Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
“We should start with the heavy things,” Keith said, sliding his pen back into his shirt pocket.
I opened my door and stepped down onto the wet gravel. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp pine needles, a sharp Portland winter morning that made my breath show in white puffs. I walked to the back of the flatbed and unlatched the heavy tailgate.
“Let us get the table first,” I said.
Keith climbed up onto the metal deck, his boots making a hollow ringing sound. He reached down and took the far end of my stained oak coffee table, his fingers digging into the dark wood. I took the front legs, leaning back to balance the weight.
“This is heavier than it looks,” Keith said.
“It is solid oak,” I said. “I spent three Saturdays sanding the water rings out of the top.”
We carried it down the three wooden steps of the fire escape and through the back door of the studio. The hallway was narrow, smelling of fresh paint and floor wax. The small room was empty, the bare white walls reflecting the dull light from the street.
