“That isn’t me,” Mrs. Green says. She pulls down her dress, which has risen over her thighs, revealing a beige slip. “It’s my mother. She was a looker, wasn’t she?” She chuckles.
I smile. “She was.”
“Now, which one of you is Jackson?” she says.
Jackson holds out his hand. “Mrs. Green? That would be me. We spoke on the phone.” This is where Jackson’s on his best behavior, when he’s introducing us to new clients. Mrs. Green seems flustered with his direct gaze, and I’m reminded how charming my brother can be.
“Oh. Pleasure to meet you. So handsome.”
“Well, thank you. Not so bad yourself.”
As Jackson does his thing, I can’t help staring at the vaulted ceiling and the oil paintings of gleeful children. They gaze down at me, their eyes bright and hopeful. Does anyone else find this creepy? But no, the gang’s focused on Jackson.
I walk over to a sepia-toned photograph of the house’s first construction. As if on cue, ringing drifts through my ears. I think back to what Jackson said when I was a kid: “It’s all in your little head, Ange. Don’t be like Mom.”
But I am like her, more than he or I will ever admit. The ringing is barely audible. It taunts me, drifting louder and louder. I’m not crazy. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to breathe in and out like normal people do.
Abruptly, the ringing stops. I open my eyes. Mrs. Green smiles cordially, the garden of wrinkles stretching across her face. “Would anyone care for some tea?”
Although Mrs. Green is here alone, the kitchen’s disarray still surprises me. The trash overflows with uneaten food and flies circle the moldy counter. “Sorry for the mess,” Mrs. Green says. “I fell a few months ago. Ever since things haven’t been the same.”
We stand awkwardly as Mrs. Green clatters around the sink, moving cups, fixing a pot of tea. There’s a plate of cookies on the counter. A fat cockroach scurries across the cooked dough, disappearing behind a pile of dishes. Mrs. Green picks up the plate. She hobbles over to the table and motions for us to sit down. “Here we are,” she says. “Little under-baked. How the girls used to like ‘em.”
“Hey. Underbaked. That’s the way to go,” Jackson says.
We all slouch in the rickety chairs. As Mrs. Green sits down, she winces. “Oof. Old bones.” She nods to Elliot. “My dear, I may need you to go get the water when the whistle goes. Don’t ever get old. None of you.”
She digs out a plastic case that holds her false teeth. I try not to watch as she pops them in and smacks her gums together. Elliot grimaces besides me. Beth clears her throat.