I bent down, my knees cracking in the quiet basement, and touched the top towel. It was cold and held a deep, heavy wetness that felt like it had been soaking in a puddle.
I stood up quickly, my head spinning for a brief second as I looked at the ruin of my clean wash.
At five o’clock, Arthur sat at the kitchen table with three envelopes of unpaid utility bills spread out before him. He was rubbing the back of his neck, his face pale under the yellow light of the hanging fixture.
“Arthur,” I said, sitting down across from him on the wooden chair.
He did not look up from the papers, though his thumb traced the edge of a past-due notice from the gas company.
“Did you move the clean towels down to the floor by the coal chute?” I asked.
“Why would I do that, Mom?” Arthur said, his voice flat.
“They are all sitting in the damp corner,” I said. “They will be ruined with mildew if they stay down there.”
He let out a long, slow sigh that sounded more like a groan, his shoulders sinking a little lower.
