Free Obsessed by G. H. Ephron Page A

into me, but tonight she felt stiff.
    â€œYeah, he was.”
    â€œYou don’t have to go home, you know.”
    â€œYeah, I do.”
    â€œAnnie?”
    She held my gaze for a few moments, then looked away. “I’m sorry, Peter. I wouldn’t be much company. I’m a complete basket case from worrying about my uncle, and I hate it that there’s not a damned thing I can do. And I hate having to come running to someone for help.”
    Before I could say, “But I’m not someone ,” Annie was walking out to the street. She turned and blew me a kiss. Then she got into her car, started the engine, and took off.
    Damn. I unlocked the door to my house and switched off the porch light. I turned and gazed up the street where Annie had driven off. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you tonight.”

7
    T HE SMELL was what you noticed first. Burnt food, mothballs, and the sharp, dried sweat smell of old age. There was a whiff of it in the entryway. It got stronger as we climbed to Uncle Jack’s second-floor apartment. The stairs of the Somerville triple-decker were stacked with newspapers.
    â€œIt didn’t used to be like this,” Annie said.
    In the upstairs hallway were more newspapers, paint cans from decades of home repair, bags piled on top of bags. I peered into one of them. There were dozens of cardboard toilet-paper tubes, paper napkins that looked as if they might have been used and refolded, a road map, and an empty plastic spray bottle of Windex.
    Annie knocked at the door.
    From what I could see, bags in the lower levels and further in were less of a hodgepodge—there were paperbacks in one, Styrofoam packing and nested plastic deli containers in another.
    Annie knocked again. “Hey, Uncle Jack, it’s me, Annie.”
    Still no response. Annie unlocked the door. Inside it was dark, and the air felt thick and musty. There were more shopping bags, stacks of newspaper and boxes in the entryway, and the smell was stronger.
    â€œUncle Jack!” Annie called.
    Looking one way I could see the kitchen, its sink stacked with dirty dishes. The other way was the living room. Dark green drapes were drawn across tall windows. A fat gray tabby jumped down off the back of the couch, came over, and rubbed up against Annie’s leg. Annie bent down and scratched the cat behind the ears. He got up on his hind legs, put his front paws on her shoulder, and gave a strident “Yeow.”
    â€œHey, Columbo,” Annie said, picking up the cat. “How you doin’?”
    Columbo rubbed one side of his jaw against Annie’s face, then the other, marking his territory. Smart cat.
    A man appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was tall and stooped. His dark cardigan seemed a few sizes too large.
    â€œAnnie?” he said in a flat voice, his face slack and without expression. His belt was tied to keep his pants up.
    â€œDid you get my message?”
    Uncle Jack blinked back at her. “Message?”
    â€œYeah, I called to say we were coming.” Annie gave me an anxious look. “This is my friend Peter.”
    We worked our way through the dining room. There on a credenza was a black-and-white wedding photo. The man, presumably Uncle Jack, was about a foot taller than Annie’s radiant young Aunt Felicia. I could see a little of Annie in her eyes. He looked like a prizefighter, the way the lapels of his jacket bowed away from a broad chest. Uncle Jack had undergone quite a transformation since then.
    â€œFriend of Annie’s?” Uncle Jack gave me a direct look, his face suddenly alive and wary. Made me feel like a kid who’d showed up unannounced to take out his daughter. He still had a firm handshake.
    Annie set Columbo down on the floor. He went over and sniffed one of three open tins of cat food, turned up his nose, and stalked off.
    Some of the kitchen cabinets were open. One was filled with cat food—cans of Friskies beef