No one was home, just as the boys had suspected. They invited me inside and asked if I’d fix some food for them. I was leery about stepping inside with no parent present, but the boys complained about being really, really hungry. They said they hadn’t been given dinner the night before. I told them I’d try to fix them something, but it would depend on what they had in the cupboards.
The place was a mess inside. Clothes lay strewn about on the floor and on several chairs. All of the chairs and the couch had patched holes that didn’t completely cover the stuffing that was spilling out of the cushions. Bowls with remnants of food sat on a coffee table made out of a tree trunk. The discards held mold-growing gardens, and the smell emanating from them detracted from any beauty one could see in their green and pus-colored bacteria. In the corner a huge pile of rusted and dirty farm equipment made an interesting centerpiece.
I supposed I was being judgmental, but it seemed like a miserable-looking and rather dangerous home for two precious boys. I continued on through the living room, such as it was, and scurried into the kitchen. I was already predicting a sink full of dishes, which is exactly what I found. Some of the dishes were sitting in water, but from the oily surface at the top of it, I doubted any attempts at washing up had been recent.
An old icebox stood against one wall. It was unplugged and empty. The cupboards held only cockroaches and one small brown mouse.
Frances, watching me with sad eyes, sighed. “There might be food in the basement, but we’re not allowed to go down the stairs.”