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One night coming home from work, I finally got a glimpse of them entering their apartment and it did not disappoint. She was in her mid-forties if I had to guess, and she was a fit brunette squeezed into tight-fitting jeans and a turtleneck sweater that was a little too big for her but managed to show off her breasts and provide enough modesty. Her son, about seventeen or eighteen, was a dork. He was skinny, wearing a t-shirt with a Mario mushroom on it and skin so pale there are albinos out there telling him he needs to get some sun.“Hi, I’m Fiona,” I introduced myself.“Angela, and this is my son Edward,” she smiled and replied.He was interested in the goods as far as I could tell, because he got quiet and blushed a little when I smiled back at them.“Are you new to the city?” she asked before retrieving her keys from her purse.“I’ve been a few times before, but this is my first time living here,” I answered hoping to become friends with her.“That’s nice, we should do brunch. Jade, if Bobbi had them, to remind her of Patty’s eyes. She pointed down the street toward the school, as if explaining why she couldn’t come in just then, and she walked on.Off the crowded pike, with its banks, real estate offices and shops, the road descended into a valley of brightly painted gingerbread homes with wrought iron fences. The sidewalk stopped at the first cross street, and Kristen continued on the shoulder, past the old orphanage where, now, they took care of kids from the city who’d been abused or whose parents were in jail. Stone cottages built a century ago were hidden behind a barricade of trees that were just beginning to bud. Farther along, across the roadway, stood a white-grid block incongruously called the Cloister, where retired nuns were warehoused with other old Catholics, and where, every December, the girls from Saint Agnes, in their plaid winter uniforms and red Santa hats, would wander the antiseptic corridors, singing carols and handing out.
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