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Saturday, September 14th
At eight-o-five in the morning, Charlotte stood in the middle of her walk-in closet, swaddled in a bathrobe after her shower, and glared at the mass of clothing piled on the floor. She should have felt much worse, given the events of the day before, drinking a pot of coffee late at night and getting less than five hours of sleep, but she was energized by the prospect of talking to the real estate agent, Lola McKennie, and getting this whole life change thing going. She had Ellis’ support, too, and that counted for a lot. At the moment, however, she was convinced that her stuff “knew” she was getting rid of it, and was conspiring to give her a hard time. The clothes had been so crammed together, that the rod had popped out of its bracket when she tugged at a hanger. It had then swung down to the floor, creating a waist-high mountain of shirts, jackets, dresses, skirts, pants, sweaters and coats in many colors and fabrics, some pieces going back to her college days.
She began to get dressed, automatically, in jeans, tee, and chambray overshirt, pulling each thing from the pile. Then she paused. I’ve got all these nice things and no place to wear them. I’m not living the life I bought the clothes for.
So what life was that? The lunching-lady life? The endless cocktail party life? The life of constant vacation? The executive woman life? The perfect wife and mother life?
None of the above.
Reality: she was a middle-aged writer, a single empty-nester, and broke broke broke.
She looked at herself in a full-view mirror for all of five seconds, then went back to the closet and quickly undressed. This was not business as usual. This was the beginning of a new life. As a member of the style and design media, she had written and promoted many an article with the theme: New Life = Wardrobe Makeover! She found and pulled on skinny black jeans (barely acknowledging to herself that Simon was the inspiration) and a black tank top, and slipped on a supple pearl gray silk safari-style shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tabbed and the front left unbuttoned and draped. Another look in the mirror. It was still warm enough for flat black thong sandals. A bit of lip color. Silver hoop earrings. A head shake to fluff up almost-dry hair. A silver bracelet Ellis gave her last Christmas. It was a good look for her, not too dumpy, but still comfortable and practical. An upgrade. A keeper.
Inspired, Charlotte pulled out two suitcases and opened them up on the bed, and began to fill them with a few clothes, a few shoes and boots, a few accessories and jewelry she couldn’t part with. It went quickly: one little black dress and black pumps, a pair of wool trousers, a pair of chinos, cropped pants, shorts, a good wool skirt and a gauzy summer one, two favorite summer dresses, the jeans and chambray shirt (one doesn’t clean house in good clothes), some tees and a couple white shirts, a cashmere sweater, a cotton one, and two wool ones, exercise clothing, robe, two sets of pajamas, slippers, the best of her lingerie and socks. Scarf, hats, gloves, a wool coat and a trench coat, a denim cropped jacket. A pashmina from Helene. Enough clothes for two weeks without worrying about laundry, enough clothes for all seasons and occasions, and it all easily fit in the two suitcases, with enough room for various things from the bathroom. This was doable. The knowledge that she was looking at what was very likely to be her future wardrobe excited her, as if she was packing for an extended journey. The only thing missing was knowing where she was going, but all in good time.
It was quite a bit more than fifty things, thought Charlotte, remembering the young minimalist guy, but less than a twentieth of what remained in the closet. If she was honest, a lot of it was hopelessly outdated or little better than rags, a lot of it just never fit right or looked right, a lot of it had associations with past relationships, past life roles.
Time to live—and dress—for the present.
Time, also, for breakfast before Lola McKennie was due, and this time she promised herself she wouldn’t burn the bagel.
At eight forty-five, Charlotte entered the kitchen for the first time since her chat with Ellis, and it took her a moment to recognize what she’d done the night before. The blur of long-familiar clutter was gone, and in its place was—space. Sunlight on an empty smooth countertop. A subtle flow of air. Serenity. The kitchen also looked twice as big. There were still the boxes of stuff over in the corner, but it was as if the doors of possibility were suddenly flung open—and she was ready. Had the security of familiar things been a trap, a prison, all along? Was she entering a dream, or leaving one?
The surrealness of the scene hit Charlotte all at once, and she grabbed the back of a bar stool at the island counter to steady herself. Part of her thought it was a blood sugar deficit—breakfast was late, after all—but another part of her knew it was mild shock. She looked at the boxes of things in the corner, things that were now removed from their long-time familiar places, and their dislocation set loose a dislocation of the emotions attached to them. This was saying goodbye, goodbye to all of that, goodbye yellow brick road, goodbye, Mr. Chips, goodbye, so long, farewell, ta ta. She felt a pang just short of tears, and then just as quickly, she smiled.
One of the animal cook figurines, the pig in the white toque and apron, stared at her with insane blank eyes and she recalled the very moment when her friend Hannah first gave it to her, and the real feelings she had repressed in a microsecond upon feeling them, the truth. She remembered Hannah’s words, “For the cook in the family,” knowing that Hannah knew that Jack did nearly all of the cooking at the time, in a burst of gourmet enthusiasm. He was a pig, Hannah was telling her, he was a ridiculous pig. And yet she and Jack kept collecting them, and she kept on collecting them after the divorce, and her friends kept giving them to her, and even Ellis contributed one or two.
This, she thought, was the real meaning behind the collection: her fierce determination to put a good face on things, to bury the truth of Jack’s personal character in an anthropomorphic collection.
What have I done, what have I been doing?
That pig was next to the squirrel holding a spoon and a walnut. It cost three hundred dollars. In the next box there were decorative jars filled with colorful layers of beans and rice, a dozen different jars, maybe. Some of those were pricey, and some weren’t, but she dearly wished she had the cash instead of the beans and the jars. And she dearly wished she had back the time she’d spent on the shopping and browsing spent on each one, and on the work she’d done to earn the money she’d spent on a bunch of jars filled with dyed beans that were not likely safe enough to turn into a pot of soup.
All those hours and years of working for the magazines, and now the work wasn’t there; she’d been discarded right along with the magazines themselves.
There are no free rides, just uncollected deaths.
Lola McKennie strode through the house in her short-skirted pastel pink suit and matching stiletto slingbacks, taking dimensions, pictures, and notes, and exclaiming with a soft Georgia accent over each room’s attractive features, which seemed to be legion.
Charlotte struggled not to roll her eyes at the real estate agent’s strangely perfect hair and manicure, and the illusion of youth in a body so toned that when she arrived, Ernie next door said, “You could bounce a quarter off that butt.” Charlotte punched him in the arm and shooed him away.
After the tour, they sat in the breakfast nook and Lola got down to business, setting up a laptop, several folders and papers, and a calculator. She presented similar properties for sale in Lake Parkerton, and Charlotte was dismayed at the relatively low list prices, as well as how many there were.
“I’m going to be honest, Charlotte, you’ve got a lot of competition and unless we get the perfect buyer, you’ll be lucky to get what you paid for it ten years ago. But I’m a selling machine. If you’re willing to get this place staged, we can make it more competitive.”
Charlotte felt a bit defeated before they’d barely started. Ten years’ mortgage payments hadn’t built much equity, and if the house didn’t sell for more than the mortgage, it wouldn’t leave her much to live on while rebuilding her career. She’d also forgotten about staging, which, as she now remembered, was creating an environment to help potential buyers imagine their own stuff in a space, or at least imagine living there. This usually meant neutralizing a homeowner’s personal touches, like toning down a color scheme or swapping a ratty old throw for a new silk one, and bringing in better-suited pieces of furniture. She thought to herself, I work in the design industry, I’m supposed to have good taste and a sense of the trends, and this woman wants to “stage” my home? Then she caught sight again of the pig cook in the box and decided that Lola might have a point.
“I’m not even sure where I’m going from here,” said Charlotte, “let alone what I would do with all my stuff.”
“That’s alright, it’s part of the conversation we’ll be having this morning. No matter what you decide, to leave your stuff here or take it with you, you’ll want to get all the windows professionally cleaned, and keep the big one overlooking the deck and the lake extra-clean, even if it means cleaning it every day and after every showing. That window is gonna sell this house, what with the view and the light and airiness it brings to the living room. And then—”
Charlotte tried to contain her frustration, but had to stop this line of thinking before it got out of control. “Look, Lola, I don’t have enough money to hire professional window washers, or to pay for storage and staging.”
Lola just looked straight at Charlotte, expression neutral. She spoke quietly. “We’ll get it figured out, even if I gotta come over here with a bucket and a squeegee myself. I’ve got a whole set of squeegees in different sizes and a couple of extension poles. It takes practice to get it right, but I’ve had more practice lately than you would ever believe.”
“You certainly seem, um, fit.” Charlotte couldn’t resist.
Lola laughed, her whitened teeth glowing against her bright pink lipstick. “Oh, yes, Charlotte! I’ve done the window-washing, and the hedge-trimming, and the furniture-moving, carpet cleaning, replacing light bulbs, fixing broken doorbells and leaky faucets. But there’s only so much I can do, and the more the homeowner does, the more I can put my energy and good attitude into creative selling.” She stretched out her perfectly manicured hand and snapped off a polished pink nail: it was fake, and covered a fingertip that showed signs of gardening, scrubbing, and even exposure to bleach.
Charlotte’s first impression of Lola began to change. The Barbie-doll facade was exactly that, a facade that was chosen because it gave Lola another edge in a competitive field. It wasn’t only homeowners taking a hit in this economy, it was also the real estate agents, who were getting less commission, what with lower prices and sluggish sales.
Lola saw that Charlotte understood, and continued, pressing the fake nail back on. “Charlotte, I don’t want to pressure you, but I’d like to get this house listed and ready to show within a couple of weeks. Sales are always so much slower in the winter. This area is also really beautiful in the fall, and the leaves are going to start turning pretty soon.”
“Two weeks?” Well, Charlotte thought, in for a penny, in for a pound—the sooner this is all over with, the happier I’ll be, too. “If I could get some help with all the boxes and furniture moving, maybe, but I’d have to have a moving sale, and after the last garage sale we had a few years ago, Ellis and I swore never again—too much work.”
“There’s no time, really, for a garage or moving sale, especially not if you’re doing it on your own. What I have in mind is using an estate liquidator. They literally do everything, from set up to clean up. You won’t have to do much work other than just picking out what you want to keep and setting it aside. Diane tells me you need to downsize, and estate liquidation is a very efficient way to do it. I could get Warren Brothers Estate and Auction out here to start setting up as soon as next week and have the sale the week after. The house will be emptied out, and you’ll have some cash to tide you over until it sells.”
“Wow!” Charlotte thought about all the foreclosure signs she’d seen. The competition was indeed stiff. The faster she could sell this house, the more likely she would be able to sell it at all. “How much do they charge?”
“They would only take ten percent of the sales. You pay nothing up front. They take care of the advertising, all the paperwork and taxes, and it’s also a good way to get a lot of people going through this house, too. You’ve got some nice stuff here, like the sectional, the rugs and the piano, unless of course you were planning to keep them.”
Charlotte’s thoughts bounced between excitement at raising cash within a couple of weeks and not having to set up a moving sale herself, and dismay at the idea of no longer owning any of her stuff. Lola went through a folder and pulled out a spreadsheet with a list of names in the first column and services offered across the top, along with commission percentage and contact information.
“Here’s the list we use at Bysell Realty, all the estate liquidation services in the area. As you can see, most of them charge a higher commission, or they specialize in business or farm auctions. Any of them can handle your sale, but Warren Brothers charges the least commission.”
Charlotte noted that Warren Brothers didn’t offer cleanup after the sale or delivery of unsold items to charities, as did Stanton Estate Services, the next one on the list. But Stanton charged thirty percent commission. That was a lot higher.
“Warren Brothers, that’s the same people with the pawn shop, as in Bosley Warren?”
“Yes it is. He’s got a high profile right now, and that alone will help draw in people for a sale. Let me give them a call right now and see if they can come out and give you more information and a time frame.”
“Hey, sure, thanks, if that’s no problem.” Charlotte was curious, both about Bosley Warren and about how the estate sale would work out. But mostly she was fascinated by the process of business networking, first with Diane calling Lola, and then now with Lola calling Bosley Warren. Was it a small-town thing, a Chamber of Commerce or other small-business thing? As a writer who worked mostly online from her home office, Charlotte’s range of influence had been her name in the column under the magazine mast head, but nothing more. The last time she’d needed to network locally, it was to access the Lake Parkerton babysitter referral list. Ernie next door had reliable referrals for everything else, like plumbers.
Lola walked around while making the call, and went out onto the deck. Her arms moved while she talked, as if she was describing the house and the lake view. Charlotte heard her laugh briefly before ending the call and coming back into the kitchen.
“Bosley Warren himself will be here in about forty-five minutes. As soon as I said Lake Parkerton and estate sale, he rearranged his day. The real estate market might be struggling, but estate sales are where it’s at.”
Charlotte laughed, remembering the way Lola shouted “Yes!” when Diane mentioned Lake Parkerton. “Yeah, it’s a good time for turkey buzzards.” Lola seemed not to hear as she brought up a listing form on her computer. Was Lola offended by the remark? “Thanks again for making the call and getting him over here so quickly.”
“No problem. It looks like you’ve taken action already,” said Lola, pointing at the boxes with the figurines and other clutter. “I’m impressed.”
“I started tackling everything quite suddenly. Had an epiphany of sorts. I think I know what kind of lifestyle I really want for myself and I’m ready to make the changes. Now I just need to find a place to move to.”
While they dealt with the listing paperwork, Lola told her about the more remarkable houses she’d sold and the difference in prices that a couple of years made, as well as the differences in the impact the economy had from town to town.
“Do you want to stay here in Lake Parkerton, or move away, do you know?”
Charlotte thought a moment. “Mostly I just want to get away from Lake Parkerton, to go someplace where there’s not so much upheaval, and of course much less expensive, but still a pleasant quality of life, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do. What you’ll want is an established neighborhood, but an affordable one. Some place like Elm Grove, actually, with that nice historic downtown.”
“I used to live there before my divorce, and thought I’d never go back, to be honest.”
“I understand. But it’s evolved a bit in the last ten years. It’s a good walking and biking town, there’s lots of entertainment and restaurants and theater, and of course events at the university if you wanted. There’s some quirkier neighborhoods, too. And the property taxes aren’t anywhere near what they are here!”
Lola’s phone rang and she excused herself, needing to take the call, and once again walked around and orchestrated her statements with her arms. When she finished, she said she had another showing back in Elm Grove, so they wrapped things up for the day, with Charlotte agreeing to let her know how things went with Bosley Warren. Charlotte liked Lola more than she expected to, but nonetheless was relieved when the real estate agent’s effervescent presence was gone and things were nice and quiet again. She rubbed the back of her neck and checked the time. Fifteen minutes until Bosley Warren arrived. She went to her office to space out and play solitaire on the computer, let her mind relax and wander.
Could she move back to Elm Grove? Could she see herself living well in a place that had so many old memories, many of which weren’t very good? It would be a practical location. Her doctors were there, her hair salon, and she knew where to find goods and services. There were good grocery stores, her car mechanic—just about everything she needed was there, as was Helene, and Diane. Being able to walk along tree-lined neighborhoods would help make up for losing this wonderful view of the lake. Ellis would love it on visits home, as she still had a lot of friends there from weekends with Jack.
She got online and did a search for apartments in Elm Grove, which revealed that the average rent in the big complexes was higher than what Diane recommended in the budget. Then she searched for the kind that weren’t part of complexes or run by management companies. There weren’t many, or they were temporary sublets, or they were duplexes that were both too much space and too much money. Several were renters looking for roommates to share the cost. Charlotte preferred to have as much control over her space as she could, so a roomie was out.
Then she spotted a terse listing dated the week before, “Studio, downtown, second floor, utilities included.” And a high rent. There was something about it, though. She didn’t know if she was projecting her hopes, or if her intuition was giving her a nudge, but she picked up her phone and called the number, which rang for a bit, and then suddenly a man’s voice answered, “The Good Stuff. Larry speaking.”
The Good Stuff? The gift shop in Elm Grove? “Hi. I saw an ad for an apartment with this number, and wondered if it was still available.”
Larry let out a snort. “Oh, it’s still available. Why? You wanna take a look?”
“Well, can you tell me more about it?”
“It’s a studio above the store, Harvey Street entrance, long flight of stairs, lotta windows, bathroom, efficiency kitchen, one closet, utilities included.”
“When can I see it?”
“Anytime you like, just come to the store and ask for me. Larry.”
“I’m surprised it is still available.”
“You won’t be when you see it. It’s a dump.”
Charlotte laughed in surprise. “You don’t sound like you are trying too hard to get it rented out.”
“Eh, well, I am and I’m not. The previous tenants made a mess of things and I haven’t had time to get it cleaned up. And I’m warning you I’m gonna be picky about the next renter.”
“What did they do to it?”
“They lived like pigs! A couple of law students, looked real clean-cut and serious when I rented it to them, but then they’d have these screaming rows when I got customers here, and had all sorts of strange-looking people coming and going and making the customers nervous. Then a few weeks ago they got busted for dealing coke, cops all over the place, making me and the shop look bad, you know? I don’t need the grief. You another law student?”
“Oh, wow. No, Larry, I’m old enough to be a law student’s mom, and I don’t deal drugs. Just looking for a little apartment with an Internet connection and reasonably comfortable.”
There was a pause. “You’ll wanna come see it, then. It needs some fixing up, but I’ll work with ya.”
“I’ll stop by tomorrow, if that’s okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here all day. Hope you won’t be discouraged, but it’s a cute place when it’s fixed up.”
It felt so strange to look around at her house and her things and to be thinking about them as if they were already history, especially since she had only an abstract idea what kind of home or lifestyle was going to replace them. Charlotte felt she needed something to plan towards. Downsizing, facing life on a pittance, felt negative unless one could replace it with attractive possibilities. She imagined feeling unfettered by stuff, bills, and upkeep, free to focus on work and maybe even resurrect a hobby. A minimum of expenses meant a small income would go a long way.
What she needed was to make it feel real to her in a positive way: the space, the furniture, the neighborhood. The windows here needed to be replaced in her mind’s eye by the windows of a new space, the quality of the light, the view, the kinds of trees, the kinds of activities and people and cars and noises and smells. Would the windows of the studio above Good Stuff do the job? One of the crows that nested in the pine trees flew by the window. She would miss him, but there would be other crows in other places, wouldn’t there? And other rabbits and squirrels and deer? Well, maybe not the deer in downtown Elm Grove. She’d heard a coyote was spotted there last summer.
And what furniture would she have, what layout of the rooms? Would she be able to make it her space if she was only renting? Of course she would. She loved nesting. Big or small, her space was always her space.
Charlotte heard the doorbell ring, and took a couple deep breaths to calm her nerves.