. Those doors were not to be opened by the likes of me, and it was only on rare occasions that I had ever even knocked. My room, and the bathroom that served the rest of the house, was on the side of the house nearer the road. There was a small guest room as well that doubled as Mother’s sewing room. When we had company, however, more often than not I moved into the guest room, and the guest took mine. My room was the more comfortable of the two, and by far the cooler.
    What we called the attic was really more of a crawlspace over the long central hall. The attic door was set flush into the hallway ceiling, and you could pull it and its foldaway ladder down with a long white cord that dangled from one end. Being able to jump high enough to grab that cord had been a goal of mine from early childhood, and I spent years of frustration leaping from a crouch every chance I got, only to fall short.
    It was much later that I learned that Father had been steadily snipping the cord shorter to encourage me—so he’d said—to jump higher. He’d only stopped once the string had gotten so high that he’d had trouble pulling the thing down himself. Mother was more practical. She just stood on a chair to reach the pullcord, and once she yanked it open, she told Father to go up there instead.
    Everything unusual and unloved was up in that attic. Shells for Father’s unused shotgun sat in a box next to baby clothes and