I faintly remember the house. It was tall. The basement’s grayish stone walls were moist to the touch. Decades earlier, a previous owner’s name adorned the city’s original baseball park. My dad told me he had gone to games there, in the old stadium, before it was demolished. Once, on bat day, he waved a Pete Rose club in the stands. They did those things back then; gave weapons to boys and girls. The main floor of the house had a special window. Its sill was unusually close to the earth. For caskets I was told. The window’s panes overlooked the landlord’s adjacent property, an enormous, beautiful stone church. My dad was an atheist. Railroad tracks a few blocks away marked the town’s border.