Litchfield Road

Last night my exemplary friend, Janie, the only woman I knew in the sixties and seventies with a husband, a good marriage, nice little boys, was having a party in the Litchfield Road house. She'd prepared all the food, trays of elegant offerings. There were many guests. The only way that I could help was to work on the continually necessary clean up.

When everyone left, I realized that I was living there with Krissy. How was I going to pay the mortgage? And, then I realized how lonely it was. A little girl and me, rattling around in that house.

I thought about moving, selling it and buying a new place. How would I go about that? And then I realized that I could rent a room. Probably my half-brother's room. He was sixteen when I was born, so he was away in the army for much of my childhood and traveling in Europe, using his first inheritance from his grandfather, when our mother died. He had a double bed. I could, perhaps, rent his room to a couple. Would that be better? Should I advertise this in the New York Times? It was already Thursday. What day did they accept ads? Or would it be better to put the ad in the local paper.