I walked to the front door of the modernistic throwback of some ranch-style, but not, home, noting that it had a screen door. The sweep of central air conditioning being installed around the country had just about put an end to such doors, at least as part of the initial construction of homes, particularly in California. I pushed it open, as there was no latch, the rickety form holding the rather tattered screen to its frame, squeaking even louder than the two badly lubricated hinges on one side.

Julie played with Mrs. Beasley, getting the doll ‘used to the new house,’ according to her, while I could hear Mary working in the kitchen. As I turned the corner to view the single corridor that comprised the kitchen, running the complete width of the home along the western wall, Bozo lay atop the long counter set into that side, just under the edge of one of the many windows running up and down that side of the room. It was an uncharacteristic pose in the new home as well as a setting he’d never have sought out or even tolerated in the old apartment.

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