And now, without Anna and Ma constantly around to keep things reasonably clean, the place was going to seed within. Flat bats of dust settled under the bigger pieces of furniture; hazy films of it covered the flat surfaces (Anna remembered how the old lady used to tell her, “I don’t have to dust…that’s your job”—and Anna was all of four years old, barely big enough to grasp the wooden handle of the feather duster), and the jumble of bric-a-brac assembled haphazardly on the end tables and hanging shelves. One shelf was a geometric black affair backed with several oversized gold-painted wooden leaves. The leaves had gone springlike, all green and soft looking.
The musty tang of mold spores made the inside of Anna’s nose sting. Ma had said that when she first came back, the old lady’s coffee
