On my way home I stopped at the feed store four blocks away. For three weeks Mr. Walter Brandt had kept a handwritten notice taped beside his cash register: Small house for rent. Two rooms and a bathroom. Ask Brandt. I asked. I followed his truck in my Buick to a little place on a quiet street behind the grain elevator, with white siding, a porch swing, and one step up to the front door. Harvest was under way, and a fine film of corn dust lay over everything like flour.
“It’s nothing fancy, Judy,” he said, scratching his head. I looked at the front door. “It’s got its own door. That’s enough for me.” “Rent’s $550. Electric is separate.” I wrote the deposit check on the hood of my Buick, and he handed me two keys on a metal ring, one for the front door and one for the back. I stood there holding them. I was sixty-seven years old, and it was the first time I had held the keys to a home I picked entirely for myself.
