I found a place off-campus to rent for my final year, a basement apartment. No more residence life or sharing a dorm room with “Room Service.” Real furniture from a real house, though not my house or home. I would learn how to make it my home.
Mrs. Cohen, my landlady, was a twiggy woman with sparrow-like eyes. She watched the three of us unpack the Malibu and the Caddy from her side window, her head poking between the gauzy curtains.
“That her?” Dad said, carrying in another load.
“Yeah.” I followed him down the stairs.
“Tell her you need brighter bulbs. It’s too dark down here.”
He stooped and sneezed from the mothball smells. “It’s like being inside your mother’s cedar chest,” he said, wiping his nose.
“Some flowers and air freshener,” said Linda, standing beside him. “It’ll be fin
