There is No Year
“The mother ran in fits. Each time she went to the door expecting—him, he, that one, which one, who?—and each time found someone other, someone new. Folks arrived in line with checkbooks, holding hands. Sometimes there’d be several families waiting. Each, as the mother brought the door opened, walked in proud, already home. Though the mother felt strongly about the couple’s offer, she gave tours anyhow. She showed. She baked scones with black molasses and passed them on tiny plates, which the people took and smiled. By the time most people left, their expressions had scrunched and darkened. They went from bubbly to still. Though nothing particularly bumming happened—no carpet sizzled, no paintings moved, the rooms’ wallpaper did not peel—as soon as any buyer had been through one or two rooms apiece their eyes began to swim with blank foreboding. Their cheeks sunk, glazed and pocky. Good natures became terse. Hands stayed in pockets. Dry lips. Some spoke of hearing cymbals or a pressure... in their chest.MoreLess
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