[the outline]
Phone rings. "Tom Ahern."
"Mr. Ahern, I am sorry to bother you." A reassuring adult male voice, seemed. "Can I have a second of your time?" mmm "Not a sales call! Promise." Lower voice, weary voice it seemed to me. "Much more personal. We need your help."
yes?
"Can I ask, is your home town Holbrook, Massachusetts?"
yes?
"Here?" The caller gave me the exact address I'd lived at from infancy through high school, in a warm, well-fed, well-managed lower-middle-class starter home, built on the back of the GI Bill by my father, Private First Class Thomas F. Ahern, and his wife, Hazel née McKay. It was a small house. But it was well-insulated. From outside temperatures, other views and especially judgmental neighbors. Perish disgrace and shame.
yes? "Can I help you?"
Yes.
yes?
Yes. Well, here it is. Your mother is haunting our house. We want her out. And she seems to want to talk to you.