During Family Breakfast, My Sister Hurled a Hot Frying Pan at My Daughter

By two o’clock my landlord, Mr.

Gable, was standing in my gravel driveway with a yellow carbon notice in his hand.

“Afternoon, Rachel,” he said as I got out of the car.

“Mr.

Gable.

Is something wrong with the rental?”

“I got four phone calls yesterday afternoon, from your mother and a lawyer named Mr.

Cross,” he said.