Kemesh's House

(continued from Girls Next Door)

A dry wind rustled the hairs below Kowter’s chin. It was thick with dust and a speck must have caught her in the eye because she stopped with her circulating and sat on the step. She sniffed a bit and upon closer inspection it appeared some of that new dirt dammed up in the gulley below her cheeks. You okay Kowter, I said. You doing okay. Good a time as any to leave her, Mib said. I agreed of course so we turned and opened the front door.

Well, there was a smell indeed. It is like rotting potatoes, Mib said, and with a pinch of salt, at that. Sure is, I said, yup. Kemesh was the queen of her coop, and in the way of a bygone besides: she had canes in the cane pot and a telephone in the hall, those being beside a four-post coat rack (never holding more than two coats, we heard, but this trip only now confirming that supposition; a lighter one for the trades and a heavier for the winters); the crimson trimming the stairway carpet was curlewed and kept, it being the first thing she would set her nephew to on his yearly upkeep, she told us; the glass chandelier (we had to flip on, and find the switch behind that winter coat) was a piece of queer pride for the house. And I realize as I blow on here that it may not be the most opportune time for me to continue to go into it.

As things unfolded we decided on a general tour, Mib and I. First floor, second floor, basement. Don’t wander out of earshot, she said, lest you find something. Lest something find me first, I thought. Lest something find you first, Mib thought, I thought. I looked at the back of her head as she sank into the dining room and took special note of the veins beneath that willowy hair. She was my Mib, and she was my very Mib.

(continued as I see fitinued)