Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel by Linda Castillo Page B

She sniffs, her brows lowering. “I swear the last tenant kept a cat in here. Never saw the litter box, but that smell…”
    A bar-height counter separates the living room from a small kitchen to my right. An old-fashioned kerosene lamp sits atop the bar. The kitchen is comprised of cheap cabinets and circa 1970s wallpaper. Avocado-colored refrigerator and stove. A stainless-steel sink mottled with hard-water spots. A laminate table with two matching chairs is shoved against the bay window. A smaller kerosene lamp sits in the center and not for the first time I’m reminded that I’ll be spending my evenings in the dark.
    “It’s a twelve-by-fifty-foot Liberty. I think it was built in the late 1970s. Built them solid back then.” Mrs. Bowman motions toward a narrow hall. “Two bedrooms and a bath back there. Got lamps in every room, but you’ll need to buy your own kerosene.”
    I’m trying to think of a way to ask her about electricity without letting on that I’m planning to use it. “What about heat?”
    “I pay everything, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t crank it up too high. Hot water heater and stove run off propane. Fridge is electric.” She raises her brows. “That’s not a problem, is it? I know you people don’t use electricity…”
    “It’s fine.” I try to look pained, but I’m vastly relieved.
    I follow her to the rear of the trailer. The floor creaks beneath my feet. The hall wears the same ugly paneling as the living room. We pass a closet-size bedroom, a twin-size bed taking up most of the space. Next is the bathroom. Someone has painted the paneling royal blue. There’s a fiberglass tub with a shower curtain covered with seahorses. Blue vanity with a dinner-plate-size sink and pitted chrome faucet. A medicine cabinet with a cracked mirror is mounted above the sink.
    I continue on, past a second exterior door on my right that leads to the backyard. The master bedroom takes up the entire rear of the trailer. It’s small by any standard and contains a twin bed draped with a threadbare comforter, a closet with a sliding door, and a built-in dresser with four drawers. An alarm clock ticks from atop a plant stand that’s being used as a night table. A fat candle on a plate sits on the floor next to the bed. A window unit air conditioner is jammed into the only window. I can feel the cold air pouring in from where I stand.
    Mrs. Bowman comes down the hall to join me. “What do you think?” she asks.
    “It’s perfect,” I tell her, trying not to be depressed. I lived in some dives in my early years, but nothing as dismal as this trailer.
    “You’ll be living here alone?”
    I nod. “I’m a widow.”
    “My Harold has been gone nearly four years now and I still miss him every day.” She clucks her mouth. “Alzheimer’s. Do you have children?”
    “No.”
    “Well, I don’t allow pets.” She pats the suitcase-size purse at her side. “I have the lease here, if you’d like to sign. Since you have your things with you, I’m assuming you want to move in today?”
    “Right now, if that’s all right,” I tell her.
    “Gotta love a no-nonsense Amish woman,” she says. “Let’s sit.”
    A few minutes later, we’re seated at the kitchen table. The simple rental agreement is two pages long with a place at the bottom for us to sign and date.
    “You’re from Ohio?” she asks, looking down at the form.
    “Holmes County.” I sign and date the second page and slide it over to her. “I’m looking for a job, too. Do you know of anyone hiring here in Roaring Springs?”
    “The pancake house off the highway is always looking for waitresses.”
    “What about Amish businesses?” I ask.
    “Well, there aren’t many left. The Amish around here keep to themselves.” Slipping bejeweled bifocals onto her nose, she signs her name with a flourish. “There’s a quilt shop in town called The Calico Country Store. And a restaurant called The Dutch Kitchen. I think they’re still