T Is for Trespass

She tucked her compact away, satisfied that she looked the part—faithful companion to the old. She got out of her car and locked it behind her, then crossed the street.
    The woman who answered the door was in her thirties and had a gaudy look about her—bright red lipstick, dark red hair. Her skin was pale, as though she seldom exerted herself and never went outdoors. She was definitely not a California type, especially with those eyebrows plucked to thin arches and darkened with pencil. She wore black boots and a narrow black wool skirt that hit her midcalf. Neither the shape nor the length was flattering, but Solana knew it was the current rage, as were the dark red nails. The woman probably thought she had an eye for high fashion, which wasn’t the case. She’d picked up the “look” from the latest magazines. Everything she wore would be dated and out of style before the new year rolled around. Solana smiled to herself. Anyone who had so little self-awareness would be easy to manipulate.
    She held the paper up, folded so that the ad was in view. “I believe you placed an ad in the paper.”
    “I did. Oh, how nice. I was beginning to think no one would ever respond. I’m Melanie Oberlin,” she said, and extended her hand. Solana might as well have been a fly-fisherman, casting out her line.
    “Solana Rojas,” she replied, and shook Melanie’s hand, making sure her grip was strong. The articles she’d read all said the same thing. Keep the handshake firm and look your prospective employer in the eye. These were tips Solana committed to memory.
    The woman said, “Please come in.”
    “Thank you.”
    Solana stepped into the living room, taking in the whole of it without any visible evidence of curiosity or dismay. The house smelled sour. The wall-to-wall carpet was beige, shabby and stained, and the upholstered furniture was covered in a dark brown crepey fabric she knew would be gummy to the touch. The lamp shades were tinted a deep parchment color by the infusion of large quantities of cigarette smoke over a long period of time. She knew if she put her nose against the drapes, she’d inhale decades’ worth of secondhand tar and nicotine.
    “Shall we sit down?”
    Solana took a seat on the sofa.
    This was a place where a man had lived alone for many years, indifferent to his surroundings. A superficial order had been imposed, probably quite recently, but the rooms would have to be gutted to eliminate the many layers of grime. She knew, sight unseen, that the kitchen linoleum would be a dead gray and the aged refrigerator would be small and hunched. The interior light would be out and the shelves would be crusty with years of accumulated food spills.
    Melanie looked around, seeing the place through her visitor’s eyes. “I’ve been trying to tidy up since I got into town. The house belongs to my uncle Gus. He’s the one who fell and dislocated his shoulder.”
    Solana loved her apologetic tone because it signified anxiety and a desire to please. “And your aunt is where?”
    “She died in 1964. They had one son who was killed in World War Two and a daughter who died in a traffic accident.”
    “So much sadness,” Solana said. “I have an uncle in much the same situation. He’s eighty-six and living in isolation after the loss of his wife. I’ve spent many weekends with him, cleaning, running errands, and preparing food for the coming week. I think it’s the company he enjoys more than anything.”
    “Exactly,” Melanie said. “Uncle Gus seems grumpy, but I’ve noticed how his mood improves with company. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
    “Thank you, no. I had two cups this morning and that’s my limit.”
    “I wish I could say the same. I must go through ten cups a day. In the city, we think of it as the addiction of choice. Are you a native of California?”
    “Fourth generation,” Solana said, amused at the roundabout way the woman had come up with to ask if she was Mexican. She hadn’t actually said she was, but she knew Melanie Oberlin would imagine a once wealthy Spanish family. Solana said, “You yourself have an accent, no?”
    “Boston.”
    “I thought so. And this is ‘the city’ you referred to?”
    Melanie shook her head in the negative. “New York.”
    “How did you hear of your uncle’s unfortunate accident? Is there another family member here in town?”
    “I’m sorry to say there’s not. One of the neighbors called. I flew out expecting to stay a