CHAPTER TWO June 1951, Seven years later The Finnegans’ house sprawled across two city lots, kitty- corner from the Steinbergs’ modest brick foursquare. The house had cost Mr. Finnegan almost ten thousand dollars to build— and that was during the Depression, don’t forget. Mr. Finnegan’s memories were the clearest when they were about how much he had paid for something. The lawn was smooth and lush as carpet, uninterrupted by trees, and they still hired a person to do their landscaping, which was just so unfair. The Steinberg lawn was cramped with white oaks, as was the vacant lot next door, and who had to rake those giant leaves? And mow the lawn? Franny. “Don’t fidget, dear,” Mrs. Finnegan said. And then, to the tailor, Mr. Epstein, “I told you, she’s at least a size larger on the bottom half.” She whispered bottom half as though it were a curse word. Franny’s face prickled. That familiar pain gripped her insides, gurgling demonically and earning a glare from Mrs. Finnegan. “Honestly, Franny,” she said. “You can’t possibly be hungry again.”
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