The
Hall connecting the three bedrooms and bathroom is completely empty, except for
the rotary phone hanging on the wall and a small painting by Nanny of a
sea-plane landing on a lake. This is
where all phone conversations are made, standing. Kenny looks in the bathroom,
checks behind the door and in the tub.
He pulls aside the curtain that covers the shelves that hold the dirty
clothes, the towels and washrags, and the mysterious upper tier that holds the
douche and other feminine accoutrements, including an ancient medical
book. Down in the dirty clothes, Spotty
(sometimes called Nip-Nip because of the sound her nails make on the floor),
our little black-white-and-tan terrier, lifts her head, smiles, and thumps her
tail against the wall. No brothers, though. He moves on.
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