Slightly Suburban. Wendy Markham

one last glance as we drive away. I mean, I’m sure there could be potential here somewhere.

      Maybe some savvy buyer could knock the place down and start fresh amid the Mature Plantings. But that savvy buyer is not going to be us.

      “It’s not quite what we’re looking for,” is how I phrase it to Verna, who wants to know what we thought.

      “Mmm, hmm. Well, it was on the small side,” she says.

      I nod vigorously, as if small is the deal breaker.

      What I want to say is, “Got anything that doesn’t reek of cat pee?”

      But who knows? Maybe cat pee is all we can afford in Glenhaven Park.

      Nope.

      We learned on our next stop that we can also afford a partially gutted wreck whose owner started a massive renovation and then either ran out of money, or was run out of town on a rail—something like that. Verna kind of mumbled the details, which involved running. Maybe from the cops, or a gun-toting ex-wife.

      Anyway…the gutted wreck is out of the question, affordable or not.

      We then find out that we can also afford a flooded basement. The two-story Victorian on a nice block is actually promising until we start to descend the subterranean stairs. There must be at least two feet of standing water there.

      Verna, ever the optimist, begins, “You can always pump it out…” Then she catches sight of our expressions. “You’re right. You don’t want this place. Let’s move on.”

      House number four, another seventies ranch, is empty, so we don’t have to try to envision it without furniture or home-owner clutter. But there’s a definite pall hanging over it from the moment we cross the threshold.

      “The seller is very motivated. The owner passed away suddenly last summer…” Verna pauses to close the door behind us and fumble for the light switch.

      Jack and I exchange a glance, wondering just how motivated a dead guy can possibly be.

      “Anyway,” Verna goes on, “his nephew, who inherited the house—” Aha, lightbulb moment. So the seller is the nephew, who is apparently very much alive, living on the West Coast and hoping to unload it. According to Verna, “I’m sure he’ll entertain any offer you might want to make.”

      The house is your basic seventies ranch, no frills, but no cat smell or piss-yellow siding, either. White paint inside and out, hardwood floors, rectangular rooms. There are three bedrooms and two baths, as well as a nice screened-in patio off the back, and a deep lot with trees, which I guess don’t qualify as Mature Plantings? Or do they? I’m still not entirely down with this real-estate jargon.

      “What do you think?” Verna asks as usual, when we finish our tour.

      It’s all very basic, very okay, very affordable.

      But like I said, there’s just this…pall. That’s the best way to describe it.

      I’d be willing to bet the dead guy died right here in the house. Who knows? Maybe he’s still hanging around.

      “I don’t know…it’s a little dark,” I tell Verna.

      “Picture it on a sunny day, without the vinyl blinds. It would be so much more—”

      “No, Tracey’s talking about the way it feels, not the way it looks,” Jack cuts in. “Dark as in sad and depressing.”

      So he gets it, too. I shoot him a surprised and grateful look. Good to know we’re in sync—and that houses really do have personalities.

      Heaven only knows house number five does. Meet the plain girl who’s nice enough but just tries too hard to be liked.

      Architecturally, it’s what you draw with crayons on manila paper when you’re in first grade: a simple rectangle with a triangle sitting on top of it. First floor: door centered between two windows, second floor: three windows, each placed directly above a window or door on the first floor.

      Most people would drive by and never give it a second glance if it didn’t self-consciously scream, Hey, look at me! Here I am!