Clay went to see the flat at Jefferson and Alter because the line between Detroit and Grosse Pointe ran through its living room. The landlord barely described this oddity, but Clay’s family had been affected by the line for the better part of a century — his grandfather longing to shed his electrician’s uniform for what he believed was here, his father’s face softening as they drove past each Sunday.
Clay watched the exact spot where ancient trolley tracks smoothed to nothing, where the confetti of discarded metal ceased, where the world of work turned to something he could not name.
Return to the Summer Fiction index. Send comments to [email protected]
