living room/dining room/kitchen, three bedrooms upstairs, an unfinished basement. Both houses were still intact, and in roughly the same state of disrepair—wrought-iron porch railings rusted and aslant from fifty years of being leaned against.
Back in the forties, our parents had saved for awnings to shelter the front porches. The women had moved their canasta games outdoors on summer afternoons, savored the shade, and had hoped that even in Washington’s notorious swamp heat, there might be a hint of a breeze. Marilyn’s house still sported what might have been the “permanent” awning her parents had installed, some of its green-and-white plastic slats warped and discolored. But at my house, where the original canvas awning had been torn from its frame by Hurricane Hazel in 1956, there was still no replacement. In front of the house, the FHA tree had been cut down, leaving a slash of reddish soil beside the sidewalk and nothing to soften the sunshine or the view.
“They have a word for this,” I said. “Slum.”
“Don’t say that,” Marilyn whispered, though clearly it was. All up and down the block, for every freshly painted slab of woodwork, two were rotting. For every patch of tended yard, two were overgrown with ancient shrubs. For every set of shutters that hung securely at a window, another was falling off. At the house that shared a wall with Marilyn’s, a window air conditioner hung precariously from the master bedroom, looking as if it would come unhinged in the next brisk breeze. Someone had tried to paint the trim but had obviously given up—out of money? Paint? Time? Only the old red brick had held up well.
“Hardly the Historic District,” Marilyn noted. She crossed her arms in front of her, hugged herself into her sweater. “Were we ever this poor?”
“The houses were new then. We were upwardly mobile.” I tugged at her arm. “Come on. Let’s check out the alley. Remember Mrs. Warner?”
At the mention of the name, Marilyn revived. “The one who slept in the buff?”
“She didn’t think anyone could see her.”
“I don’t believe it. She was an exhibitionist. She knew.”
We turned into the alley, once the early morning domain of milkmen and garbage trucks, but a sheltered haven nevertheless, where in the neat rectangles of yard my father had erected a swing set and Marilyn’s mother had planted, against the ugly metal sheathing of the window well, lily of the valley that bloomed white and fragile every spring. In autumn, the Malkins next door built a succah hung with fruit and gourds, where everyone was invited to eat honey cake while looking up through the greenery to the harvest sky.
Now the alley was full of potholes, the chain-link fences that had enclosed our yards were falling down, and most of the lawns had been partially paved to make room for cars people must not have wanted to leave out front.
“Look.” I pointed across a sea of trash cans to the window of the room where the Warners had slept, directly across the alley from my childhood bedroom.
“She was such a hussy!” Marilyn laughed.
Younger than our own mothers, more carefree and daring, Jessie Warner had often left the light on while she undressed, and had never closed the shades. The spring we were ten, Marilyn and Penny spent the night at my house as often as they were allowed, where the three of us crowded in front of my darkened bedroom window and spied.
“She’s so flat, ” Penny whispered as we examined Jessie Warner’s nude form, her narrow torso rising toward small, perky breasts.
“I bet she was a ballet dancer,” Marilyn observed. But though her body was more graceful than those of our own curvaceous mothers, we decided it was less interesting, too—a fact that made us feel superior and secure, suspecting as we did that we ourselves would probably grow into versions of our mother’s bodies and not Jessie Warner’s.
A week or two before school let out, we were regaled by the
Back in the forties, our parents had saved for awnings to shelter the front porches. The women had moved their canasta games outdoors on summer afternoons, savored the shade, and had hoped that even in Washington’s notorious swamp heat, there might be a hint of a breeze. Marilyn’s house still sported what might have been the “permanent” awning her parents had installed, some of its green-and-white plastic slats warped and discolored. But at my house, where the original canvas awning had been torn from its frame by Hurricane Hazel in 1956, there was still no replacement. In front of the house, the FHA tree had been cut down, leaving a slash of reddish soil beside the sidewalk and nothing to soften the sunshine or the view.
“They have a word for this,” I said. “Slum.”
“Don’t say that,” Marilyn whispered, though clearly it was. All up and down the block, for every freshly painted slab of woodwork, two were rotting. For every patch of tended yard, two were overgrown with ancient shrubs. For every set of shutters that hung securely at a window, another was falling off. At the house that shared a wall with Marilyn’s, a window air conditioner hung precariously from the master bedroom, looking as if it would come unhinged in the next brisk breeze. Someone had tried to paint the trim but had obviously given up—out of money? Paint? Time? Only the old red brick had held up well.
“Hardly the Historic District,” Marilyn noted. She crossed her arms in front of her, hugged herself into her sweater. “Were we ever this poor?”
“The houses were new then. We were upwardly mobile.” I tugged at her arm. “Come on. Let’s check out the alley. Remember Mrs. Warner?”
At the mention of the name, Marilyn revived. “The one who slept in the buff?”
“She didn’t think anyone could see her.”
“I don’t believe it. She was an exhibitionist. She knew.”
We turned into the alley, once the early morning domain of milkmen and garbage trucks, but a sheltered haven nevertheless, where in the neat rectangles of yard my father had erected a swing set and Marilyn’s mother had planted, against the ugly metal sheathing of the window well, lily of the valley that bloomed white and fragile every spring. In autumn, the Malkins next door built a succah hung with fruit and gourds, where everyone was invited to eat honey cake while looking up through the greenery to the harvest sky.
Now the alley was full of potholes, the chain-link fences that had enclosed our yards were falling down, and most of the lawns had been partially paved to make room for cars people must not have wanted to leave out front.
“Look.” I pointed across a sea of trash cans to the window of the room where the Warners had slept, directly across the alley from my childhood bedroom.
“She was such a hussy!” Marilyn laughed.
Younger than our own mothers, more carefree and daring, Jessie Warner had often left the light on while she undressed, and had never closed the shades. The spring we were ten, Marilyn and Penny spent the night at my house as often as they were allowed, where the three of us crowded in front of my darkened bedroom window and spied.
“She’s so flat, ” Penny whispered as we examined Jessie Warner’s nude form, her narrow torso rising toward small, perky breasts.
“I bet she was a ballet dancer,” Marilyn observed. But though her body was more graceful than those of our own curvaceous mothers, we decided it was less interesting, too—a fact that made us feel superior and secure, suspecting as we did that we ourselves would probably grow into versions of our mother’s bodies and not Jessie Warner’s.
A week or two before school let out, we were regaled by the
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