The elevator stood over the whole business, white and tall, like a church with no steeple.
And there, tucked in its shadow like a chick under a hen, was the littlest house I had ever seriously looked at.
White siding. A green shingle roof. A front porch just deep enough for a swing. And the swing was there, hung on chains, with a seat somebody had painted not too long ago.
One step up from the walk.
One.
“Mother couldn’t do stairs,” Mr. Brandt said, seeing me look at it.
He let me in.
The front room was the kitchen too. A sink under a good, big window. A gas stove with four burners. A refrigerator that hummed. Room for a table by the wall. A place for a couch. A heating stove in the corner.
Through a door there was the bedroom, with a closet. Off that, a bathroom with a tub that had a grab bar bolted into the studs.
