Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
I disconnected the black and white wires, twisting the orange plastic wire nuts back onto the bare copper of the ceiling box. I screwed the original cheap plastic socket back into place, screwing in a single, dim forty-watt bulb I had brought in my bag.
The kitchen looked different under the weak, yellow light of the old bulb. The corners of the counter were in shadow, and the white linoleum floor looked gray and spotted.
I moved to the hallway closet. The three cedar shelves I had cut and stained myself came out with a firm tug, the small brass brackets dropping into my pocket with a sharp clink. I left the bare wooden cleats on the plaster walls, their empty screw holes looking like small black eyes.
I went into the kitchen and looked at the cabinets. The original handles had been greasy, stamped steel pulls from the nineteen-seventies, their silver coating worn off where fingers had touched them for forty years. I had stored them in a coffee can under the sink.
