"bobby and deb"

They had decided to paint the house themselves, though each disliked the thought of standing on a ladder holding a bucket of paint. “We have to,” Bobby said. “We can’t afford to pay someone.” So Saturday morning they borrowed a ladder from the Dixons next door and leaned it against the front of the house. The sun was bright, but not enough to warm the air. Deb wore coveralls and her hair pinned up; Bobby wore an old pair of sweatpants.

“This is going to take us all weekend,” Deb said.

Bobby started to climb the ladder, his right hand holding the ladder, his left grasping the pail and a brush. He stepped carefully, unsteadily, his large body unused to having to balance. Deb had liked his weight on her before, but now it seemed suffocating. This house, she thought. This house will kill me.

“As long as we get it done,” Bobby called down to her. She was standing at the bottom of the ladder, keeping it steady with both hands. “We won’t have to worry about it for years.”

Deb looked around and saw Mrs. Dixon looking out the window at them. She waved. Deb raised her hand and smiled. Then she turned away, resisting the urge to look back and see if Mrs. Dixon was still there. She twisted her foot in the grass.