I cleaned that house harder than I have ever cleaned anything in my life. I scrubbed the grout in the upstairs bathroom with a toothbrush. I dusted the tops of the doorframes. I washed the
baseboards on my hands and knees. I cleaned the inside of the oven, which I’m pretty sure hadn’t been cleaned since the Carter administration.
When I dusted the piano, I lifted each picture frame, wiped underneath it, and put it back down in
exactly the same spot. I lined them up with the little dust outlines so they wouldn’t move even a quarter of an inch.
There were a lot of pictures. A young couple on their wedding day, in black and white. A little girl
with pigtails on a swing. The same girl in a cap and gown. A tall man with a kind face and a bow tie, holding a fish and laughing. I figured that was Mr. Whitaker.
