Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
I turned back to the wall, finding a stubborn patch of glue near the window frame. “She has a daughter to raise. She did nothing wrong.”
“And Chad?” Sarah asked, her voice cautious.
I scraped hard, the metal blade making a sharp ring against the plaster. “He is gone.”
“Gone where?” she asked.
“The sheriff said he crossed the state line into Alabama three days ago,” I said. “He left his old truck behind. It was parked behind the greyhound station on L Street with a flat tire and two empty oil cans in the bed.”
Sarah stopped scraping, her hand resting on the window sill. “He won’t come back, Maria.”
“I know,” I said.
I finished the corner, clearing the last green scrap of Chad’s paper from the plaster. The wall was bare now, grey and yellow and covered in patches of dried white adhesive.
“I’ll get the bucket of warm water,” Sarah said. “We need to wash the plaster before we tape the baseboards.”
She walked into the kitchen, her sneakers squeaking on the pine floor. I stood alone in the center of the living room, looking at the bare walls.
