“Clara is just trying to save water, Mom, we have to cut back where we can,” he said.
“Saving water doesn’t mean putting clean linens on a dirty basement floor,” I said.
Arthur finally looked at me, his eyes tired and bloodshot.
“She is only trying to help you keep things clean,” Arthur said, his voice turning defensive and short. “You shouldn’t be worrying about the laundry anyway.”
“I have done my own laundry in this house for forty years,” I said.
“Maybe things are getting a little harder to keep track of,” he said, turning his attention back to the gas bill.
I sat there, watching him line up the envelopes in a neat row on the laminate table. He did not say another word, and the silence in the kitchen grew heavy.
The house was entirely dark by ten, save for the single bulb burning in the master bathroom. My skin was still prickling from the evening wash, the red patches on my arms warm to the touch.
