Frances Fortier, our elderly neighbor at 250 Hernandez Terrace, died when I was around 10. Or so. At that age I wasn't overly aware of comings and goings. Unless, of course, it was a fancy automotive manner of entering or leaving the Terrace. Widowed some 30-odd years and living alone but for a mere dozen cats whom she adored, she lived quietly, unobtrusively. That genuine affection she showered on her little critters this kid peeking through the disintegrating grape stake fence could pick up on.
She left behind a derelict of a shabby and creepy old house that could well have passed as a dwelling possessed by the other. Her estranged family wanted the lumbering and decaying house emptied and, subsequently, put on the market. Or razed and the property sold. I couldn't have known anything about the heirs and their hoity toity airs. I was not acquainted with them and wouldn't have understood their cold indifference even if I were. I guess you could say that what little I do know about the underlying meanness of some people is what I clearly recall from a conversation between Mom and Effie Watson, realtor and broker, when she stopped by for coffee one cool morning. It was early spring when Frances died.
Mrs. Watson and my mother were discussing, in lowered voices, that all Mrs. Fortier's family (they were graciously ensconced in lovely homes in The City by the Bay) cared about was money and real estate. They never visited, much less would they do the simplest good deed on behalf of a selfless old woman who had spent herself so tirelessly for her now apathetic blood.