At the edge of our development, on a rise slightly apart from the neat rows of mirror-image homes, was a house where "The Strangey" lived. It was the farmhouse the land had once belonged to, and its occupant was an old woman of 40 or so. No one ever saw her. You didn't go there on Halloween, and your parents didn't honk and wave if they happened to drive by when she was pulling out of the driveway.
I'm scared and a little stunned, because I've come to know that nothing good comes of my father raising his voice and asking us questions he doesn't expect us to answer. My brother just smiles up at him and slowly, albeit too slowly, turns down the volume. You can still hear Johnnie and Joe talking back and forth.