Even while our landlord yelled at Harold, it was Mr. Klesmer's wife I watched.

"We have a year's lease." My husband's voice was quiet, but I knew he was angry. The Klesmers had come by to tell us they were about to close a sale on the condominium we were renting from them. It was Mr. Klesmer's idea to deliver the apartment over without tenants, or, as he put it, "unencumbered." He had offered us a thousand dollars to vacate within 30 days, but Harold had told him that I had just begun a teaching job at the local liberal arts college and we could not drop everything to move.

"Two of the trustees for Midland are friends of mine. They like employees to be team players." Klesmer's voice had swelled to occupy more space. I could sense his wife calculating how far it would carry; could the people in the next condo hear? Mrs. Klesmer was a distinguished woman in her sixties. She stood quietly behind her belligerent husband, withdrawn from the scene in a way that implied her disapproval. She had startling blue eyes, but she had chosen a charcoal eye shadow rather than the obvious blue. Her carefully tailored grey suit outlined what would be called in the 19th-century novels I taught a handsome figure. One noticed not her beauty but her grooming. She was the sort of woman my mother had taught me to admire: a lady. I sympathized with her. I hate to hear men yell, too.